Beauty and the Baller

“I’m aware,” I say. “I see the mistakes, the bad calls.”

He stares at me with beady eyes. “Why don’t you and Coach Hardy catch up, go meet the staff, maybe some players, then take a walk in that stadium.” He puffs on his pipe. “You’ve got memories there. Hell, I get a hard-on every time I sit in the owner’s box. Not bad for an old man, eh?” He slaps his desk and lets out another laugh, then sobers, considering me, raking over my face and posture. “All right, all right . . . I hear you; I do. You’ve spent some time in Texas and need some time to mull this over.”

“Yes.”

He nods decisively. “I’ll be in touch with Reggie about the money by the end of the day; then I’ll need your answer by tomorrow. All right, boys, I have a phone call with a senator. So . . .” He waves his hands for us to leave.

Reggie, Coach Hardy, and I walk out to the foyer. Coach heads to the restroom, and Reggie pulls me to the side, a furrow between his brows.

“Your part is to win the interview,” he says. “You’re acting like you’re having second thoughts.”

“That was barely an interview. He wanted my ass in New York so I’d feel nostalgic.”

He shakes his head. “Why are you hesitating? This job is a no-brainer. It cuts years off your plan to be in the league.”

True. Scoring an NFL position wasn’t something I expected so soon. I love my old team. I love the staff I used to work with. This is my dream job.

I stare out the window. So why does it feel wrong?

Later that day, it’s dark when the cab drops me off in front of Tuck’s building. They wanted to put me up at a hotel, but I chose to stay with him. Earlier, he left us at Damon’s office and went to his physical therapy appointment.

Wearing joggers and an old shirt, he’s waiting for me in the den, Chinese takeout already ordered, a drink poured in a glass. He hands it to me.

We walk in the kitchen, where he grabs a cheese-and-fruit plate out of the fridge and sets it on the island like it’s the Hope Diamond. He gives me a smile, batting his lashes. “How was your day, dear?”

“You’d make a great wife, Tuck, but I prefer blondes.”

He flips me off while sticking a cube of cheddar between his lips. He chews and swallows it down. “So? Give me the deets.”

I nod and sit on a stool. “It was good. Met the new guys. They seem great. Jasper has a great arm. I like his enthusiasm. I caught up with some people on staff and a few players. The stadium, ah, it was fucking great to walk inside. I closed my eyes and pictured a hundred thousand fans on their feet for us . . .”

“Like coming home?”

I pause, glancing around at his modern apartment, the one I shared with him for years. The gray leather couches. The expensive, fancy Swedish swivel chairs he insisted we had to buy. The mirror coffee table that broke once when one of his girlfriends danced on top of it. (He ordered another one.) The bright yellow painted on one wall, black on the other. My eyes end on the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The curtains are spread, and the view of Manhattan twinkles like stars in the distance.

Stars.

Nova.

I take a steadying breath, feeling the loss of her like an uppercut to the face. It’s Saturday, and we could be hanging out, playing pool or darts, watching a movie, watching football . . . I never showed her my comic book collection. My lips twitch. She’d fall over laughing. Then there’s the Matchbox cars and video arcade machines. I wonder if she likes Ms. Pac-Man—

“Ronan?”

I look up. “Yeah, man, it felt like home. It was awesome.”

“Hmm, I see.” There’s a question in his tone, but the doorbell rings, and he leaves to grab our food.

Later, after we’ve eaten, I clean up the mess while he tells me about his ankle, his therapist, the new neighbor who plays music too loud, his new yoga class . . .

He lets out a breath. “All right, then. I’ve told you everything. Whew. What should we do tonight? There’s a new club I want to hit—”

“You can’t dance on that ankle.” I toss a dish towel over the faucet to dry.

“No, but I can talk to pretty girls.”

Several moments tick by as we lean in over the island.

“Well? Hot chicks or stay at home?”

“Let’s take a ride somewhere,” I say, easing up.

He nods, not asking me where. He already knows.

He grabs keys from a drawer and dangles them. “Ferrari or Maserati?”

I roll my eyes. “You got a new sports car?”

“Meh. Got rid of the Escalade.”