9. Declan #2
“Do you have company?” Delaney shouts into the phone. The sound of raucous voices behind him makes me homesick for the locker room.
“She’s just leaving.”
“Okay, then …” he taunts.
Chantal waves, wiggling her fingers in the air and turning to walk out.
Winona appears seemingly out of nowhere, meeting Chantal in the hallway and walking her out. I can hear their exchange, but can’t make out the words. Winona is being friendly. Chantal, not so much.
I hear the door shut and blow out a long breath.
“It’s not like that,” I tell Marcus. “My mom sent a woman up here.”
He cackles. “Awww man. That’s rough. Unless it’s not.”
“No. Trust me. It’s rough.”
Winona appears back in the doorway and quietly asks, “Are you hungry?” Her demeanor is reserved.
“Hold on, Marcus,” I say into the phone. “I could eat. Want to eat with me?”
She squints at me as if weighing my offer. “No. I’m not that hungry. Take your call. We’ll figure it out when you’re finished talking.”
An odd wave of disappointment sweeps over me. Maybe I am lonely. I like when Winona eats with me, asking ridiculous questions about what’s on SportsCenter or just sitting quietly in the room without saying anything.
“I’m back,” I tell Marcus. “Just letting Winona know I’m ready to eat.”
“Women waiting on you hand and foot over there, must be nice,” he teases.
“Yeah. Well, I’d rather be with you getting my butt kicked by a coach right now.”
“We just finished practice. I thought I’d check in,” Delaney says. “Coach will be back here in a few minutes to call us for film review.”
“I appreciate you checking in.”
“You sound good.”
“I’m surrendering to the process.”
“Are you now?” He’s teasing again. I miss this—the banter with my team—almost as much as I miss playing. “Don’t go getting soft on me, O’Connell.”
“Never,” I promise him.
We talk about this past week’s game. Before we hang up, Marcus sends the phone around to a few other players. Then Coach shouts into the room, calling everyone back to practice, and we say our goodbyes.
Winona comes back into the room and asks me, “So, what for dinner?”
“You sure you aren’t hungry?” I ask her.
“I’m going to get pizza when I leave,” she says.
“Pizza?”
“From the Pizza Den. Do you eat pizza?”
“During the off-season. Occasionally.”
“I eat it at least once a week. It’s a staple.”
“If I order pizza will you stay to eat it with me?”
I don’t know why I make the offer. And I really don’t know what makes her say yes.
“I could stay,” she says. “But if you’re getting pizza, you need root beer. And you need a good movie.”
“Is that right?”
“It’s the trifecta, trust me.”
“Lead the way, oh guru of pizza consumption,” I say.
She laughs. “I can run out and pick it up. Do you want to call it in?”
“I’ll have it delivered,” I say.
She smiles at me, crossing her arms and shaking her head as if pizza delivery is equivalent to owning a private jet. She doesn’t need to drive out. It’s convenient. I call in the order, getting a sausage-pepperoni and a mediterranean veggie.
“And a two-liter of root beer,” I say, smiling in her direction.
Winona bounces on her toes when she hears me add on cookie dough.
I hang up with the Pizza Den and pull the remote out of the wooden box she got me.
“Think fast,” I say, tossing the remote in her direction.
She surprises me by catching it.
“Nice catch,” I say.
“Oh, yeah. I’m super athletic, as you’ve seen.” She laughs.
I laugh too, smiling at her.
She eyes the chair where Chantal had been sitting and turns toward the other side of the room, settling into the chair my mom sat in when she visited the other day.
We’re quiet for a few moments. Winona’s eyes rove around the room and I start to second-guess asking her to stay. Is she bored? Did she want to leave? Is she staying out of pity?
She breaks the silence with two words. “Beautiful woman.”
“I’m sorry, what?” It takes me a moment. Then I realize who she’s talking about. “Oh. Chantal. Yeah. She’s pretty. She models.”
“Girlfriend?” Winona asks.
“No. Definitely not.” I shake my head.
These meds seem to delete my filter. Not that I’m big on saying things in a roundabout way when I’m not under the influence of medication. I’m a straightforward person. I sort of take after my dad in that way.
“Chantal’s a woman my mom sent up here. You can bet my mom will call later to check on how it went.”
“She’s playing matchmaker?” Winona asks.
“Perpetually.”
She nods. Then she glances at me, holding my gaze. “I don’t want to overstep, but do you really need a matchmaker? It seems like women would be falling over themselves to be with you.”
I laugh softly. “So, you think I’m the kind of man women would fall over themselves for?”
“I think there are women who love football players and fame and who are attracted to men like you.”
“Men like me?”
“You know.” She waves her hand from across the room, running it from my head to my toes as if she’s a game show hostess and I’m the prize. “Men like you.”
I laugh. “Well, you’re not wrong.”
“Does it get old?” she asks.
“Women falling over themselves to get near me?”
“Yeah. I think it would be its own kind of exhausting.”
“Honestly, yes. It gets very old.”
Has anyone ever asked me about this? If they have, I can’t remember. Most people assume it’s a man’s highest aim in life to have swarms of strangers fawning over him.
I almost tell her how I liked it when I was younger. What guy doesn’t love women noticing him, telling him how handsome he is, treating him like he’s practically a god among men?
But after a while, it became more of the same—women wanting the idea of me. No one seemed interested in me—Declan—the guy who grew up in small town Tennessee, the man who secretly sings in the shower, the guy who can’t seem to figure out who he is when he’s not wearing number eighty-eight.
The pizza arrives. I buzz the delivery boy through the gates, one at a time.
“Grab my wallet from the dresser in the guest room,” I tell Winona.
“I’ll split it with you,” she offers.
I send her a look that says over my dead body. And she laughs, holding her hands up in a show of surrender.
She comes back with two pizza boxes, a plastic bucket of cookie dough and a bottle of root beer.
“I’m going to heat the oven. If I can figure out how it works,” she says.
“It’s simple,” I tell her. “Just push the knobs in before turning.”
She leaves the pizza and soda bottle on the coffee table and comes back without the dough, but carrying two glasses of ice.
We dig into our food, eating in silence for the first few bites.
I try to hide my relief that she’s eating with me.
I don’t understand what this is, and I’m not about to try to decipher my thoughts under the influence of pain meds with her right here in the room.
Her watchful eyes meet mine occasionally and we just stare at one another.
It should feel awkward, but it’s oddly comforting.
She’s moved to the chair where Chantal had been sitting, her legs tucked up under her and a paper plate with two slices of pizza on her lap.
“So, what’s it going to be?” she asks. “Action, romance, suspense?”
“You pick,” I tell her.
Her face grows serious, like Linc’s when he’s studying the playbook.
“It’s just a movie,” I tell her.