Sinners Football 01- Goals for a Sinner

by Lynn Shurr

  “Can you believe Rev wanted me to pick something larger? I told him this was gaudy enough.

  With washing up after patients, I won’t be able to wear it all the time anyhow. To be honest, I think it’s beautiful. We’ve set the date for March during the off-season and he’s talked me into using his daddy’s church for the ceremony. I do expect you and Connor to make the trip to Chapelle for the wedding, you hear,” Mintay ordered.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Whether Connor will be with me I don’t know. I can’t seem to get past my fear of his playing again, and that’s so unfair to him. Football is his life, I know that, but I can’t bear for him to be injured again. How long do you think this knee problem will last?’

  “Not long. He should be good to go for the first regular season game, Rev says. Believe me, I worry all the time, too, but their careers are short. Just hang in there.”

  By the time the women had hauled the bags off the beltway, the men arrived to make light work of hefting them to the Rev’s Escalade. Arminta climbed into the shotgun seat and Stevie took a slot between Joe Dean and Connor. Connor put a possessive arm around her shoulder and let one big hand dangle over her breast. Even without a touch, her nipples puckered. She rejoiced that everyone else seemed to have plans for the evening. She would be alone with Connor after a two month separation.

  Five minutes after waving good-bye to their friends, they stood completely naked in the bedroom.

  Connor fell back on the bed, arms wide, genitals flopping. Stevie, hands on her hips, posed at the foot in the V made by Connor’s legs and said, “You call that ready? You call that happy to see me?” He beckoned her with a little finger. “Gotta watch the knee so let’s see what you can do on top.” Stevie looked away from the bindings around the injured knee. She straddled his hips and moved her hands to his hair. “It’s nearly grown out to its old length. I missed this,” she said running her fingers through the strands.

  “Yeah. I think this is a good luck sign for my first game of the season. That feels good. So, no long-haired Greeks or curly-headed Italians these past two months?”

  “They use too much gel. Still, I’m betting you’re glad I took my birth control pills anyhow so I am right up to date tonight.”

  “Ummm, glad, yes.”

  Stevie leaned forward and rubbed her breasts delicately against the golden hair on his chest, then arced over him and offered her aroused pink nipples.

  He ran his hands down the long slope of her side, his fingers tickling as they brushed the edges of her breasts. He took a nipple in his mouth, suckled gently, then harder as Stevie rocked on his hips.

  “Bingo,” she whispered almost to herself as she rose up and came down taking all of his erection inside of her body. She moved slowly until he bucked beneath her and forced her hips to go faster. He thrust upward.

  “Oh, no, you don’t. You said it was my turn to be on top.” Stevie continued her leisurely motions, finally taking pity and picking up the pace until they both convulsed together. After resting on his sweat-soaked chest for a few minutes, she rolled off and pulled his arm around her for warmth.

  “You get to be on top as much as you want—

  injury or no injury. That’s a promise,” Connor vowed.

  They fell silent for awhile, neither falling asleep.

  Unanswered questions hung in the air.

  “Did Arminta tell you she and the Rev have set the date?”

  “Of course. March. All the azaleas will be in bloom in Chapelle. Nice. Beautiful ring, too.”

  “It’s going to be some bash. Mintay has seven bridesmaids picked out, two sisters of hers, two of his, and three cousins. He asked me to be best man.”

  “The only whitey in the bunch?”

  “Hell, no. Joe Dean is supposed to be groomsman to the youngest of the cousins. The Rev figured that would be safe because the kid is only sixteen and Joe doesn’t go for jail bait. Besides, if he gets to all the women who are waiting for him at the end of the season, he’ll be too tired to come on to anyone in the wedding party.” Stevie chuckled into his chest hairs. Connor plodded on toward his goal. “Is that the kind of wedding you would want, a big splash, lots of bridesmaids?”

  Stevie considered for a moment. “No, my sister did that. I’m glad she did because Dad enjoyed the party, but he’s not around now to give me away. I think I’d want something simple, just family and good friends, outdoors maybe, in the spring when the weather is good or in October. October is always nice.” She yawned.

  “How about April? Would you marry me in April?”

  “Connor Riley! Is this a proposal? Here, naked in bed after sex! No romantic dinner, no kneeling by a park bench, no computerized message on the screen in the Super Dome?”

  “I can do it again tomorrow. I can do it better.” Stevie noticed the red of embarrassment creeping up his neck. “I was kidding.” She kissed his cheek but did not answer his question.

  “So?”

  “Connor, would you give up football for me?”

  “What? You can’t mean that.”

  “I do.”

  Shaking Stevie from the shelter of his arm, he bolted upright in the bed. “That’s not fair. What would you say if I asked you to quit photography and stay home and keep house?”

  “I can’t get hurt, paralyzed or dead doing sports photography. Give me your answer first, then I can give you mine.”

  “Untrue. If the Rev and I had hit you harder than we did, you might have ended up with severe internal injuries last year. Photographers are killed all the time in war zones.”

  “I promise not to volunteer for any war photography. Answer me.”

  “I can’t give up football. Not yet. I need to prove I’m as good as ever. Better. After that, who knows how many years I have left to play? Stevie, don’t do this to me. Don’t make me choose.” Stevie was up, out of the bed, and searching for her clothes. She talked as she stalked around the room gathering up flung garments. “I love you.

  There, I’ve said it, and now I am going to tell you I can’t stand by and watch you get injured again, maybe fatally next time. You have a house big enough for ten people, a garage holding four cars and a motorcycle, three boats, people to clean your home, tend your yard, maintain your hot tub, decorate your place for Christmas, and probably a stock portfolio ten inches thick and a million other investments because you are no dumb jock. What more do you need?”

  “You.” He paused for a moment. “And my self-respect. I must play. Can’t you understand that?”

  “No. I’m gone. I’m out of here.” She yanked her shirt over her just-snapped bra, pulled her jeans up over panties inside out and stomped through the bedroom door.

  Connor’s bellow followed her down the hallway.

  “Stevie, you’re always saying men walk out on you.

  Men disappoint you. What are you doing right now?

  Answer me, damn it!”

  She headed for the overstuffed garage sheltering her modest car among his glossy machines, pausing only to snap up her baggage still standing inside the front doorway. She heaved her suitcase into the trunk, nestled her camera bag and the awkward folding tripod gently and punched the button to open the wide doors.

  Stevie tried not to look back, but her eyes searched for one last look at Connor Riley in the rear view mirror. He stood on his portico, a bath towel tied around his waist, his broad chest pale, his long blond hair lifting in the evening breeze from the lake. Connor raised his hand and hit the remote, opening the gates and letting Stevie Dowd go. She would be back once he proved himself on the field again. He was still the man she’d come to love. He would have his best season, set new records, dazzle with his speed. Then, she’d see she had nothing to fear. Stevie would not end up a widow or stuck with a cripple for the rest of her life. They had nothing to fear, nothing at all.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next morning, Stevie tried to get her act together. And failed. She was amazed she had slept at a
ll on her old sofa, now stained with a damp spot from the crying. She guessed she had jet lag to thank for the rest. So, here she sat in her own dusty and deserted place again. She had kept up the rent as a matter of pride and the studio as a matter of necessity. Connor would have built her a workroom, of course, and made it even harder to leave him.

  Finally home and she only wanted to get away again—as far from the situation she had created as she could.

  Her mother and sister would welcome a visit.

  Stevie could not think of anything more depressing than being a witness to her sister’s wedded bliss and happy motherhood. She could almost hear her mother saying, “Stevie, don’t tell me another man walked out on you.”

  “No, Mom,” she would answer. “I walked out on him.”

  She idly thumbed the pages of her address book as she sat by the phone wondering who to call. A scrap of paper stuck out from among the pages. She picked it up and read the note with a weak smile. If you ever need a friend to protect you from all thosebig, bad men, call me. Jackie Haile.

  The championship golfer had scrawled a cell phone number beneath the message she left behind after the hospital visit. Stevie decided to take it for what is was, an offer of friendship, not a come-on line. She picked up her phone and punched in the number. Jackie’s gruff voice answered. “Yeah?”

  “Jackie, this is Stevie Dowd. I need some place to go. I need something to do.”

  “Man troubles?”

  “Right.”

  “He stalking you?”

  “No! Connor is the best man I’ve ever known.”

  “Explain why you want to get away from the best man you’ve ever known when you get here. I’m playing in Kutztown. The tour can always use another photographer, right? Heck, some of the girls drag their kids along. Maybe they need baby pictures. Whatever, come to Jackie.”

  “Thanks. And where is Kutztown exactly?”

  “Pennsylvania. The apple butter and quilt capitol of the world, I think. It will take you three days to get here driving. You’ll be in time to see me take the Wachovia Classic, a $180,000 purse, but I can’t begin to tell you how to get here. Find a good map on the internet and meet me at the Berkleigh Country Club.”

  Stevie’s phone beeped signaling an incoming call. She checked the caller ID. It flashed “Private.” Connor Riley was trying to reach her. She wanted to pick up the call so badly her fingertips tingled. No, no, no.

  “Jackie, I’m on my way.”

  ****

  Two days out of New Orleans on the long stretch through Virginia, Stevie’s cell phone rang. A quick glance told her the number was unfamiliar. Could be Connor using someone else’s phone, but after burning up her resources during the long stay in Seattle, she could not afford to ignore a possible offer of work. Stevie answered.

  “Have I reached Stevie Dowd, the photographer?” a nasal female voice asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, have I got an offer for you. This is Margaret Stutes of the Sinners’ publicity office. It seems we suddenly need another official photographer. You must come by my office to talk terms tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for the offer, Ms. Stutes, but I wouldn’t be interested.”

  “It’s a great opportunity. I need to see you right away.”

  “Did Connor Riley ask you to call me?” The woman hesitated. “Actually, no. It was Joe Dean Billodeaux. Whatever our new star quarterback wants, he gets.”

  “I appreciate what he is trying to do, but the answer is still no. The same if Connor Riley asks you to contact me.”

  “Connor and Joe Dean? Girlfriend, whatever you got, I want you to boil it down, put the essence in a bottle and ship it to me express. The closest I’ve gotten is putting my name in Joe’s little black book and with a last name like Stutes, I am way down the alphabet. He won’t get to me ’til next Christmas.” A heavy sigh ended Margaret’s side of the conversation.

  “Joe Dean might start with the Z’s. Who knows?

  Good luck, Margaret.”

  “Yeah, sure. The management won’t be happy with me if I don’t deliver you. Could I tell them you are thinking it over?”

  “Of course, but the answer will still be no. I’m on my way to cover the LPGA tour. Tell them that.”

  “I guess that will explain the rejection. Still, if you get back to town, drop by my office. We need to talk. The name is Margaret Stutes.”

  “I got it. Heavy traffic ahead. I need to hang up.

  Bye, Margaret.” Stevie disconnected and kept on driving toward Pennsylvania.

  ****

  Springfield, Tulsa, Portland, Sacramento and North Augusta, because Augusta would not have the women golfers, Stevie let the places she had been run through her mind. September had gone and the finest month for football played outdoors arrived, October with its bright blue weather, as the poet said. She had been to the west coast and back only to arrive at a place putting her in driving distance of Atlanta where the Sinners played the Falcons that afternoon.

  The television sets in the bar at Mount Vintage were tuned to the football game. Men married to women on the golf tour had done their duty and walked the course behind their money-earning wives. Some only joined them for the weekend and went back to their jobs on Monday. Others toured with their spouses. All watched a man’s game now.

  In the restaurant nearby, Stevie took pictures of Connie Parks, her husband and twin daughters who were celebrating both a first place victory in the tournament and the girls’ first birthday. Connie said today she could not lose. Photographs by Stevie Dowd memorialized the events.

  Now sitting at the bar, Stevie pushed aside her empty glass. The young bartender, who had been getting progressively more friendly asked if she wanted another. She nodded. He fixed her up and mixed in a big smile. Jackie Haile strode across the room fresh from the showers and seized the stool next to Stevie.

  Giving her a squeeze with one arm and hoisting Stevie’s drink with the other, Jackie declared, “Just what I need, a long, tall ice cold drink.” Jackie took a gulp, coughed, set the glass down slopping some over the edges. “Not iced tea then. Got quite a kick.”

  “Long Island Iced Tea with no tea in it, but it’s got vodka, rum, tequila and I forget what else,” Stevie recited. “Great stuff.”

  “Coca-Cola,” the bartender added. “Can I get you something, sir, er—ma’am?” he asked Jackie as he took note of the small, hard breasts beneath the Izod golf shirt.

  “Another one of those.” She slicked back her short wet hair with a hand. “Damn, no wonder I lost.

  I forgot to put in my lucky earrings, the classy ones made like little gold knots you gave me last time I had a big win.”

  “Hit me again,” Stevie said finishing off her third without taking her eyes from the TV screen.

  “Babe, you shouldn’t be watching this.

  Remember you said out on the west coast you were glad they didn’t show the Sinners’ games. I’ll ask the barkeep to turn it off.”

  “No, don’t. Jackie, I cheated. I watched the ESPN news Sundays in Portland and Sacramento. I have to know if he’s been hurt.” A cheer went up from a group of Louisiana tourists. Connor Riley caught another of Billodeaux’s long passes and headed for the goal line again. The Falcons fans looked glum and with a score of 10-28

  Sinners, they had a right to be.

  The bartender, a little less friendly than before Jackie’s arrival, set another Long Island Iced Tea in front of Stevie and shoved one toward her companion. “You must be a Falcons’ fan.” Stevie shook her head no. She glugged down half of her tall drink. “Sh-Sinner,” she mumbled, her tongue stumbling numbly.

  “Here, let me pay for this and her tab, too.” Jackie held out two twenties.

  “No. I pay my own way, Jackie.” Stevie fumbled in her vest for cash.

  “You give that football player as hard a time as you give me? Won’t let me buy you a drink, a meal, a room or a plane ticket even with all the luck you’ve brought me.”r />
  Jackie watched Connor gallop into the end zone with nary another player near him. “Of course, that $180,000 pot I took at Berkleigh and the State Farm purse are nothing compared to what your former boyfriend makes.”

  “Yeah, I gave him a hard time, but I’m fine, jush fine. Golfmagazine wants me . Even Sports Illushrated needs a picture of Connie and the twins and her big win. I’m doing fine all by myself. All alone.” Stevie watched Ancient Andy come out and make the extra point. The clock ran out. Game over.

  The commercials rolled.

  “But what really gripes me is coming in second to a woman who gave birth to twins last year. She should stay home with her kids, don’t you think?” Jackie joked.

  Stevie nursed the remainder of her drink and waited for the beer ad to end. There he was, Connor Riley with a microphone being shoved at him by a sports reporter. He’d scored four touchdowns in one game. He would be the first interviewed.

  Jackie looked at the screen. “So that’s my competition, not that I’m getting anywhere with you.

  Friends, that’s all we’ll ever be. Even I can appreciate that long blond hair damp with sweat, those big baby blues, great Viking cheekbones, and all that ‘aw shucks’ modesty.” Up on the screen, the interview continued.

  “What a blowout, Connor Riley. Four TD’s for you, one for Deets, and let’s give some credit to Rev Bullock for an interception and two turnovers against his old team, 35 to 10. What do you have to say about your phenomenal game today?” the reporter asked.

  “I’ve given everything to the game and this is the result,” Riley answered without a smile.

  “Just nine months ago, you were flat on your back, hospitalized with a broken neck. No one thought Connor Riley would play again and yet this is your best season in an outstanding career. You seem stronger, faster than ever. What do you have to say about that?”

  Connor turned from the reporter and stared into the camera. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” The man who was being touted as the finest wide receiver in the league appeared grim despite the victory.