Chapter 15 Ella #2
Our gazes met, and for a second, I forgot why he was here.
He wore dark jeans and a white V-neck t-shirt beneath his open jacket.
His hair was loose and blowing in the breeze.
He was gorgeous. So beautiful it hurt to look at him sometimes.
I didn’t think I’d ever get over the initial shock of awareness I felt each time I saw him.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” he answered. He stepped close and lifted his fingers to brush a strand of hair from my face. “It’s nice to see you.”
I smiled. “It’s been less than twenty-four hours since I left your place.”
“You shouldn’t have.”
“What?”
“Shouldn’t have left,” he said, thumb sliding over my lips.
Oh my God.
A loud knock sounded from behind us, and I whipped my head around. Jane stood framed in the window of the door. She grinned when our eyes met and mouthed, “Payback.”
I turned to Ben. “I am so sorry in advance for anything my sister is about to say.”
He frowned. “About the article?”
I shook my head. “About us. She owes me from when I first met Dave.”
He grinned so wide that dimples appeared on either side of his mouth. “Us, huh?”
I turned and paced to the door, cheeks heating. “Yup.”
He chuckled and followed me up the stairs.
The dogs raced past us, back inside, nearly knocking Willow over as she ran to meet the newcomer.
“Be nice!” Willow yelled at them. She was one to talk.
I stepped in and made room for Ben in the doorway. His frame filled the entire thing, throwing a shadow over me.
Willow came to a screeching halt, looking up, up, up at him. “You’re big.”
Ben nodded. “I am.”
“I climb you now,” she said, then charged at him and immediately started to scramble up his leg.
Jane snorted from behind me. “Like aunt, like niece.”
I was going to kill her.
Ben coughed to cover his laugh and leaned down to help Willow.
She grabbed onto his forearm and hauled herself up with surprising dexterity.
She settled on his back, legs around his waist. Ben hooked his hands beneath her knees to keep her in place, which meant that she didn’t have to hold on that well.
She lifted a finger and prodded at his shoulder, his back, and then his arm, as if testing his muscle tone.
“Can you throw people?” she asked him.
“What?” me and Jane chorused.
Ben just looked confused.
“I need a thrower,” Willow said. It was clear from her tone that she didn’t mean she wanted him to toss her up in the air, like any normal child would. No. She was talking about needing someone to throw other people, on her command.
Ben’s confusion morphed into startled surprise as he looked from me to Jane.
Told you, I wanted to say. And he didn’t believe me when I told him Willow was already actively recruiting for her evil army.
“You do not need a thrower,” Jane said.
Willow sighed and rested her cheek on Ben’s shoulder. “Fine. He can be my palandin.”
“Your what?” I asked.
Jane frowned. “Palanquin, did you mean?”
Willow nodded.
“Where did she even hear that word?” I asked her mother.
“No idea. The kid is way too smart for her own good.”
Willow pulled her head up and pointed over Ben’s shoulder toward the living room. “Mush!”
Ben did as his future leader bade, dropping her off on the couch, where she settled back into her nest of blankets and hit unpause on the remote, filling the room with the Little Einsteins theme song.
“Hi, it’s nice to finally meet you,” Ben told Jane when he returned, extending a hand toward her.
“Nice to meet you too,” she said. Her brows climbed when her hand disappeared beneath his. “Want anything to drink? Coffee, tea, booze?”
“Water is fine,” he said, releasing her.
She flexed her fingers a little, as if testing the joints. “Come on into the kitchen. We’ll talk in there if that’s okay with you, so I can keep an eye on Her Supreme Majesty.”
Ben shot a glance over his shoulder at Willow as we followed Jane out of the room. “You weren’t joking,” he said to me.
“I never joke about diabolical masterminds,” I told him.
“Di-a-bo-li-cal,” Willow repeated from behind us in a creepy little kid voice that made it sound like she was savoring this new word.
“That’s great,” Jane said. “Please expand her vocabulary some more.”
Ten minutes later, the three of us were seated at the kitchen table. Paper littered its surface. Ben and I each held a copy of Jane’s article. She had notepads and pens and medical journals cluttering up her side.
“This is really good,” Ben told her as he set the article down.
My sister smiled a little shyly and didn’t meet his eyes. “Thanks.”
Ha! It wasn’t just me he effected. Even happily married women were susceptible. I felt vindicated in my initial difficulty corralling my crush.
“What do you want me to contribute?” he asked.
“Honestly, whatever you’re willing to,” she answered, picking up a pen.
“Legally, I shouldn’t be doing this, so nothing that could give away who I am.”
“Understood.” She finally managed to meet his eyes, her own full of sympathy. “I’m so sorry about your brother. I can’t imagine what that must have been like. If you want, I can remove mention of him from the article.”
I loved my sister for this empathy. So much. Beneath the table, I reached out and grabbed Ben’s hand. This was going to be difficult for him. He never talked about Zach, or at least he hadn’t with me, and now he might have to do so for all the world to read about.
I meant to give him a reassuring squeeze and then let go, but he surprised me by turning his hand beneath mine and threading our fingers together.
“Thank you, but that’s not necessary,” he told Jane. “Zach’s death was one of the driving factors for so many of us quitting the league and filing this lawsuit, so he should be in it.”
“I still don’t understand why the league didn’t settle,” Jane said. “Dragging this out in court is only going to make them look worse.”
Ben shrugged one massive shoulder. “They’re desperate at this point.”
“Can you expand upon that?” she asked, in full journo mode now.
He nodded. “I think the league must feel that if they win in court, the fans won’t think they’re responsible for what happened to Zach and the other players that have died because of TBI or CTE.
Or the ones who are already experiencing what amounts to early-onset dementia thanks to their years on the field.
And there are other factors driving them besides that. ”
“Like?” she asked.
“The USFL has lost a lot revenue as people ditch cable and switch to streaming services. No one wants to pay $120 just for the USFL app,” he said.
“They’re losing viewers at higher rates than they’ve ever experienced.
The fans are fed up with the lack of logical punishment.
One player is suspended for three games for ranting about how the senator from his home state is racist, while another suffers no consequences after pleading guilty to domestic abuse.
And people are either pissed at the players who took a knee during the anthem for ‘disrespecting the flag’ or for ‘bringing politics into sports’ or they’re pissed at how the league treated those players and the bullshit ruling that came down afterward.
So not only are the fans angry with the league, but with each other.
A sport that once united so many people is now dividing them. ”
Jane’s pen flew over her notepad. “The ruling you mentioned, are you referring to the fine players will now face if they continue to take a knee?”
Ben nodded. “Yes. There’s another lawsuit about to be filed against that, and I think the players involved are backed by some heavy hitters like the ACLU and even a couple of team owners.”
“Really? Do you have anyone I could contact about that?”
“Possibly,” Ben said. “I’ll have to make some calls and find someone willing to talk.”
The two of them spent the next hour in deep conversation about the lawsuit and the league’s cover-up of early CTE research.
Ben’s lawyers uncovered evidence of coercion and intimidation to keep some of the studies from being published.
A few weeks ago, the private investigators the players hired found a possible paper and money trail that led from the USFL to falsified, argumentative research papers that claimed there was zero connection between getting repeatedly tackled and TBI.
As if they thought by spreading alternative facts and misinformation, they might be able to sway public opinion.
It was a move right out of big tobacco’s playbook, from back in the days when they were still trying to cast doubt on whether or not smoking led to cancer. It would have been laughable if it wasn’t so enraging.
I let go of Ben’s hand at that point and stood to pace the kitchen. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so angry. My she-dragon was so close to the surface that I felt like I could belch fire.
“You okay, Ella?” Ben asked.
“She’s fine,” Jane answered for me. “Momma bear mode has been activated.”
“More like rage-beast mode,” I said, so low they couldn’t hear me.
Ben arched a brow at Jane.
“Oh, so she hasn’t felt the need to defend you yet?” Jane asked. “Be grateful for that. She can get a bit scary.”
“I see that.” He turned and watched me pace. He didn’t look frightened; he looked…appreciative.
I forced my gaze away from him before my anger morphed into something else.
“Tell me more about this last injunction,” Jane said. “The one concerning the Commissioner.”
I heard footsteps and turned to see Willow walking toward me. She joined me in my pacing, crossing her little arms over her chest as she glared around the room.
“Who are we mad at?” she asked.
I slowed down so she could keep up. “The Commissioner of the USFL.”
“Ben!” she shouted. “Go throw him!”
God, I loved her.
“What did I say about throwing people?” Jane yelled back. She glanced at her watch. “Crap. It’s bedtime.”
“I got it,” I told her.