The Baller

“Five.”

  “Herman Weaver, nineteen seventy to nineteen eighty. Started with Detroit, ended with the Seahawks. Fourteen blocked punts. Harness has nine. He needs six more to break the record.” Easton opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. I’d regained control of my interview. “One last question?” I turned and saw the line of impatient reporters behind me. “Is your knee ready to face the first-place Chargers next week out in California?”

  “Will you be there to cover it?”

  “I will.”

  “Then you can count on me being ready.”

  Chapter 4

  Brody

  “Go long!”

  Grouper’s mop clanked to the floor, and he started limp-jogging down the long hallway. Shannon, the nurse in charge of the day shift, walked by, shaking her head. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen us doing shit like this . . . we’d been screwing around since Grouper had bite in his step. Hip surgery had slowed the geezer down a few years ago. Now my passes were more of a lob than a bullet.

  “He’s sixty-nine years old,” Shannon called over her shoulder. “You’re going to give that sweet old man a heart attack someday.” I caught her smiling as she continued on.

  When Grouper made it to the far end of the hall, I sent the ball spiraling sixty feet until it fell directly into his hands.

  “I still got it.” He headed back toward me.

  “You never had it. I set that ball into your palms.”

  “Bullshit. You can’t throw for crap. Everyone knows a pass is only as good as the intended receiver.”

  “Does Little Guppy know how disrespectful his grandpa is to his idol?”

  “Pfft. Idol. I’m his damn idol.”

  The eight-year-old Grouper was a huge football fan and an even bigger Brody Easton fan. For his last birthday, I’d stopped by the kid’s party. He was so excited, he actually cried when he saw me. That got me a few weeks of ball-busting material to use on Grouper senior.

  I stopped at the nurses’ station. “How was her week?”

  “It was a good week, actually,” Shannon said. “She wants to go shopping. Says she needs new underwear, even though she has a drawer full.”

  “So have the aide take her shopping.”

  “You want me to have the aide take her on an outing that will cost you an extra three hundred dollars, plus the cost of the underwear, even though she has forty pairs already.”

  “Will it make her happy?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Then, yep.”

  She smiled. “I’ll schedule it for this week.”

  I found Marlene in her room watching a rerun of The Price Is Right. The show was playing Bullseye, where you had to add up the total cost of a bunch of different items to come to a certain total.

  “Hi, Marlene.”

  “Shhh.”

  She had a pad and pencil, and her shaky hand was furiously jotting down prices as they showed each item. Bob Barker held up a gallon of milk and I sneaked a peek at her scribble. Fifteen cents. Okay, so I had an idea what year we were in today.

  She wasn’t happy that her total wasn’t even close to the answer. I tried to make her feel better. “They inflate the prices just to make it harder for people.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “Of course I am. I’m always right. And damn good looking, too.” I opened the paper bag I’d been carrying and unwrapped the white paper, revealing the Reuben she’d wanted last week.

  “You went to Heidelman’s.”

  “Yep.” Or maybe the Ben’s Kosher Deli franchise that took its place ten years ago. It wasn’t important.

  “I can’t wait to dig in. Can you hand me my teeth case?”

  “Your teeth are already in your mouth, Marlene.”

  She took a minute and confirmed I was telling the truth with a tap of her nail against her front tooth. Even though her mind was all over the place, her teeth were almost always a weekly conversation.

  “Willow came to see me the other day.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Yep. She told me what she did.”

  No idea. “Oh, yeah. What’s that? I can’t keep track of all the things Willow does anymore.”

  “The pool. You know. You two should be ashamed of yourself. Next time the police won’t be so easy on you.”

  It never ceased to amaze me how she could remember something from more than ten years ago crystal clear, yet not remember she put her teeth in five minutes ago. It was almost like her memories were fleeing most recent first. I hoped my memory of the pool incident never disappeared on me.

  It was the first time I saw Willow naked. And the night I realized that the ache in my chest every time the girl I called Wild Willow did something to scare the shit out of me wasn’t pain. It was love.

  “It was my fault. Willow tried to talk me out of it. She only hopped the fence to get me out. I threw her in the pool.”

  Marlene looked at me skeptically. Rightly so. No one in her right mind would believe Willow had to be talked into anything that had an edge of recklessness to it. The girl had always danced on the blade of a sword, smiling, while I stood watching, waiting to stop the bleeding when she got cut. It was the most beautiful thing about her. And also the ugliest.

  “This is my last warning. If you two get into any more trouble, I’ll keep you apart. The two of you act like a couple of screwballs together.”

  I swiped half of her Reuben and promised to keep out of trouble. The irony was she’d threatened to keep us apart, but in the end, she was the one thing that kept us together.

  Chapter 5

  Delilah

  “Whatcha working on?” Indie plopped herself down on the other side of my desk. She lifted her legs and sat Indian-style, even though she was wearing a skirt.

  “Nice undies.”

  “You can’t see my underwear.”

  “Sure I can,” I bluffed.

  “I’m not wearing any.”

  “I hope you sat like that in the department-head meeting you just came from.”

  “Of course I did.” Indie leaned forward and swiped a pile of papers off my desk before I could stop her. She thumbed through a few of the articles I’d printed. “Brody Easton, huh?”

  “It’s research.”

  “For what? An interview with Cosmopolitan magazine? I don’t see any sports-related articles here.” She spread the papers out with her fingers and fanned herself.

  “For this week’s game.”

  “Really?” Indie stopped fanning and plucked a page out of her fan. “What did you learn from this one?”

  It was a picture of Brody in his underwear. Tight black boxer briefs. “I was looking at his knee to see if the picture was taken before or after his surgery.”

  “You were looking at his dick.”

  “I was not. The guy is a dick.”

  “Who does it for you.”

  “He does not.”

  “Does too.”

  “Whatever.” I rolled my eyes. “You know . . . he definitely has a unique story. First-round draft pick at twenty. Car accident mid second season. He was injured, but nothing too bad. Cut from the team before the start of the third season. Rehab almost two years later, then makes it back to the lineup as a walk-on. Three years later, Super Bowl MVP.”

  “I remember when he got cut. He was in the news more than when he was starting for the Steel. Drinking and partying. Became a boy toy for a bunch of celebrity women.”

  “How do you go from being a first-round draft pick to being cut from the team?”

  “Drugs and alcohol.”

  “But he wasn’t really known as a party guy until after he was cut. I’ve been digging around, trying to piece together the puzzle of Brody Easton, and I just feel like a few are missing. There isn’t anything about him having any issues, and the team didn’t cite any when they cut him.”

  “The league probably didn’t want a black eye. Maybe he got hooked on painkillers from his car accident or so
mething.”

  “He walked away with only a few cuts and bruises. He wasn’t badly injured in the accident.”

  “Was anyone?”

  “He was alone in the car, speeding, and lost control.”

  “Hmm . . . I don’t know. But maybe you can ask him during pillow talk.” Indie stood up. “When are you back?”

  “Monday night.”

  “Can I keep this?” She held up the photo of Brody in his boxer briefs. It was definitely a keeper.

  “By all means. I don’t want a picture of that arrogant ass.”

  “Sure you don’t.” She blew me a kiss and disappeared.

  ***

  Delta custom configured planes for professional sports teams. A regular Boeing 757 held more than two hundred, but the aircraft that the league used had seats removed for extra leg space. In the rear of the plane, a few sections of seats faced each other across tables, designed for coaches’ meetings during flights.

  All fifty-three active players on the Steel roster traveled together two days before the away game, along with seventeen coaches and a few office staff. About a dozen reporters were riding along with the team. Since WMBC was an official team sponsor, I was one of those reporters. And . . . I hated to fly.

  Five minutes before boarding, I popped a Xanax and chased it with a full glass of wine. The last thing I remembered before passing out was the pilot saying something about a short delay due to a stubborn flock of birds. Birds?

  When I woke up, I checked the time on my phone. I’d slept for four hours of the almost six-hour flight to California. My mouth was dry and my eyes even drier.

  “Morning, sleepyhead.” The voice startled me.

  Groggy, I turned my head toward the aisle, confused. “Where . . . where is Alan?” I’d fallen asleep sitting next to Alan Coleman, a reporter for Sports Chronicles. Sitting next to me now was none other than Brody Easton. And he was smiling from ear to ear.

  “I offered him an exclusive interview on the league's new alcohol rules if he changed seats with me.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “To sit next to you.”

  “Did you enjoy watching me sleep?”

  “I did. You snore, you know.”

  “I do not.”

  “Yes, you do. Want to see the video to prove it?”

  My eyes widened. “You videoed me sleeping?”

  “No. But you do have a little dried drool.” He pointed to the corner of my mouth. “Right here.”

  I wiped it, even though I wasn’t sure if he was serious. “Did you come back here to annoy me?”

  “Pretty much.” He smiled. It was a real smile; even his green eyes participated. Damn.

  Just then, the plane hit a bit of turbulence, and whatever calm the Xanax had instilled in me went out the window. I gripped the armrests with both hands.

  “Nervous flyer?”

  “That’s putting it mildly.”

  “You should take something before you fly.”

  “I did. But it must have worn off.”

  “How about a drink to calm your nerves?”

  “I shouldn’t mix any more alcohol with Xanax.” The plane shook again. “I’ll have a Merlot.”

  Brody chuckled as he reached up and hit the button for the flight attendant. The leggy brunette responded quickly. She ignored me and spoke to Brody. “What can I do for you, Mr. Easton?”

  “Can you bring us a Merlot and a bottle of water, please?”

  “Of course.”

  The minute it arrived, I gulped almost the entire full glass as if it were medicine. Looking over at Brody, I realized for the first time that he was dressed in a suit. He wore it well. “Nice to see you in pants for a change.”

  “I can take them off if you’d like.”

  “I’d need a lot more than one airplane-size bottle of Merlot.”

  Easton quickly reached up and pushed the button for the flight attendant. I actually laughed a little.

  “So . . . really . . . why are you sitting here?”

  “Have you looked around this plane? There’s one hot woman and a hundred hairy men. The question should be, why isn’t everyone fighting to sit here?”

  “That almost sounded like a compliment, Mr. Easton.”

  “It was. You’re hot as fuck. And I like you.”

  “Oh really? You have a funny way of showing that you like me. Every time I see you, you try to sabotage my interview.”

  “Every time I see you, I expose myself to you.” He flashed me his trademark smile. “That’s how we show girls we like them where I’m from.”

  “Where are you from, the jungle?”

  “Brooklyn.”

  The offensive-line coach interrupted us. “Brody, I want to make some changes to Red Reverse Four. We just studied the tapes from last week and need to shift the play around a bit.”

  “You got it, Coach.”

  Brody took my hand and kissed it. Then he disappeared with the coaches for the rest of the trip. I didn’t see him again until game day.

  ***

  As usual, the sun was shining in San Diego. I really missed California. After college, I thought I’d be back a lot more than I had. But over the years, my fear of flying had escalated, and now the only travel I did by plane was for work. This trip had reminded me that I was letting my fears control me, instead of the other way around.

  I stood along the sideline watching the game with Brett Marlin, the on-air, play-by-play reporter. Part of my job as a staff sportscaster was to be Brett’s backup eyes. We consulted between live feeds—it was virtually impossible for one person to keep track of twenty-two men on the field at once. Four eyes did a better job.

  As expected, the division-rivalry between San Diego and the Steel was intense. The outcome would determine first and second place between the two, and they played as if it were the Super Bowl. The roar of the crowd was so loud that it made it difficult for Brett and I to hear each other in our headsets. I felt the vibrations from feet stamping against the stands in my chest. God, I love games like this. With thirty seconds left on the clock before halftime, I stood near the goal line, watching as the Steel moved down the field. On a third and short, Brody dropped back to pass, only to find his receivers all under heavy coverage. Rather than chance an interception, he waited, somehow avoiding the head-on charge of a three-hundred-pound defenseman. Then he lowered his shoulder and charged toward the end zone. His legs never stopped moving until he crossed the line. Was it just me, or was the sun suddenly getting warmer?

  The crowd went crazy, and I caught myself clapping a little, too. Reporters were supposed to be neutral. As Brody jogged off the field at halftime with the scoring ball in his hand, he surprised me by tossing it to me. I hadn’t even realized he had seen me on the sideline.

  My mom and I had spent years going to games, sitting in box seats on the fifty-yard line—I loved watching my dad play. Hell, it was growing up going to those games that made me want to be a reporter. I couldn’t imagine my life not involving football in some way. But watching Brody out there was different. The way the man moved was sexy and confident. His long strides, thick, powerful thighs, the way he seemed fearless to barrel over people. He was such a dominant force that it was impossible not to be attracted to him. And it wasn’t just me. Women actually catcalled almost every time he removed his helmet when he came off the field. During the second half, he scored another running touchdown. When he again tossed the ball my way, some of those adoring lady fans actually booed at me a little.

  After the game, I waited outside the locker room, catching up on texts and emails. The first one I opened was from Indie.

  Indie: That skirt is too long. Take that shit up a few inches before you go in the locker room to flirt with Easton.

  I laughed while I typed.

  Delilah: I don’t flirt, I interview. It’s my JOB.

  Indie: OMG. He gave you two balls today. Bet he gives you two more tonight!

  Great. The camera had ca
ught Brody Easton tossing me both of his running touchdown balls. I’m sure half the men in the mandatory Monday meetings would have something to say about it.

  I swiped over to email and started weeding through the garbage, stopping at one from Michael Langley.

  Just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed spending time with you at the fundraiser last week and that I was thinking about you. I look forward to your month slowing down so I can take you to dinner. And I’m working on adding some interviews to my schedule. Best, M.

  Such a sweet guy. Maybe I could end my cleanse a little early.

  I kept my nose in my phone, catching up on work, until security opened the locker room for reporters.

  Inside the guest team locker room, I interviewed a wide receiver and then headed over to Jennings Astor, a defensive lineman who’d had a key sack in the fourth quarter. Easton, as usual, had a long line. His locker was diagonally across from Jennings, and I could see he was finishing up his current interview. The next person in line was Sandra Halston, a reporter covering the home team. I was curious to watch the interaction between the two.

  While Sandra was setting up to begin, the arrogant ass’s eyes caught mine.

  He grinned wide.

  I ignored him. Clarification: I pretended to ignore him.

  From across the room, I studied Easton’s body language. He hadn’t dropped the towel for the gorgeous blonde reporter. In fact, he seemed to be treating her exactly as he treated the male reporters. No sexy smirk or sparkle in his eye as he made sexual innuendos. And he wasn’t showing off his Subway either. I wondered if Sandra had already gotten her fill of hazing. I really wanted to know if he had ever done the same thing to her, but I wasn’t sure why it was important to me.

  After wrapping up all the interviews I needed, I headed over to Easton. I wasn’t nervous anymore. Instead, I think I was a little . . . excited.

  While Nick set up the camera and lights, I said, “Thank you for the . . . balls today.”

  Easton grinned. “No problem.”

  “You did that just so I had to say thank you for the balls today, didn’t you?”

  “Nope. But that was a total bonus. I did it so you’d take them home and every time you looked at them, you would think about me.”