by Lynn Shurr
His black, wavy hair was slicked back; comb marks stood out like fans in a stadium. One elegant hand draped over the shoulder of Joe Dean’s model girlfriend, Amber. She could imagine the quarterback’s chagrin when he found out how his other ticket had been used. Marcello and Amber, a lady in red with black accents—two beautiful people who made quite a picture. Stevie snapped one as the pair smiled for her showing their straight white teeth.
“Did I not tell my friend, Amber, that Stefania would be here when she says to me Joe Dean don’t give her enough attention, to come with her and be, how you say, the competition? You see us in Sports Illustrated together, same issue as you. I was the handsome man in the ad who gives a glass of the finest Americanvino to the lovely lady.”
“Sorry, must have missed that ad,” Stevie claimed. She had seen it and wondered if the man in the shadows was a more mature Marcello than the one she had known.
“Many times I say, Stefania, you can be model, too. We go to New York together, make the big time.
Once I even take the pictures of her after we make love. She is beautiful, but now too old. So sad she miss her chance.”
Another voice from Stevie’s not too distant past sounded behind her. “I’d like to see those pictures, sport. Still got them?” Dexter Sykes leered at her, flipped the strap of Stevie’s best digital camera over his head, and held it out to her.
“I took good care of it, baby. It’s ready to go.
Thought you’d want it for the game.”
“Yeah, thanks, Dex,” Stevie answered without enthusiasm. She was happy to have the Canon back in her possession, and not so happy to be trapped between Marcello and Dexter.
“Running into more old friends?” an insinuating voice from the next row of boxed seats asked. Kevin Riley leaned towards Amber and Marcello. His sons were seated between him and Merrilee while his daughters sat by the older Rileys. Merrilee frowned in their direction. She could not hear the conversation over Colby’s demands for another hot dog and Cammie’s crying because Katie spilled soda over her souvenir red devil.
Like a very noisy version of a scene from the play, No Exit,Stevie felt trapped in a hell with all her old boyfriends and lovers and no way out. The announcer’s voice swelled over the crowd noise calling for the opening of the game. The Sinners, all in black, surged into the stadium through an entry decorated to resemble the mouth of Hell. Fans in red and black roared. Connor’s family cheered.
“Gotta go!” Stevie took off as fast as her running shoes would take her. She heard Marcello yelling,
“You come to the party after the game, no? Amber says all the footballers will be there. We talk of old times.” She pretended not to hear.
There was, of course, nothing to photograph at the moment, just huge men stretching and officials clustering for the coin toss. Dexter Sykes stayed right on her tail.
“Stevie, wait up!”
She kept jogging. Dex pulled along side.
“I’ve been thinking about what a great team we were. We did some fantastic shoots together. I was looking through them last week. Lots of good things there.”
“We never took shoots together, Dex. When we split, you took what belonged to you and I kept what belonged to me. “
“Well, ah, I guess so. But you see, I had an offer for some of my older pictures and since that misunderstanding about the Smokey LeBlanc shot, they, um, want you to sign a release before using them. I just happen to have it here.” Dex pulled a much folded paper from a vest pocket and offered a pen that had been clipped to his collar. He gave her his appealing Jimmy Olsen look.
His fine brown hair fell across his forehead and his puppy-like brown eyes filled with pleading. A couple of inches shorter than Stevie, he looked up at her, begging.
“Who are they, Dex?”
“Sports Illustrated. This is going to open whole new doors for me, Stevie. You got to sign—for old times sake. Please.”
“If I sign, will you let me alone?”
“Absolutely. You won’t even know Dexter Sykes is in the same stadium.
Eagerly, he presented the pen again and turned so Stevie could use his back as a hard surface. She scrawled a quick signature and handed the wrinkled and much folded page back to Dex.
“Disappear, would you?”
“See you at the after game party, Stevie?”
“Dex!”
“I’m gone.”
****
As expected in any game involving the Patriots, this was a grueling match of defenses. The Sinners could hardly make a move and the Pats didn’t fare much better. At the half, the score stood fourteen-seven, the Pats. A nervous and edgy Joe Dean Billodeaux had moved the ball down the field in a series of tedious short throws barely making the first downs required. His eyes seemed to search constantly for Connor Riley who was too well guarded to receive. Finally, just before the end of the second quarter, DeVon Deets shook free, caught the ball at the twenty-yard line and took it across the line. Stevie and the Sinners fans knew hope.
In a seemingly endless panorama of patriotism during half time, three American Idol winners on moveable stages belted out fervent arrangements of God Bless America, America the Beautiful, and This Land is My Land while a hundred leggy young women cavorted around them wearing sequined Uncle Sam top hats, red and white striped waistcoats and tiny blue stretch shorts. Both teams enjoyed a long rest waiting for the smoke from the fireworks to clear. Nothing Stevie wanted to photograph there.
The third quarter passed scoreless as the defensive teams continued to dominate the game.
When Joe Dean was sacked holding the ball, a collective groan went up from the Sinners fans in the audience. Several young women cried, including Amber who carefully blotted her face of tears with the end of Marcello’s red scarf. Stevie snapped a picture of that since there wasn’t much else to shoot so far.
She’d been on the wrong side of the field to capture DeVon’s touchdown, preferring to photograph Connor who had seen no action. She had taken several of the wide receiver standing still with his hands on his hips. Stevie knew she was going soft on Connor Riley. Disgusted with herself, she looked back at the stands to see Marcello reaching across Amber to shake hands with Kevin. Just below them on the floor of the stadium, Dexter Sykes fiddled with his lens. No doubt at all, the best man of the bunch played football today.
When the fourth quarter began, Stevie took up her post near the Sinners’ end of the field. She waited for that special shot to come her way. When it did, her finger hit the shutter reflexively, and she wished she had never become a sports photographer.
The final minutes of the game were ticking away when Billodeaux’s long, long pass sailed toward Connor Riley. The Patriots, ready for this move, had been waiting. In the last play, their defensive back covering Riley had been injured by a vicious block. A fresh young rookie named Damon Suggs went out on to the field. He stayed close to Riley, but not close enough. Connor took off with the ball, Suggs desperately trying to lessen the gap. Stevie snapped picture after picture of Connor streaking down the field, the ball held close to his body like some cherished treasure.
Suddenly, the rookie launched himself through the air in a last attempt to stop the ball carrier. He hit high at the base of Connor’s neck, the two helmets cracking together with a sound that silenced the cheering stadium. Riley pitched forward, rolled over on his neck and sprawled unconscious on the field. His hands unclenched. The ball fell gently from his fingertips. Stevie’s finger held the shutter down.
The camera whirred again and again unable to stop capturing the horror of what happened to the man she knew she loved.
Whistles blew. Flags flew. The clock stopped.
Medics came running. Teammates and trainers engulfed their fallen comrade. Stevie let her camera drop on its cord from her numb hands.
An ambulance raced up the sidelines, the sign of a severe injury. With his head stabilized, lifeless arms and legs strapped to a board, the medics placed Connor Riley
on a gurney and hustled him through the rear doors of the vehicle. Its siren turned on filling the stadium with a prolonged cry.
Stevie still stood in a daze on the sidelines, her heart thumping hard beneath her camera. The ambulance exited the field. A guard approached, took her quietly by the elbow and said she had been asked to join the Riley family being taken to the hospital in a limousine. In the confines of the long, black vehicle, Mrs. Riley patted Stevie’s cold hand and asked the driver to put the game on the small screens that flipped down from the ceiling.
“Connor will want to know the outcome as soon as he wakes,” Kristen Riley assured the family with a bright, brave motherly smile. Subdued by adult gravity, Kevin’s kids ceased whining for cartoons and snacks from the mini-bar.
Across America, million dollar commercials ran filling the time delay. Back on the air, commentator Al Harney turned to Hank Wilkes and declared,
“That was a spearing incident if I ever saw one.
Suggs should be thrown out of the game, out of the league in my opinion because that was no accident.” Wilkes disagreed. “An over-eager rookie error, but a sorry shame a fine player and all-around good guy like Riley has been seriously injured. We’ll keep you updated on Riley’s condition. For now, we only know a severe neck injury is involved. Our thoughts and prayers go out to Connor Riley and his family.” Would the announcers dare to ruin the festivities if Connor were pronounced dead?
The second sign of the severity of Riley’s injury came with the penalty, half the distance to the goal.
Joe Dean handed the ball off to his halfback who went over the top to score. The extra point should have been a given, but Ancient Andy, shaken and confronted by a still snarling defensive line, kicked the ball low. The pigskin, batted down, fell back on to the playing field. The Patriot fans did cheer, but with a subdued sort of joy as they watched the clock run out.
The portable stages rolled out for the trophy presentation. The defeated Sinners left the field, heads hanging. Sports reporters cornered the winning players. The Patriots’ quarterback took the high road.
“We don’t like to win this way,” he said.
“Connor, we’re praying for your full recovery. We’d like to beat you fair and square in next year’s Super Bowl. Get well, you hear?” Shortly thereafter, the winning quarterback was named Most Valuable Player of the game.
“That should have been Connor,” Stevie murmured.
Chapter Eleven
A circle of men clustered around the television in the hospital waiting room. On screen, an unrepentant Damon Suggs boasted to a reporter, “I saved the game, man. Riley would of scored. I should be voted MVP for saving the game.”
“But the Sinners did score, in large part because of the enormous penalty you cost your team,” the reporter countered.
“But they was shook, man. The Sinners was shook. That’s why old Andy kicked low. I did that. I saved the game.” Suggs sailed beyond reproof and way above modesty.
One of the listeners slammed his hand on the coffee table causing a full carafe to slosh over.
“Damn bastard is proud of what he did. Whatever happened to sportsmanship? It’s all about the money now…and getting a bigger contract.” The others in his group agreed. With her stomach churning, Stevie stood in the corridor and watched Suggs brag about injuring Connor. “It’s
’cause I’m tough, man. I play tough. Can’t no one touch me for tough.”
She sank into a chair and put her head between her knees. Her cameras, still hanging around her neck, clunked against the green linoleum floor. Mrs.
Riley came to sit beside her. Keith Riley and Kevin conferred with a doctor down the hallway.
Occupying another set of chairs, Merrilee camped with all of the children. The eldest two, old enough to realize something serious had happened to their uncle, sat quietly, though Katie sniffled.
Cammie, however, begged to go home. She woke Colby who had been sleeping in the crook of his mother’s arm. The small boy began to wail. Kevin turned toward the commotion.
“Merrilee, have the limo driver take you and the kids back to the house. There’s nothing you can do here.”
“We’re part of this family, Kevin. Why should we go when she stays?” Merrilee jerked her head in Stevie’s direction.
“For God’s sake, go home before I remember how sick I am of your jealousy! Do you think I’m going to fuck Stevie in some supply closet while my paralyzed brother is being prepared for surgery?” Heads turned in the waiting area at Kevin’s angry words.
“Paralyzed?” Stevie jumped to her feet along with Kris Riley.
“They are doing some scans. It’s definitely a broken neck, but they don’t believe the spinal cord is severely injured. If they can take the pressure off the cord, he may be fine. It’s a wait and see proposition.”
“And you want me to leave at a time like this?” Merrilee pouted.
Kevin Riley answered sharply, “He’s not your husband, Merrilee,” then softened his voice. “You’re a good mother. The kids need to be in bed. Take them back to the house. I’ll call with any news.” Kevin began gathering up his family’s baggage: the diaper bag, the dolly, the slightly soggy red devil toy and other souvenirs of the game. He piled them into his wife’s arms, picked up Colby and took Cammie by the hand. “I’ll walk you to the limo.” The small procession moved towards the doors to the parking lot. “Paralyzed?” Stevie searched the face of Keith Riley who had come over to take his wife in his arms.
“It may be only temporary, but for now, yes, from the neck down.”
The three of them settled in for the eternal wait for more word. Kevin rejoined them. No one talked.
The silence ended with the ringing of Stevie’s cell phone. She fished it from a pocket in her vest.
“Yes, this is Stevie Dowd. I did photograph the spearing incident, but I don’t know. I don’t think I want to sell the pictures.”
Kris Riley raised her head from her husband’s shoulder. “Sell them, Stevie. Let everyone see how my son was injured. I hope Damon Suggs is barred from ever playing football again.”
“I’ll have to get to a computer. I can’t leave the hospital right now. As soon as I can.” She disconnected. The phone rang again.
“Yes, I have the shots. Sure, the whole sequence in the morning.” Stevie turned off her phone. “The AP news service wants a picture. Sports Illustrated wants to look at all my game shots. I’ll need a computer to download the pictures.”
“There’s one at the rental. I had a hell of a time keeping the kids off of it today. It’s in the den. Do you want me to take you back there?” Kevin offered.
“No, not now. Not until we get word on Connor,” she refused.
Word came in the small hours of the morning when the lights in the corridors burned low and the television in the waiting room sat silent. Nurses walked noiselessly in their white shoes and spoke in low tones. Patients slept a drugged sleep, but now and then a low moan overcame the medication.
Kris Riley, eyes closed, curled against her husband. Stevie had pulled her Sinners’ cap down and tried to rest under the cover of its brim. Unable to settle, Kevin Riley paced the corridor. He first spotted the surgeon coming through the ICU doors.
“I’m Dr. Weeks. We’ve finished the repair on the vertebrae. The spinal cord was somewhat traumatized, but not severed or crushed. We reduced the swelling with cold treatments and that seems to have made a big difference. My team thinks the injury will heal with time. He’s breathing on his own, another good sign. Mr. Riley is awake and aware now, but still a little groggy from the anesthetic. You can each have a few minutes with him. Then, I suggest you go home and rest and return during visiting hours. Just a few words to let him know you are here, then go.” The four followed the surgeon back through the ICU doors and toward one of the big, glass-walled units watched by nurses at a circular station ringed with monitors. They passed an elderly white-haired man gasping for breath with the help of an oxygen
mask clamped to his face. In a second room, a young woman wept quietly by the side of an accident victim pierced with needles connected to yards of tubing.
They came to Connor’s bedside where he lay braced and immobile, connected to monitors and drips. His soft blue eyes were open but blurry. Kris Riley went to his side.
“What have they done to my baby boy?” she asked, tears choking her.
“S’all right, Mom. Be fine.” Connor’s words came slowly.
“We know that, son. Of course you’ll be fine.
You’ll be playing in the Super Bowl this time next year,” said his father as heartily as he could manage.
“Yeah, Con. Better have a fast recovery before I decide to leave my wife and family and run off with Stevie,” Kevin joked. The humor sounded awkward and out of place in the stillness of the ICU.
“Stevie?” Connor cast his eyes to the side, searching.
Stevie stepped from behind his family and took his large hand lying heavily on the edge of the bed.
She raised it slightly, stroked the light, golden hair on the knuckles, rubbed the calluses on the palm made by the thwack of the football, then lowered her lips and kissed the back of hand. “I’m here, Connor.”
“Stevie, go home,” he said as if forcing out each word.
“Soon. We’ll be back later after we’ve all had some rest.”
“No, go back to N’Orleans, Stevie. Your old place.” Connor moved his eyes from Stevie clutching his hand and stared at the ceiling.
“Connor? I don’t understand.” Her voice broke under the hurt.
“Can’t feel that. Can’t feel my hand. Go home.” Connor closed his eyes as if dismissing everyone in the room. “Go home, all of you.”
Chapter Twelve
