by Lynn Shurr
“I can’t complain if it’s true,” Connor answered graciously.
“So, who gets me?” asked Joe Dean turning the conversation back to himself.
“I do,” the wheelchair-bound child said eagerly.
Joe Dean pulled off his jersey and put it over the boy’s extended arms. “This is for you. We have an autographed football, too. How about I get you out of this chair and carry you down by the front window so we can scope out the field and have some eats.
They tell me the Sinners have donated this box for y’all and your families.”
Patrick Maguire’s thin and worried mother gasped as if her son might shatter during transport, but the boy with the huge jersey pooling around his hips held up his arms again and gave Joe a smile full of hero worship. Joe Dean lifted the child who was so light his bones seemed to be filled with air and carried him with ease to a regular seat.
The Rev turned to Willie. “You must be mine, son. Climb on my back, we all going for a ride.” The black child, who looked like a starving refugee from Africa, put his arms around the big man’s neck and his toothpick legs around his waist.
Connor gallantly offered his arm to Cassie who accepted, too shameless with adoration to match her mother’s blush. The procession moved toward the food tables. Stevie snapped the heart-warming pictures that would be in the paper and on the Sinners’ web site the next day. Really, nothing was wrong with heart-warming.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Game day, Stevie wandered, filling her cameras with pictures of pre-game preparations. The dome was closed against the weather, but she found the real grass comforting. Connor had told her a grass field meant fewer injuries. This year’s theme ran towards country/western patriotic. Some big star would yodel out the national anthem. A live eagle was scheduled to be released for a flight back to its trainer’s hand. Celebrities filled the stands if they wanted to be seen and the luxury suites if they did not. Stevie found the sameness to last year’s event unnerving. She kept her mind off of it by doing her job. Before the action started, she stopped by the Riley family box and exchanged fervent hugs with Kris Riley that only the two women truly understood. Keith Riley was there being a good grandfather. He had taken the older children over to the NFL Experience earlier and now plied everyone with hot dogs to settle them down. Kevin bickered with Merrilee about her breast-feeding nine-month old Courtney right there under a Sinners blanket.
“For God’s sake, Merrilee, the child is walking and has teeth. Give it up.”
“You know I always breast-feed for at least a year, Kevin, sometimes until the age of two. It’s good for the baby. What do you think, Stevie?” Stevie threw up her hands. “No opinion. No opinion whatsoever, but I’ll take a mother/daughter picture if you like,” and she did, making her escape back to the field soon afterwards where the tension seemed more bearable.
“Stefania, bella Stefania, over here.” Marcello, of course. Marcello had to be here to make things perfect. He had his arm around the model, Amber.
“I like the American football very much last year. So much more dangerous than soccer games.
Your fella, the man I see you with, he is good to play, eh? I gotta big bet on the Sinners. The Amberello Agency, she is doing good. I pay for my tickets this year. And hey, see this. We make our own little football.”
Marcello pulled the ever elegant Amber from her seat and turned her sideways. He patted her round, tight tawny belly with its protruding navel poking out between low-slung jeans and a snug red midriff-baring top.
“Oh, you two have gotten married since I saw you in Italy! Congratulations,” Stevie shouted up at them.
“No, no, marriage is for peasants. We are business partners. We make a beautiful baby. She will be a model like her mother. Maybe we name her Stefania.”
Amber’s beautiful almond-shaped eyes narrowed. She pulled her top down and her pants up from where they rested on her narrow hips. Her navel still protruded. “We are naming her Gabriella,” she spit. “And if I have one stretch mark you will be forever sorry.”
“Yes, yes, I will be, cara mia.” Marcello soothed her with words, but his expression said he already was. “Good luck to you two, then.” Stevie waved and moved on. At least the baby was not Joe Dean’s offspring. She would tell him about his fortunate escape after the game. Might make him think harder about using all the names in his little black book.
She was hailed from another section of the stands with a whistle and a loud yell.
“Baby doll! Up here!” Jackie Haile leaned over a railing. “I told that ass, Joe Dean, I could afford my own tickets, but I’m rooting for him anyhow.”
“Great to see you, Jackie. Is that your father with you?”
“Ah, yes. We reconciled. Isn’t it great?” Jackie poked her father in the ribs with an elbow.
The stocky, gray-haired man who looked like an old version of Jackie said, “Our reconciliation was long overdue. I love my girl.” He added an impromptu hug.
“Jackie, thanks. I wouldn’t be here today if you hadn’t talked to me back in Vegas,” Stevie shouted through cupped hands.
“Yeah, well. You can name your firstborn after me,” the golfer replied a little uncomfortably.
“That’s a promise,” Stevie vowed.
She turned and bumped into Dexter Sykes.
Since she had been covering the playoff games, he seemed to dog her steps. Dex tweaked her about giving up the New Orleans studio. “I guess as a lowly photographer I didn’t make enough bucks to keep us together,” he had the nerve to say.
“I guess as a lowly photographer, you didn’t have enough integrity to keep us together, Dex. I haven’t forgiven you for selling those shots of me to Sports Illustrated last year.”
“Baby, you signed the model’s release. Those pictures opened up a whole new field for me, too.
Guess who gets to work on the swimsuit issue next year?”
“Dexter Sykes, naturally.” Stevie rolled her eyes.
“Dexter Sykes on an island with the world’s most beautiful women and you made it all possible, Stevie girl. Tell that hulk you’re living with if he wants any more copies, they’re on the house.” She had nothing more to say to or about Dexter Sykes. She would never collaborate with him again.
Except at the publicity events going on all week long, the one person she had seen little of was Connor Riley. Sequestered in their team hotel at night, phone calls had been their only private contact. Connor seemed distracted, his mind on the game and coping with any fears he might have. She could listen if he wanted to talk, but that was all.
She would be here on the field dealing with her own fears, little enough to offer to him.
Missing from this year’s lineup—Connor’s nemesis, Damon Suggs. Joe Dean had told her in a quick aside at the Wish Kidz meeting that Suggs had been traded away to a lesser team. The Patriots played tough, but they disliked Suggs’ attitude.
Some had talked about banning him from the league after the spearing incident, but the difficulty lay in proving the move was intentional and not simply an over-eager attempt to tackle by a novice player.
Intimidating men like Suggs had their value, especially to teams without a strong defense.
Fans who had paid over a thousand dollars for a ticket to this event watched two teams so evenly matched the game went scoreless well into the second quarter. Both quarterbacks suffered sacks handed out by ferocious defensive lines. They battled for feet, not yards. Joe Dean was unable to reach any of his wide receivers whether they played two or three in the backfield. Stevie trolled the sidelines attempting to get some exciting snaps, but nothing much turned up.
A break came when the Rev saved the Sinners’
bacon with an interception on the Pats thirty-yard line. The best his team was able to do was move within field goal range before the half ended.
Knowing the fans remembered his failed kick in last year’s bowl, Ancient Andy took his place behind the ball. Sinners’ crowd f
ell silent. Patriots’ backers created a ruckus to shake the kicker. Stevie knew Andy Mortenson had considered retirement and stayed on because Connor Riley asked him to stick around. “We’ll get ’em next year, Andy, I promise.” That, coming from a man flat on his back with a broken neck, made a quiet slip into obscurity seem like cowardice. This one would be for Connor Riley.
Stevie captured the perfect calm and equilibrium of the grizzled kicker as he addressed the ball.
The pigskin arched up and over the outstretched arms of the tallest defenders and cleared the bar with feet to spare. The signal for halftime sounded.
As the teams jogged back to their locker rooms, the players buffeted Ancient Andy with backslaps and pulled him along with handshakes. Stevie stood close enough to hear Connor say said in passing,
“Glad you stayed with us, Andy.” He might not have won the game, but the picture of that kick told a story of redemption.
While the teams rested and the coaches plotted the second half, men and women in black or white cowboy hats strutted on to the stage. Tight black T-shirts and jeans attired the men while the female performers wore lots of fringe barely covering their breasts and long sequined pants riding just above their pubic areas, country/western gone Britney Spears. Stevie, wishing the spectacle was over, wishing the entire game was over, drank from a water bottle and did her job.
Both teams came back with renewed energy and new strategies. The Pats slugged their way down the field and scored early in the third quarter.
Billodeaux tried to return the favor. He stood like a rock amid the crashing bodies falling around him, sighted on Connor and threw his long pass.
Connor rose up to receive the ball, connected, and was slammed down hard by one of the two backs covering him. Stevie froze. Connor got up and wiped his hands on the small red towel at his waist as he searched the sidelines. When he found her, he gave a slight wave telling her he was fine. The crowd took the wave as their own, applauded and started coursing it around the stadium, but Stevie knew he had thrown her a lifeline and they were holding each other steady on both ends of it.
The first half had been easy on Connor with Joe unable to deliver his passes. The Sinners’ halfback took much of the heat and Joe himself ran the ball a couple of times when no receivers came open.
Cameras in the locker room caught Coach Buck cautioning Joe Dean during the break, “Don’t get hurt, boy. Trust your line and get those passes out.” Good advice, Stevie thought, if only Joe could follow it. Billodeaux visibly tried to act on that advice, but his next pass to Deets was batted down. The next, also to Deets, intercepted and run back to the fifty-yard line. The defense held the Pats to a field goal, score 3-10.
Stevie wondered if Joe Dean was being soft on Connor or were the two backs stalking his favorite wide receiver really keeping him from passing in that direction? Billodeaux back-stepped, faked towards Deets, swiveled and shot the ball to Riley.
Connor moved toward the goal line, then reversed and plunged through a gap between the defenders to snatch the ball from the air. Both backs brought him down hard on his face but the ball rested on the twenty-yard line. Connor sat up, not rising immediately.
Coaches and medics pushed past Stevie on their way to the field. They helped Connor up and back to the bench, but his head turned in Stevie’s direction.
She saw his nod through the viewfinder of the camera she used to cover the two tears running down her face. She swabbed her face with the long sleeve of the red Sinners jersey, a souvenir item bearing Conner’s number eighty on the back, covered from sight by her photographer’s vest.
Coach replaced Riley with the young receiver, Forte, and the rookie got the honors as Billodeaux fired one into the end zone to tie the game, 10-10, going into the fourth quarter. The clock ran down.
Neither team scored. The Sinners held the ball with two minutes to play. Coach Buck sent Riley back in along with Deets and Forte to dilute the defense and give Joe Dean as many targets as possible. Acting as superstitious as Joe Dean, Stevie sucked in her breath and crossed her fingers Billodeaux completed two short passes to Deets, pulling the defense over to his side of the field, and called a last time out. After much conferring and shaking of heads, Joe came back to the line of play.
Deets seemed to be his chosen receiver again, but Joe Dean lobbed one instead to Forte in the center of the field. Goal defenders surged towards Forte, two from his right, one from his left. He hesitated instead of running, then threw a lateral to Connor Riley who had moved up stealthily a few yards from Forte. His guard, caught facing Forte, failed to intercept as Connor connected, surged forward, deflected a last minute tackle with a strong back kick and crossed the goal line.
Time ran out and stood still as Connor Riley, holding the ball high, passed beneath the goal posts and kept on running. He spiked the football, but did not stop. Stevie Dowd stood beyond the end zone letting Connor fill the frame of her camera. She caught his triumphant spring under the goal post, his spike of the ball, the golden hair on his shoulders, the determined look on the face beneath the helmet he tore off as he kept coming. He reached forward, seized Stevie by the waist, and swung her around and around.
Her camera flew back across her shoulder on its strap. Her feet left the ground and even her ponytail could not keep the black Sinners cap on her head.
Laughing, she said, “Connor Riley, you are a thing of beauty. Now put me down before you get fined for excessive celebration.”
“They won’t fine me tonight. Stevie Dowd, I love you. Are you willing to marry a Super Bowl winner?”
“I would marry Connor Riley, any time, any place, in any condition and without any reservations.”
The long, long kiss went largely unnoticed among the people in the celebrating crowd on the field, but was caught on national television and by Dexter Sykes who always got good shots when his ex-girlfriend was involved. Dex snapped away while Connor and Stevie ignored him. These pics might be too mushy and sentimental for Sports Illustrated, but the tabloids or evenPeople magazine would love to have it on their covers. Stevie had truly set him on the road to a new career.
Dex followed the sports reporters as they advanced into the fray, microphones held before them like lances. They captured Coach Buck up on the big screen with his arm around Joe Dean Billodeaux.
“I can only say this boy has grown up right before my eyes. He has changed from a cocky, woman-chasing sonofabitch to one of the best quarterbacks in the league, a real leader who cares about his team and led them to this victory in the Super Bowl.” The five-second delay omitted the questionable words and the mike moved towards Joe Dean.
“It’s a privilege to play with great men like Connor Riley and Rev Bullock, old-timers like Andy Mortenson and new talent like DeVon Deets and Jared Forte. We’ve got the best linemen in the league, the best team in the league, and we just proved it! But ladies, I’m still a woman-chasing sonofabitch and I start again tonight.” The networks deleted all of Joe’s last remark.
On the edge of the crowd surrounding Joe Dean and the coach, Margaret Stutes lurked. She pointed a finger at the quarterback.
With Connor now standing next to him, Stevie in tow, Joe whispered, “Did you see that? I hope they got a whole case of champagne in the locker room with my name on it because that’s how much I need to keep my word to Margaret.” The reporters homed in on Connor Riley like heat-seeking missiles. He pulled Stevie against his side when they surrounded him. “Think you will be voted Most Valuable Player, Connor?”
“I don’t deserve the honor. You can’t achieve a victory like this without a great friend and quarterback like Joe Dean Billodeaux, a fantastic team that gave me a second chance to come back, and the support of the ones you love the best.” He smiled down on Stevie Dowd.
“When’s the wedding, Stevie?” Rita Fortunado shouted out.
“Any time, any place, anywhere without any conditions,” she answered.
****
Up in the press box, A
l Harney said to Hank Wilkes, “Well, this is the end of a story that started last season. Connor Riley gets my vote for MVP.”
“Not Joe Dean Billodeaux who had a fantastic season and undoubtedly argued for that last winning play?” questioned Hank.
“Billodeaux has come a long way this season, no doubt about it, but he is going to be with this team for many years. Riley came back from a horrendous accident last season and pulled out of a career damaging slump this season to make a major difference in this game. He exemplifies the best in football. As I said, he gets my vote.”
“And the hero gets the girl, Al.”
“A happy ending all around, Hank.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
New Age music on zithers or dulcimers or sitars twanged in Stevie’s ears driving her slightly nuts.
She raised one of the herbal teabags the facial technician had plunked on her eyes like pennies on a corpse right after placing a trowel full of goop called cucumber moisturizing lotion on Stevie’s face.
Scented candles flickered all around her in the dim room.
She looked down the row of five women stretched out flat to her left: Mintay, her two sisters, Sharlette Dobbs, and the mound of Precious Armitage on the very end. All wore thick, white terry robes, pale green facial masks, teabags and turbans to keep the stuff out of their hair. Paper flip-flops protected their fresh pedicures. Stevie had already blotched her freshly painted nails when she tried to get the restroom door open after too many cups of green tea. Oh well, fooling with her cameras would have done the same. She was supposed to be relaxing or meditating or something, but the whole scenario said “funeral” to her.
She sure hoped the team wives wouldn’t give her a bachelorette party like this one with a morning at the spa, a three martini lunch to follow, then shopping, an evening at the House of Blues and maybe some time at the casino. Tick off the things Stevie Dowd did not enjoy and the only activity left would be the House of Blues. Still, she’d enjoyed the pedicure. Foot rubs stepped high up on the rungs of her pleasures. A second group of wives took theirs now while a third set went in for massages. Stevie’s stomach growled. Lunch with or without the martinis would be welcome.
