by Stacey Keith
Mason whipped his gaze toward the practice field. All morning, he’d been dreaming about going home, taking a Jacuzzi and then crawling into bed. He knew how grumpy he was on no z’s. Twice, Jasper, Brian and Temple had to kick him awake under the table while Coach Lemery gave his notes on the upcoming game. If Mason could have propped his eyelids open with toothpicks, he would have done it.
And now he had to do community outreach? About ten children stood looking around, goggle-eyed, at the facility. One of them, a cherubic-looking black kid in a Little Brothers of America T-shirt, zeroed right in on him and broke out into a huge grin.
Jasper gave Mason a thump on the back. “Go get ’em, Hannigan. Remember they aim low, so when the haymakers start flying, use both hands to cover your junk.”
“Thanks.”
Mason put on his best game face and loped over to the kids, who were practically squirming with excitement. Mason found his heart softening. Maybe the secret to kids, he thought, was actually liking them.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m Mason Hannigan, quarterback of the Dallas Lone Stars.”
“I know who you are, man,” said the kid who’d first spotted him. “Everybody knows.”
“You’re really tall,” a girl about Lexie’s age observed. Mason leaned closer and saw her nametag: Clarissa. And the boy was named Terrence. He breathed a small sigh of relief.
A woman with a clipboard clutched to her chest peered at him through bifocals that were attached to a chain around her neck. Her nametag said Ms. Mankie. He took her outstretched hand, which felt as cold and boneless as lunch meat. “Ma’am.”
“Call me Carolyn,” she said in a throaty whisper.
Oh, boy. Mason turned back to Terrence. “So, you guys want the full tour?”
Everyone nodded. Terrence, their self-appointed spokesman, said, “How much money you got?”
Mason felt a few more beads of sweat accumulate on his forehead. He wiped them with the back of his hand. “Uh, you mean on me, or…?”
“Nah. All together.”
He looked at Ms. Mankie for help, but she seemed to be busy staring at every part of him that wasn’t his face. It reminded him that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. With a start, he looked around for something to put on, but even his hoodie was gone, swept up by Denny and taken to the laundry.
Great. Just great.
“I’ve got so much money, I hire guys with leaf blowers to blow it around my living room,” he said, playing along.
“No, man. For real.”
“Who says I’m not for real?” He stared down at Terrence, wondering how old he was. Six? Seven?
“Terrence showed us a photo of your house,” a red-haired girl said. “It has a pool.”
“How much money you gotta have to score a pool like that?” Terrence trotted beside him as Mason tried to angle them into the mess hall where, with any luck, there were cookies that Jasper hadn’t gobbled up yet. He pushed the door, relieved to see a few trays still out. The rest were being whisked off to the kitchen by the catering staff.
“Help yourself,” he told everyone.
Nobody had warned him how kids could dive-bomb a tray, elbows working, hands flying in all directions. He knew defensive tackles who couldn’t dog pile that fast.
The girl, Clarissa, stood nibbling a peanut butter sandwich cookie. She looked at him again and said, “You have a lot of lumpy muscles.”
Mason figured the right thing to do was say something about healthy eating and paying attention in P.E. Instead, he just told the truth. “During the off-season, I eat junk food, so in order to keep my scale from blowing up, I worked out every day. Sometimes twice.”
“Is that why you got such a big pool?” Terrence asked.
Mason grabbed a peanut butter sandwich cookie off the tray. “Have a cookie, Terrence.”
“He can’t,” Clarissa said primly. “He’s allergic to peanuts.”
Jesus. Mason snatched the cookie back and turned to Ms. Mankie. She was studying her lipstick in a mirrored compact, contorting her mouth to do it. Had she really left him to fend for himself with Jasper Junior here and his peanut allergies? For all he knew, he’d damn near killed the kid.
Mason said, “Let’s go check out the weight room.”
The weight room was ugly and utilitarian like everything else downstairs at the Lone Stars’ practice facility, but Mason immediately felt better there. More at home. He introduced the kids to a few of the linemen and the new kicker from Indiana who was rehabbing a hamstring tear. The kids asked polite questions about the injury, even Terrence, which made Mason feel kind of proud, like they were his kids somehow.
“My daddy says you think too much about pockets,” a little blond kid named Daniel said.
They were standing by the tackling sled. Another kid the size and shape of a fire hydrant grunted as he tried to budge it.
“I’m sorry,” Mason said, “Did you say pockets?”
“I have pockets,” Terrence said, his round face solemn and earnest. “I keep all my money there.”
Mason rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, feeling the muscles flinch. “Do you mean in the pocket? As in, I think too long in the pocket while I’m waiting to throw the ball?”
Daniel blinked up at him. “Yeah.”
Everybody’s a critic, Mason thought. From the comfort of a lounge chair in an air-conditioned rec room, beer in one hand, remote control in the other, every man in America turned into an expert on game day.
“Tell your dad he’s welcome to submit a playbook any time he wants,” Mason said with his usual diplomacy. “I’d be happy to take a look at it.”
Mason made short work of the locker rooms, worried about the possibility of one of his teammates emerging towel-less from the showers. He could just see the headlines now: “Mason Hannigan Gives Children X-Rated Tour.” “Mason Hannigan Tries to Kill Boy With Cookie.” “Mason Hannigan Tells Kids He Needs A Leaf Blower For All His Millions.”
They toured the hallway where all the executive and administrative offices were, waved to the receptionists, and then found themselves back out on the practice fields.
Mason was exhausted. His brain hurt. He put his hands on his hips and squinted up against the sun. Daniel, whose dad was the football guru, and Terrence, who probably had a subscription to Fortune magazine, were arguing about who made the most money—rap stars or football players.
“So which is it, Mr. Mason?” Daniel asked. Arguing with Terrence had made his face red. Mason felt sorry for the kid. He knew arguing with Terrence would have made his face red, too.
“It depends,” he said. “I mean, there are some rap stars out there that make a lot of money.”
“See?” Daniel said triumphantly. “I told you.”
“I bet you got a money machine inside your house,” Terrence said to Mason. “I’m going to have one of those, too. If I want to buy an ice cream, all I have to do is press a button and the money comes right out.”
Mason’s temples throbbed. As the team quarterback, he accepted the responsibility for doing community outreach, but if he didn’t take a long nap in a dark room really soon, his head was going to explode.
“Photos?” he suggested.
Ms. Mankie herded the kids together with Mason in the middle and snapped away on her cell phone. Then she recruited one of the older kids to take the phone while she got in the center with Mason. He could feel her leg pressed up against his. Behind the glasses, her eyes were two limpid pools of lust.
“When you gonna let us come over to your house and swim?” Terrence asked him on the way out. “I can’t go next week, though, on account of I’m grounded.”
“Swim?” He searched his memory, wondering if he might have promised something in his delirium that sounded like swimming.
“I don’t know how to swim yet, but I do okay with those
squeaky things on my arms.”
“You mean water wings?”
Terrence appeared to think about this a minute. “Yeah. Water wings.”
“Tell you what,” Mason said. “Have your mom or dad send me a certificate of completion from a swim school and we’ll have a big pool party at my house with all your friends. Deal?”
Terrence’s eyes shone with excitement. “Really? You mean it?”
“Yep. But you gotta apply yourself and learn. I’ll be testing you.” And Mason found that he was genuinely looking forward to it. He wanted to know that smart little dudes like Terrence were given a chance to master the essentials, like swimming. He wanted to see kids having fun in his pool.
Suddenly, Terrence’s shoulders slumped. “Swim school takes money, I bet.”
“Don’t worry,” Mason said. “I’ll take care of it. But I want all of you guys to go, you hear me? I want everyone to learn how to be safe around water.”
* * * *
Cassidy knew something was wrong the minute she showed up for work.
Maybe it was Darlene’s worried non-smile in the window or the fact that Artie didn’t appear to be yelling. Maybe it was the sense of dread that lay in the pit of her stomach, that grew teeth as she locked her bike up behind the restaurant. By the time she pushed open the door to the prep area that feeling had morphed into full-blown panic. Here it comes, she thought. Here’s the part where I get punished.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
Beth stood with her eyes downcast, chewing on a piece of her own hair. “Artie found it this morning,” she whispered, as though the truth were too awful to say in a normal tone. “Please don’t get upset.”
“Too late for that.” Cassidy saw Darlene and Artie hurry toward the front. Darlene held a piece of paper in her hand, and Cassidy suddenly knew the cut that paper would inflict was going to hurt like hell.
“Now, before you girls start getting all hysterical, I want you to know something,” Artie said, hands on hips, eyebrows working like furry caterpillars. “I’m going to find out who did this and punch their goddamn lights out.”
“Nobody saw it except us,” Darlene hurried to tell her. “I even drove around to see if… whoever it was… posted it somewhere else. Even online. But so far, nothing.”
Cassidy dragged her damp palms down her sides and then reached for the paper. It was crumpled a little, like maybe Artie thought about balling it up and tossing it into the trash. A part of her was shocked, if not exactly surprised, to see a photo of her straddling Mason’s lap, kissing him. That a photo had been taken was pretty much a given in the age of camera phones. But it was the cruelty of what was written beneath it that made her feel like throwing up.
This is how Cassidy Roby spends her free time. Is this really someone you want to have working for you? #badexample #anyjockwilldo #boycottArties
Her whole body trembled as though an unseen force dangled her over a cliff. At the bottom were her darkest fears, moments just like this one, of people judging her, assuming things about her. All the objects in her peripheral vision went blurry. A terrible certainty swept over her that every soul in Cuervo secretly felt this way, that she, Cassidy Roby, was a bad mother who couldn’t keep her hands off any man in a jersey.
Then she remembered the day at Lexie’s school when Mrs. Connors told her, There are a whole bunch of folks here who won’t like seeing you rise above your place.
It hadn’t really made sense then.
She forced herself to take a breath. The tunnel vision didn’t go away, but at least she could see the love and concern on her friends’ faces. Even Artie’s.
“Look,” he said, clearly trying to soften his usual gruffness, “I know you’re upset and all. But even if it wasn’t nothing more than a sick joke, I’m still ready to go to the mat on this. We all are. We protect our own around here.”
“So you’re okay, right?” Darlene asked, patting her timidly on the shoulder.
“I just wish we had any idea who did it,” Beth said.
Cassidy pulled over a stool and sat. Her legs felt as though they wouldn’t hold her any longer. She remembered Kayla’s face on the night of the rodeo, her tight-lipped fury, followed by Mason’s cheer-worthy response. A thousand times Cassidy had revisited that moment, warming her hands on the glow of it. But was it self-righteousness she saw on Kayla’s face or something darker? There were half a dozen people who could have done this, including Kayla’s own friends. Stephanie Cramer had always looked down her nose at anyone who was different, especially her. And Stephanie was more than capable of doing something like this.
“I know you think it’s Kayla,” Cassidy said to Darlene. “But we don’t know that. Not for sure.”
“Don’t be naïve,” Darlene told her. “Kayla’s had it out for you since grade school. You know this.”
“The truth is, I don’t know anything,” Cassidy replied. “I’m not saying she didn’t do it. But Kayla has this super strict code. She considers herself above all that.”
Darlene threw her hands in the air. “Just once, I’d like to see you be a little less noble and a little more human, Cass. I mean really. Be like the rest of us, will you, and just say you hate her.”
Did she hate her? Cassidy curled her hands around her biceps and rubbed hard, chilled by the air conditioning and her own runaway emotions. Wasn’t it wrong to hate somebody your daughter was related to? She knew what Pastor Jim would say: Turn the other cheek.
What if that cheek just wouldn’t turn?
She wanted to call Mason and talk to him about it. She wanted to get a bullhorn, climb to the top of the Cuervo water tower and yell to everyone that she loved her town but was sick and tired of apologizing for the one mistake she’d made a million years ago. Then she wanted to say, oh, and by the way, Lexie wasn’t a mistake.
“We’ll do whatever you want, Cass.” Artie gave her an awkward pat on the back. “Just hoping it turns out to be a fella so I can knock his goddamn lights out.”
Beth looked distressed again, so Cassidy put an arm around her. “I’m sorry this is so ugly,” she told her. “What happened to the days when we all just flipped burgers?”
Darlene grabbed the scooper and a medium-sized cup, opened the ice machine and then stabbed the scooper into the ice. “Well, you started going out with Mason Hannigan.”
* * * *
Mason pulled up to the scrolled ironwork gates of Milagro, his three-acre estate in Westlake, a subdivision of Dallas where the starting pitcher for the Texas Rangers lived two acres away from the Captain of the San Antonio Spurs. He pushed the remote control gate opener and gave a sigh of anticipated relief. As the gates swung open, he nosed the BMW forward, eager to be home after another day of practice, to shower and eat and maybe catch the news before hitting that bed like it owed him an apology.
The road leading to the house was a winding one, shaded by flame-colored Chinese pistache trees. A gazebo stood in the far distance, his sister Shari’s idea. When the weather wasn’t dog breath humid, they sometimes set out a table and had lunch there beneath the slow chop of a ceiling fan, surrounded by a sea of pale pink spice roses. As he followed the curving road, Mason spotted his landscapers trundling along on riding mowers. Others briskly clipped hedges.
A warm glow of satisfaction came over him like it always did when he saw his house, all rough hewn terracotta-tinted stone and red-tiled roofs meant to suggest a villa in Tuscany. He’d bought it three years ago from a record producer friend of Shari’s—a steal at six million—and then made a few changes of his own, including the indoor/outdoor lazy river pool he couldn’t wait to dive into. He would take a quick swim while Keiko, his housekeeper, threw together a late lunch, and his personal assistant, Ruth, yelled at him about all the shit that needed doing, shit he’d gleefully been ignoring because he hated doing it. Then he’d get a bag together and fl
y down to Cuervo for his date with Cassidy. A date he’d been thinking about every second of every minute since the day he made it.
What a week, Mason thought, a smile tugging at his lips. Cassidy was worth getting yelled at by Ruth. Cassidy was worth a lot of things. He wondered what she would think of Milagro, if she would like it here or find herself pining for the familiarity of home. He needed to talk to her about it tonight. Maybe he was getting ahead of himself, but the desire to show it to her now asserted itself as a positive wish. He liked Cuervo, too, but a person could love two places, right? How would she even know unless she came for a visit?
Mason found himself so engrossed by the idea that he didn’t see his mother’s car at first. The garage was a large one, crowded with testimonials to his love of all things motorsport—the Ducati Hypermotard 939 racing cycle, the Porsche Spyder, the 1963 sky blue vintage Corvette. “Toys for boys,” his mother called them. But parked next to his Range Rover was her no-nonsense, fuel-sipping SmartCar, which reminded Mason of a football, about that same size and shape and just as easy to punt. He hated that car. It scared him to think of her driving around in it, and he’d offered to buy her anything she wanted, but so far, she’d refused.
What on earth was she doing here on a weekday, unannounced?
Mason grabbed his phone and started scrolling through his messages, searching for one of her usual texts telling him she planned on paying him a visit. “That way, it gives you plenty of time to hide any overnight guests,” she’d say, and the word “guests” was always pronounced drily, with just a touch of disapproval. She regarded Jehovah’s Witnesses, PTA meetings and fat-free potato chips with the same degree of suspicion.
Still, it wasn’t like her to just show up out of nowhere. Mason found himself hurrying toward the house, hoping nothing was wrong. Maybe Shari was threatening to marry another drug-addled lead guitarist. Or maybe his mother was here to try to convince him to go on that yoga retreat in Bali because her friend Barbara’s daughter taught there and his mother was convinced that he and the daughter were destined for happily ever after.
