Chapter 7 #2
hit, and they haul him into the locker room for evaluation.
As for me, I’m battered like a goddamn pinata. I try to focus, try to rally. I might as well be attempting to hold water in my hands. All the while, Coach and my coordinators are having apoplectic fits. Most of which ring in my ears through the mic in my helmet.
That this is an away game and the crowd is completely loving our defeat doesn’t exactly help.
The distinct shout of, “Eat turf, pussy boy Mannus!” somehow makes it through the din of the crowd. Excellent.
It is, as Chess would say, a complete shitcake of a game.
By the time we hobble off the field, defeated and deflated, I am ready to sink into a hot bath and swallow down a mouthful
of painkillers. But I’m not going to get to do that. I’m going to get reamed by my coach and then reamed by the press.
I’ll have to stand at a podium, lights shining on my face, and answer insightful questions such as, “Do you think you could
have done something better?” Yeah, I could have fucking won. Or, “Do you think you lost because you failed to score during
the second half?” Considering this game is won on a points- based system, I would say not scoring had something to do with
it.
In the dank, echoing hall that leads to the locker room, I turn to Jake, who walks wearily at my side. “Give me a reminder.”
Since I ask this question every time we have a shit day, he doesn’t miss a beat. “Fifteen million signing bonus.”
“I’m going to have to put that aside for new hips when I’m forty.”
“When you’re thirty-five,” he counters easily. “And are we getting solid gold hips?”
I laugh. “I’m going full-on cyborg. Try again.”
Jake smirks. “Willing women in every city.”
“I’m too tired to screw.”
Jake shoots me a glance. “Man, you are a sad sack today.”
He’s right. I’m in full-on “pity party of one” mode. “I’m depressing myself,” I tell him.
“Which is why you need to let off some steam. I’m going out as soon as we get back. You want to join me?”
I’m already shaking my head. “I’m going home, taking a bath, and getting some sleep.”
“Jesus, you really are an old man now.”
Maybe I am. But the prospect of going out and looking for a quick hookup is utterly unappealing. I’d rather call Chess and
see if she’s up for dinner. Right there is what truly makes me a sad sack.
I don’t get to dwell on that any longer, because we reach the locker room and the reality of my job snaps back into place.
Grimly, I walk through the locker room doors and prepare to defend my performance and my men.
Chess
I’m mopey. Finn is at an away game, and James is in New York with Jamie again.
It’s his second visit, and I gather things are getting serious between them.
I’ve received two texts from James. One selfie of him and Jamie in Central Park by the Bethesda Fountain, the other of them
all smooshie-faced in Times Square on the night they went to see a musical—the lucky bastards. A wave of homesickness had
hit me, seeing those pictures.
New Orleans is home for me now, but there are days I miss the fast-moving rhythm of New York. Sometimes, I’ll hear a car horn
and close my eyes and think of cabs and cars and trucks all vying for road space. I’ll remember the shouts and bangs and rattles
as the city pulses around me.
But then I’ll sit on my balcony and breathe in the warm air—fragrant with the basil that’s growing high, despite the fact
that it’s fall—and I feel restored.
Doesn’t stop me from being lonely.
I have other friends I could call. Girlfriends I haven’t seen in a while. But that’s not who I really want to see.
Finn has called and texted fairly regularly, but it’s not the same. When he’s in the city, we can find times to meet up, even if it’s for a quick bite to eat. When he’s gone . . .
I feel it.
Today, he sent me a package of gelato. Packed on ice and delivered by courier, there were a dozen flavors to choose from.
It’s the best gift I’ve ever received.
A little flip of joy goes through me as I survey my stock of gelato. There’s a flavor called Amarena, which turns out to be
sweet cream and sour-tart cherries, swirled with glossy crimson ribbons of cherry sauce.
I eat it straight from the carton, slowly savoring the flavor on my tongue. I love gelato, but this stuff? It tastes like
sex. I lick the cold metal curve of the spoon and think of cherry cream rivers running down tight abs.
“Jesus,” I mutter, flushed and jittery. “I need to get laid.”
From out in the hall, the almost manic sounds of Miles Davis blasts, played on full volume. My neighbor, Fred, is a jazz lover.
And apparently nearly deaf. I glare toward the direction of the door, and help myself to another spoonful of cold, creamy
sin.
A shriek and a whiff of ozone barely register. But then the sudden loss of Miles Davis and the blare of fire alarms have me
turning.
Fred yells, the sound an echo in his loft.
I tense, ready to investigate, when a series of loud pops goes off near my kitchen. In a blink, sparks fly from several outlets.
And then it’s like I’m inside a live firework. Sparks explode outward, fire flares in hot lines as it races along plaster
and up the ceiling.
For one horrible second, I am frozen in shock. Electrical fire and you’re fucked flit through my head, and then I jump up. My heart rises in my throat as I grab the laptop sitting by my side on the counter
and clutch my spoon in the other hand.
Alarms screech. I race for the door and run into a wall of black smoke. Fred’s loft door is open, the space engulfed.
“Fred!” I choke on smoke, the flames pushing me back. I’ve never felt heat like this. The strength of it sears my skin and burns my eyes.
If he’s in there, I can’t help him. The thought fills me with horror. Crouching low, I stumble down the stairs, my spoon clattering
to the floor.
Overhead, the sprinklers start up. Water falls with stinging force, and the concrete stairs turn slick. I grip the metal banister
and fumble along.
Another man joins me on the first floor, and we travel together, going as fast as we can. We’re nearly at the bottom, when
Fred comes racing up the stairs, face covered in soot, his ratty brown bathrobe flopping around his thin legs.
“My records,” he cries, wild-eyed and crazed.
I hold out my free hand, trying to stop him, but he slams into me and we both go down hard. My computer flies in the air,
my hand reaching down to catch my fall.
The impact of hitting the ground is so fast and furious, I can’t get past the pain. It spikes up my wrist and ass in the same
instant, white light exploding behind my lids. My breath escapes in a gasp. I can’t move my arm. Fred’s bony knee is in my
gut. I might die here, smothered by smoke and Fred’s cheap chenille bathrobe.
Fuck you, Fred.
Then black smoke and blazing heat rolls over me, and all thoughts of Fred flee, leaving only one truth. I really might die.