by Lynn Shurr
Near the end of the still scoreless third quarter, Joe broke free, took aim and fired a long pass to Riley. Connor was there to receive, but being nickeled and dimed by the Panthers’ defense. The ball barely fell into his grasp before he hit the ground hard. The pigskin bounced free across the artificial turf. Connor was on it, covering the fumble with his big body, but the two backs pressuring him piled on top hoping to squeeze the ball out from under him. Riley’s helmet popped off.
Whistles blew. The opposing players rose from the heap and left Riley in possession of the ball. Red-faced, Connor got up and shoved one of the backs into the other. He took a swing at the man. His opponent dodged. Joe grabbed his receiver’s arm trying to prevent more damage. Connor threw him off and went after his opponent again. The whistles blew and blew. Riley got in the official’s face and was thrown out of the game. Angry and unrepentant, Connor Riley took his place on the bench with Coach Buck chewing on his ear.
On the next play, Joe turned over the ball on a pass to Deets. The Panthers scored on that fatal mistake. Delacroix connected with one long pass in the fourth quarter. The final score came in at 0-14, the Panthers. The Sinners took their first loss of the season.
With Connor crashing, Joe Dean sat in the locker room and envisioned all his sacrifices—his irksome celibacy, his pretty good behavior, his trying to do the right thing—going right down the toilet along with a chance at another Super Bowl.
He wanted to be a strong team leader but didn’t know if he had it in him. The Rev kept saying just to be Connor’s friend, be there for him. Hell, he should let the Rev be the team captain. But, the Rev said no, that was Joe’s job. He needed to learn it and learn it well. Never strong on academics, what did he know about depression and psychology? Joe Dean Billodeaux was an expert in only two things, sex and football, and neither were going to help Connor Riley.
Chapter Nineteen
In Houston, Stevie Dowd’s brother-in-law watched the game. Stevie had taken her nieces to the Space Center where they wore themselves out playing astronaut and fell asleep in the Imax. She brought them home a little earlier than intended.
Brent, his soft, past-thirty body stretched out in a plaid recliner, a bottle of beer in his hand and bag of pork rinds nearby, called out to her as she passed by his lair.
“You’ve got to see this, Stevie. Your old lover boy got thrown out of the game. With a temper like that no wonder you left him.”
She could not resist scratching the itch to see Connor. He was muscling through the after-game crowd on the field pursued by a reporter. “Give us your side, Connor.”
“No comment,” he replied and continued moving toward the locker room.
The Rev filled the screen as if he were blocking for his friend. “Give the man his space. It was a hard fought battle against a top team. We lost, and we apologize to the hometown fans who came here to see this game. But it’s our first loss, and we still going all the way to the top. You hear me!” The scene flashed back to the press box where the commentators, Al and Hank, interviewed a noted sports psychologist. “Doctor, how do you account for the change in personality of Connor Riley, once known as one of the most easygoing players in the game, now called Connor the Barbarian by his own team?”
“A serious, life-threatening injury such as Mr.
Riley suffered at the end of the last season can bring about such a change in personality. When his helmet came off, surely he remembered that awful moment in Seattle. He was not striking out against these players, but against the one who nearly destroyed him in the past. With time, his anger and fear might fade. If he cannot control these emotions, his career will end as certainly as it would have with a major injury,” the psychologist intoned sagely. The film of Connor on the bottom of the pile, the helmet coming off and the ensuing fight played as the doctor spoke.
“Oh, God, no.” Stevie, shaky, watched the replay, hardly hearing the voice of the psychologist.
Her sister Michelle, short, plump, and maternal, so like their mother, passed by taking two cranky little girls upstairs for naps. “Get over it, Stevie. You ditched Connor Riley, and it looks like a good thing you did. Let it go. You’re getting on everyone’s nerves. Even Mom is avoiding you.”
“Home,” thought Stevie, remembering a favorite bit of poetry, “is the place where, when you have go there, they have to take you in” —Robert Frost, a death poem.
She’d coped so far by flying out on weekends to keep her obligations with Golf. At least, Houston was a hub with decent airfares available to almost anywhere. At the tournaments, she avoided being with Jackie outside of offering a cordial hello. As soon as the event ended, she got back on a plane to Houston.
One downside of passing through the airport so frequently—on Sundays, the bars and restaurants and sitting areas turned their television sets on to the Sinners’ games. The team sat at the top of their division, but their white-hot season start was steadily cooling off. They won on field goals, blocked extra points, and two point conversions now. Last week, they lost a second game.
She arrested her progress through the terminal again and again stopping to stare at Connor Riley.
Each week, he seemed to deteriorate further. Any time he got tackled, he rose up ready to fight, shouting to the ref that he had been fouled. Replays showed this was rarely the case. On one occasion, she caught a sports montage entitled Connor theBarbarian’s Tackle Tantrums. A background chorus of boos came from fans on both sides.
Riley spent more and more time on the bench.
His golden hair hung lank half hiding his gaunt, unshaven face. Stevie wished she could push the hair back and wash it slowly with her fingertips as she had often done when they showered together, her body slick against his. His eyes stayed cast down towards the space between his cleated shoes. He appeared divorced from the game and everyone around him.
As Stevie knew because Connor feared being replaced while he lay in a bed in Seattle, the Sinners management had brought up a new first year player named Jared Forte for training when they were in doubt if Riley would play again. Their new wide receiver was fast as a blue runner snake but lacked Connor’s strength to shake off defenders and his uncanny ability to be where Joe Dean Billodeaux needed him. Still, young Jared got more and more playing time and improved with the experience.
The sports show commentators conjectured Connor Riley would be released at the end of this season, a sad end to a once brilliant career. The history of football was filled with such stories. Stevie tried to keep herself from remembering how much Connor had suffered, how hard he had tried to come back, only to end his playing days this way. If he had just listened to her…no, she would not go there again.
She made it through Thanksgiving with her family, the meal an agonizing ordeal. Her balding brother-in-law could not keep quiet about what an asshole Connor Riley was. Her mother, fluffy-haired and dressed in ruffles, but as sharp-tongued and critical as ever when it came to her younger daughter, commented that if Stevie had married the man last spring, she would have had grounds for divorce now, gotten an nice pile of alimony, and never have had to work another day in her life.
Usually sweet Michelle grew outraged by the suggestion her sister should have married that brute for his money. Who knew what he might have done to her? The guy was probably psychotic on steroids.
Little Betsy asked what psychotic steroids were.
“Bad, bad drugs, lamb,” her mommy told her. Stevie took her unfinished meal back to the kitchen, went upstairs and packed her bags.
She stayed on the road for three weeks ending up in Las Vegas for the last tournament of the golf tour. Like the Sinners, Jackie Haile’s season had started out sweet, then soured. Still, she would clear over $500,000 this year once she added in her third place prize money for this day’s work. Despite trying to avoid the golfer, Stevie found herself cornered by Jackie and asked her out for a celebration dinner, no strings attached. Stevie looked like she needed a good feeding, Jackie claimed.
That was all there was to it—that and so much more.
“You know, baby doll, dumb as our little act for your benefit was, Joe Dean and I have stayed in touch. No fooling. We talk all the time, me and that jock,” Jackie confessed. “He says I keep his mind off of women, can you believe that?”
“Sounds like something Joe would say,” Stevie answered sawing off a piece of rare prime rib with a serrated steak knife big enough to be a lethal weapon. She’d tried to order a grilled chicken sandwich, but Jackie insisted she was too pale and needed red meat for the iron. She saw no easy escape from a long meal in Jackie’s company.
“Oh, he’s not so bad. You know, once I told him that after I came out, I was no longer welcome in my parents’ house. They’re kind of religious and all. He remembered that, and last time we talked, he asked if I had a place to spend Christmas. At his mama’s house there’s always room for one more at the table.
I said, ‘Why Joe Dean, aren’t you afraid I’ll corrupt your many nieces’, and he says, ‘Nah, they’re all feisty girls who can either take you or outrun you.’
Still, I was touched.”
“But do you have a place to go? I wish I could issue an invitation, but my mother would feel she had to lock up her granddaughters for the day,” Stevie explained.
“Hey, I have an older sister, married with three boys. We were always close. She used to keep the other kids from teasing me because I wanted to wear boy’s clothes. Not that I couldn’t punch them out for myself, but it’s nice to have someone on your side.
Good old Paulette. I’m leaving everything I have to her sons since I’m not likely to have any of my own.
There is much to be said for having someone love and accept you just the way you are. That’s pretty rare.”
Jackie paused to take a sip of her red wine.
Stevie ate and listened.
“You know, my dad taught me golf. For years, I was the son he never had. I got a golf scholarship to college and he was so proud. Then, I brought Darlene home and told my parents this was my girlfriend. They said they were always happy to meet my friends. I said, no, Darlene and I were in love. Dad told us to leave his house. I pleaded with him to love me as I am. I was sorry, but I couldn’t change for him. Please, just to keep on loving me.” Stevie choked on a dry piece of roll. At least, she pretended that. She hid her face behind her water glass, swallowed and said, “You still had Darlene.”
“For a while. I graduated, went on the tour. She wanted to settle down in San Francisco. I was gone a lot. When I came home, she had someone else. Old story. Joe has heard it. Mostly though, we just joke around. He says he needs some comic relief since sitting with Connor is like spending the night in a hospice full of dying people. Sorry, I didn’t mean to mention that name at my celebration dinner,” Jackie apologized.
“So you talk about us,” Stevie accused.
“Not really. The first time Joe called you Steel-hearted Stevie I said you were off-limits. I did not want to hear about Connor Riley’s breakdown.” Jackie savagely stabbed her baked potato with a fork and pulled out a steaming, white chunk dripping with butter.
“Breakdown?” Stevie’s voice quivered. “Is this another one of your ploys to get me to go back to New Orleans?”
“Hell, no. Maybe it isn’t a breakdown. Joe just said they made Connor go see the team shrink. He goes, but isn’t cooperating. Tells the guy he doesn’t want to be touched, and that’s it. Of course, if I had been through what he has, I might feel the same way, but it’s not my problem. Let the shrink straighten him out. I never met the man. Would you like to order the cherries jubilee for dessert? I love to watch them serve it with all those blue flames licking the ice cream. Or chocolate mousse, isn’t that one of your favorites?” Jackie continued to eat while Stevie carefully set down her knife and fork and blotted her mouth with the linen napkin.
“I appreciate the meal, Jackie, but I want to get to the airport early, so I’ll skip dessert. Thanks.” Stevie rose to leave.
“Any time, baby doll. I’m glad we’re friends again. Where should I send your Christmas card? I don’t think I have your Houston address.” Jackie pulled out a BlackBerry and prepared to enter a new address.
“I’ll be in New Orleans at my old place. Stop by if you get to town.” Stevie needed, wanted to leave.
“A hug then, for old times sake.” Jackie gave her a squeeze and sent Stevie on her way in a hurry.
The pro golfer ordered the cherries jubilee for her dessert and had the waiter bring her a good cigar to enjoy on the walk back to her hotel. Not easy to find a quiet spot in Vegas, so she waited to call until she was back in her suite.
“Hey, sex maniac,” Jackie greeted.
“How’s it hanging, bull dyke?” Joe Dean answered.
“Lower than yours, I’d bet. What are you doing right now?”
“I just got out of the shower, and I’m wearing nothing but a towel slung low on my very fine hips.
Am I getting to you?” Joe said with a leer in his voice.
“Yeah, you’re turning me off. I missed the end of the game because I had dinner with an old friend.
How did the Sinners make out?”
“Best game in weeks. Forte finally got under one of my passes, and Deets caught a long one, too. The Rev did his magic, and Ancient Andy was right on the mark. We have the division championship wrapped up. We can sit back and rest while the wild cards duke it out this year.”
“Congratulations. I came in a close third this time myself, but still, a $500,000 year is nothing to spit on. Maybe I can afford a Super Bowl ticket,” she hinted.
“I’ll send you one if you promise not to bring a date. Since I’m making fifteen million a year now, I can afford to be generous,” Joe boasted.
“That’s obscene—another example of the inequity between men’s and women’s sports. I can buy my own ticket since I’m not one of your bimbos.”
“Yeah, yeah. Heard it all before.”
“But you don’t listen. I said I had dinner with an old friend. An old friend named Stevie Dowd.”
“Steel-hearted Stevie? I hope she’s miserable.
I’m on my way to Connor’s right now. He had a bad day glued to the bench. This was a crucial game and Coach thought he’d cost us yardage in penalties. I guess he would have put him in if Deets and Forte hadn’t come through, but they did. I should be out celebrating, but the temptations are less over at the Riley hospice for the lovelorn. I’m on my way over there. You know, with no women around, I have to get my own beer.”
“Wish I were lovelorn. Stevie must have dropped twenty pounds, and I could stand to lose some myself. Say, I thought you were just coming out of the shower?” Jackie countered.
“Toying with you, sugar,” Joe Dean teased.
“Anyhow, I was about to tell you she cracked.
She’s on her way to New Orleans. I hope that story you told me about the shrink is true because I don’t want her mad at me again.”
“God’s honest truth. I hate that shrink. They sent me to him once to discuss my, quote, sexual addiction. I still say there is nothing wrong with loving women, lots of women.”
“I agree with you there, bro,” Jackie chimed in.
“Always good to be backed up by a lesbian.
Anyhow, he tried to tell me my insecurity about my abilities as a quarterback caused me to overcompensate by scoring with women. I never went back. I saw the guy again while I waited for Connor. Four months, I told him, four months without women. He said he applauded my reaching a new level of maturity. I bet he never gets any.”
“If you can get your mind off yourself, you might mention Stevie is back in town and give your friend a little lift. As for me, I sure as hell hope my dad never finds out I told her he kicked me out for being a lesbian. He would be so pissed. Dad is my biggest fan. And then there was the Darlene story.”
“Who’s Darlene?” Joe Dean had to ask.
“My supposed college lover who could not accep
t my career choice. Remember that detail, please.
Also, you invited me for Christmas in Chapelle.”
“But of course I did. My mama would feed you up, and my male cousins would try to straighten you out. You are welcome anytime,” Joe offered.
“God help me if there are more like you back on the bayou.”
“Beaucoup, Jacqueline, but they cannot throw zee football,” he joked, putting on his best French accent.
“That’s all I can take tonight. I’ll be at my sister’s place for Christmas as usual. Keep me posted, jackass.”
“Bonsoir, bull dyke.”
Oh that Jackie, she did make him laugh, and he needed some laughs right now. Joe Dean pushed his speedometer up to eighty, no big deal in Louisiana and after today’s game if he were stopped, there would be no ticket; only a few autographs handed out. He felt a need for speed.
Connor had ducked out as usual while most of the guys were in the showers. No need to shower when you didn’t play, but the man didn’t shave or fix up to go out for a victory celebration either. Once, he caught the former best wide receiver in the league sitting on the locker room bench rocking back and forth like one of those monkey babies deprived of its mother or in this case, Stevie Dowd. Connor stopped as soon as Joe noticed. Stevie sure had wrecked a great player. Now she was coming back, just in time maybe, and Joe got to deliver the great news. He would do anything for his team. Didn’t his celibacy vow show that?
Crossing the long concrete bridge spanning Lake Ponchartrain, Joe kept his eye out for accidents. A foot on the accelerator and Connor’s nice little Jag could top those guardrails easy. Yes, things had gotten that bad, and he was scared as hell about what he would find at Riley’s house.
Connor’s gate stood open again, and his door was unlocked—damned careless considering how rabid fans could be. He was none too popular right now. It took only one lunatic who thought he was doing the team a favor by taking out Connor Riley to barge in with a gun. Welcome to my home. Come on in and shoot me. Maybe that’s what Connor wanted.
