by Brea Brown
A plane coming in for a landing at KCI less than two miles north of us would render my explanation inaudible, anyway, so I let it go and merely enjoy the hug Jet seems reluctant to end.
Finally, as the noisy plane exits the airspace above us, he sets me on my feet and smiles shakily down at me, then accepts my help unloading Torzi’s supplies. I hand him the duffel bag he asked me in a later text to bring to him. Looping the bag’s strap over his shoulder, he greets the dog, who’s too chicken to attempt the leap from the car to the ground.
Jet plunks his buddy from the leather front seat. “Hey, Torzi. Thanks for agreeing to come out here and keep me company.” He wraps his free arm around my shoulders, rests his wrapped hand against my upper arm, and leads me to the porch steps. “You, too.”
On our way up the steps, I ask, “What the heck is this place, anyway?”
“A safe house, of sorts. It was mentioned in the confidentiality agreement you signed last summer.”
Hmmm. Maybe I should have actually read that thing.
“Not sure how it got its name,” Jet continues, “since there aren’t any livestock or horses here, but it’s where the front office sends you when they need to isolate you, usually because you’re in trouble. The media and general public don’t know it exists, so it’s a nice, private place to meet with players and chew them out. Basically.” He nods at the sky. “Plus, it’s close to the airport, if they need to get someone out of here in a hurry.”
I gulp and glance behind us at the other cars parked in front of the house. Three luxury imports, all black, flank Jet’s familiar silver Audi, like they’re blocking him in and preventing his escape.
“So, it’s a luxury principal’s office?”
How heartily he laughs at my feeble joke indicates things may not be as serious as I thought. I still don’t know anything, since I kept the radio off and my phone mostly out of sight after sending my text reassurance to everyone. I also had no desire to turn on the TV and get up to speed before I left Jet’s.
I did take the time to put the chili in the fridge, but I didn’t eat any of it first. I can’t imagine being hungry for a while.
Inside the house, I expect to come face to face with “the others,” probably a bunch of suits, maybe a Wise brother or two, and possibly Coach Bauer, whom I’ve met on a couple of occasions, all more pleasant than I anticipate this one to be. But the place is silent.
“They’re all in the conference room, discussing my fate,” Jet explains. He sets Torzi on the floor, bounds up the stairs, and returns a few seconds later without his duffel bag, his steps light.
“You don’t seem worried or upset,” I say, letting him take my jacket and hang it on a rack near the front door.
He shrugs. “Well, the worst is over, I guess. I’ve already been told how idiotic I’ve been and that they expected more from me and how I’m supposed to be the team’s leader. They’ve threatened to strip the captain’s ‘C’ from my jersey, but since I didn’t do anything illegal or that shameful, I doubt they’ll do that.”
“What did you do?” I ask, unable to stand not knowing another second.
He tilts his head and drops his jaw. “Are you serious? You still don’t know?”
“I promised you I’d get my news from you. I avoided all forms of media on my way here.” I squint my eyes. “Don’t abuse your power.”
He laughs and leads me to a door under the stairs, which opens into a small library with a desk, a sofa, and some bookshelves. The southwestern and Native American decor in this room screams 1995.
We sit on the throw-covered leather couch, each of us sideways, facing each other. Torzi hops up between us, then settles in my lap.
“Honestly,” I say, scratching the dog’s head, “I was afraid of what I’d hear. I wanted to hear it from you first. I can get caught up on ESPN later, to fact-check you.” I’d smile to let him know I’m teasing, but I’m still too worried to manage it.
Suddenly serious, he rakes his good hand through his hair. “I— I said something I shouldn’t have said. It wasn’t a wrong thing to say, but I shouldn’t have said it. Especially to a reporter.”
When all I do is wait for him to spit it out, he inhales a huge breath, then spouts on the exhale, “She put in an interview request, saying she wanted to talk to me about my injury and get an update on my prognosis—schedule, and all that. In the locker room, after practice, she did ask about that stuff. Then she started to bait me about Busch. You know, did I partially blame him for my injury, since his absence may have made me feel off my game and may have led me to force plays? Was I aware of what was going on with him and other players around the league, while it was happening? Was I ever approached to participate in—or did I participate in—the Bedroom Bowl? As if! Did I think the punishments handed down so far were too harsh? Was the NFL making examples of these guys because of past scandals related to women? She was relentless! And so, finally, I— I snapped.”
When he pauses to catch his breath, I pull my mouth sideways. “Ruh-roh.” I grab his left hand and squeeze it.
He audibly swallows. “I went on a full-blown rant about overpaid assholes who break the law and act like animals, and how the world has made them feel like they’re above it all, just because they can throw or catch a ball or run fast. They’re going to have to bleep out a few things.”
“Is that all you said?”
He pooches his lips and scrunches his nose. “Oh, hell no. I was just getting started. I said a bunch of stuff about human rights and feminism, and then I said how sick I was of the decent guys being left to answer the ‘bullshit questions’ that should be directed at the dirtbags who can’t keep it together. I addressed the groupies in the audience, too.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Yep. I was like, ‘Do yourselves a favor: stay away from these guys. Have a little self-respect. You’re worth more than that.’ Oh, and I ripped pro athletes a new one, too. I said, ‘And guys…? Grow up. Show some self-control. Real men don’t act like horny animals.’”
I snort. “That explains why Rae wanted me to do this…” I lean forward and kiss him, intending for it to be a peck, simply to lighten the mood, but he pulls me against him, sending Torzi running away from us with a disgruntled yip.
I wrap my arms around him and kiss him harder, my eyes rolling back in my head as he flicks his tongue into my mouth. When we separate, I laugh nervously. “I had no idea you wanted to kiss Rae like that.”
He scratches his forehead and chuckles, but his smile quickly fades as he returns to his side of the couch. “And then… Then I said the thing that might get me in major trouble with the league.”
“Oh, gosh. There’s more?”
“Yeppers. I said we obviously have a problem in professional sports, because crap like this keeps happening. Or something like that. I’m not sure. After a while, it was all a blur. I… I… I couldn’t stop talking. It’s like everything I’ve thought since all this started had to come out. This reporter activated the launch sequence.”
I can’t help but laugh through my nausea. “Well, it’s not the end of the world, right?”
He looks balefully at me. “Might be the end of mine.”
“I doubt that. For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you. I still love you. Maybe I love you more. If that’s possible.”
He half-smiles. “That’s actually worth a lot.”
“Okay, good. What are you most worried about, then?”
“That everyone else will hate me. Not just for opening my big mouth and adding to this stupid mess but for how I said it.”
“And if that ends up being the case, then what?”
He shrugs. “I dunno.”
“Are they going to cut you from the team?”
“Nah. Nothing like that.”
“Then it’s basically about what people are going to think about you? That’s your biggest worry?”
Picking at his bandage, he smiles sheepishly. “I know what you’re getting at. But
it’s not the same. The fans don’t have to like you. They have to like me to go out there week after week and cheer and support, in good times and bad.”
“Take a deep breath for me.”
He does.
After a few seconds, I prod quietly, “Next worry?”
“That after my hand is better, they’ll still keep me on the bench.”
“Coach Bauer’s not going to punish the whole team and make things worse by doing that.”
“If Wilcox lights it up while I’m gone—”
“Your expected return game is against a division rival. They’re not going to leave something that important to a rookie and a substitute tight end. No way. Keep going.”
Eyes still downcast, he says, “I’ll probably be fined by the league. But I don’t care much about that.”
I ruffle his hair. “Cheer up. It feels bad right now, because it just happened, but this will blow over. It’ll blow over faster if you keep your focus and do what the big wigs tell you to do.”
He lifts his eyes to mine. “I don’t want to lose my ‘C’ because I screwed up and lost my temper. But I probably deserve to lose it. I wasn’t much of a leader today.”
“I guess I should reserve judgment until I see this epic rant of yours for myself, but based on what you’ve said, you showed great leadership by speaking out.”
He shakes his head, which he lowers again. “No, Maura. I didn’t. The instructions were to say, ‘No comment,’ every time we were asked about Busch. I blew it. You’ll see. I’m such an idiot.”
“Hey!” I scoot closer to him, nearly in his lap, and poke him in the chest. “You’re not an idiot. No matter what you said or how you said it or who’s pissed off about it or what it means for your job or your wallet. You’re a guy who’s been pushed to his limit, and you cracked a little. That doesn’t make you stupid; it makes you human.”
He shrugs, obviously still not convinced.
“And anyone who says you’re stupid has to answer to me. I’ll pull a Stacy Henderson and call into a radio show and rip everyone a new one,” I say, referencing the frequent PR nightmare that is the wife of the Eagles’ embattled QB.
The horrified look on his face when his head snaps up makes me laugh. “You wouldn’t, would you?”
I roll my eyes. “No. But I don’t want you saying or even thinking that about yourself. You’re funny and kind and sensitive and smart in ways that mean more to the people who love you than anything you could gain from a book or lose after a few too many knocks to the head. You have heart.”
He jabs his thumb and forefinger into his eyes while his head bobs up and down. “Thanks. I— I really needed to hear that.”
I pull him to me and rub his back while he rests his forehead against my shoulder and sucks in a shuddering breath. “I mean it. Now, do I need to go into the conference room and repeat it for those goons?”
Releasing a shaky laugh that indicates he’s uncertain about my seriousness, he says, “No. That’s okay. How they feel about me isn’t as important.”
I kiss his ear, then whisper into it, “That’s more like it.” When he shivers and straightens, I say, “Now go call your family and tell them everything’s going to be fine. Because it is. They need to hear that from you. They’re worried about you.”
Before we can make any phone calls, however, a union rep, the team’s general manager, Jet’s agent, and Coach Bauer call Jet into the conference room to speak to him privately about the decisions they’ve made. They aren’t in there long before everyone reemerges, smiling and clapping Jet on the back like they’re all best buddies and saying their goodbyes.
As soon as we’re alone again, I ask, “What happened?”
“Slap on the wrist from the team. The league will be in touch to discuss fines for speaking publicly after being ordered not to, and also for some of the choice words I used.”
“Are they still planning for the San Diego game to be your first one back?” I hold my breath.
He nods and raises his right hand. “Yep. Health permitting.”
Whew! That’s the away game I’ve chosen to attend this season. The plans have been set since the summer. San Diego in September the weekend after the job fair that’s kept me up nights all year? It was a no-brainer. I need that weekend.
Rather than make this all about me, though, I return to the issues at hand. “And you have to stay here until…?”
“Just tonight. But when I go to work in the morning, I can’t say anything to any members of the media. Not so much as a ‘good morning.’”
“That’s going to be hard for you.”
“Well, it’s rude!” he says with a wink. “But I’ll have to chance being seen as a jerk.”
“Let’s find something to eat. I’m starving,” I reply, hoping to distract him with food.
But we make the horrifying discovery that there’s nothing to eat in this place except dry cereal. Apparently Keaton, the house’s most recent “guest,” likes Lucky Charms. A lot. He also overestimated the length of his stay, because he left behind several boxes, all opened, but not much else.
Before the big-wigs left, they reminded us about the confidentiality agreement that prohibits us from telling anyone where we are. One of the Wises, himself, said if we needed anything to text him, and he’d have his assistant bring it to us. It’s late, though, and neither Jet nor I are the type of people to rouse someone from their home this late to cater to our whims. I’m kicking myself for not bringing the chili with me.
Trying to make the best of it, we take our two boxes of stale cereal upstairs to the bedroom to watch the ten o’clock news so I can see for myself how bad Jet’s slip-up was.
The first time through, Jet cringes at the sight of himself, his hair still wet from the shower, his shirt not quite buttoned all the way. I think it’s hot, but I’m too nervous about what’s still to come to make any crude comments.
He places his hand on his cheek, and throughout the viewing, his fingers creep closer to his eyes, but he never covers them completely.
And you know, what he said was... heated. But either this particular channel did a ton of editing (possible, since they played some video over his sound bite), or he filtered himself better than he thought. I’ve heard one bleep, and it was for a relatively minor curse word, not any of the “biggies.”
Next, they cut to their unsuccessful attempts to elicit reactions from teammates, but the most any of the players said was, “I’m trying to stay out of it and keep focused on Monday’s game.” The one variation on that theme was Jackson, who spouted the scripted line, but before they turned the camera away from him, shot it a double thumbs-up and winked.
Finally, they show some man-on-the-street interviews to measure public opinion. With the exception of a few gruff manly-men saying things like, “He should worry more about his pass percentage and how he’s gonna avoid the Chargers’ blitz,” people seem overwhelmingly positive and supportive, especially the females. Not a solitary one of the interviewees had a bad thing to say about him. As a matter of fact, they bandied around words and phrases like, “hero” and “real man” and said, “It’s about time one of these guys finally had the guts to say something.”
When it’s over, I pause the program, fully intending to rewind and re-watch the segment, and turn to him. Popping a crunchy marshmallow into my mouth, I say, “See? Not so bad.”
“I can’t believe nobody said I was a stupid ass-face.”
I laugh. “Not yet. The ladies love you.”
He blushes. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Everything. Women rule the world. You should know that by now.”
We watch it four more times, until we both nearly have it memorized, inserting phrases like, “That’s what she said,” and analyzing what’s going on in the background (including a towel-clad Schoengert we didn’t see the first few times).
“Wait, wait, wait,” I say. “Rewind it. I want to see that part where you bob your head
like a self-righteous diva. It’s priceless.”
Reclined against the pillows, right arm behind his head, he extends his left arm to hold the remote out of my reach. “No. I can’t handle seeing it anymore.”
“Then close your eyes and cover your ears.” I strain and snatch the remote from his hand, eliciting a sickening crunch from the box of cereal in his lap.
He groans but keeps his eyes and ears open.
“See? Right… there!”
I slow it down when his head moves subtly back and forth, then hit play so I can hear him say it in real time:
“This is a human rights issue, not just a women’s rights issue. When you have no respect for people, you treat them like dirt. And maybe that results in a sex-for-money game or maybe it makes you think it’s okay to beat someone up. Or rape them. Or kill them. It’s all connected.”
“Amen, bruh-thuh!” I say with his touchdown fist pump.
He snorts. “I was super into it, at that point. I guess.”
I hit “stop” for the last time and turn off the TV, tossing the remote away from me on the bed. Setting our cereal boxes on the floor, I cuddle up to his chest. “I think it’s adorable. You’re adorable.”
He rubs my back. “Team leadership doesn’t think so.”
“They’ll get over it. Especially after you kick some Chargers butt in a couple of weeks. All this will be forgotten.”
I push against him to sit up and stretch. He tugs me back toward him. I laugh. “I have to get going. It’s a forty-minute drive to my house from here.”
“What? You’re not staying here tonight?”
I yawn. “I hadn’t planned on it.”
“Aw, c’mon! What about the big, bad reporters?”
