by Allison Parr
“You did?”
I laughed. It was either that or cry. “Yeah. I did.”
“You didn’t think that this time, though. You know about Caroline.”
“Yeah, I do, of course. I guess I’m just not comfortable sleeping with someone in a relationship.”
He shrugged. “Well, Caroline’s non-negotiable.”
“I know.” And I did. The thing was, I wouldn’t have wanted to be in a relationship with John even if Caroline wasn’t around. He had the sweeping prince image down pat, but I wouldn’t bank on a heart of gold.
“So...what?” John sounded implacable.
“Nothing.” I felt more awkward by the second. “I just...don’t think we’re going to have...a thing. Anymore. Just to—put that out there.”
“Oh, come on.” John reached out and caressed my hips. “I like you. You’re hot, you’re smart—why throw what we have away?”
Because I already felt sick about last night. “I think it would just be better if we...just...”
“Be friends?” he finished when I trailed off.
I smiled weakly. “Yeah. Let’s just be friends.”
I left, embarrassed and disappointed in myself. Why was John so at ease with his relationship with Caroline and also sleeping with me? What was wrong with me? I didn’t like John, so I shouldn’t feel ill and hot and disappointed. Why couldn’t I just have sex like a normal person and not care about it? Damn, Ryan had been right. I did have issues. I wanted a hot shower.
John lived in the 40s, and when I left his building the morning light pierced straight into my brain, while the Manhattan traffic and construction yammered away at my ears. I skulked in the shadows, digging through my purse for my phone. It wasn’t yet nine; I could call in sick with no hard feelings, and hide in my room watching disaster movies online. What had ever made me think sleeping with someone I didn’t respect was a good idea?
And where was my phone?
As I pawed through compartment after compartment, dread slowly built. Oh, no. I had taken it out at the football game to check the time, and then I had tossed it back under the seat, hoping it would land on my purse. But I hadn’t seen it since then, had I?
...Damn.
I trudged back downtown. At least in the subway the light wasn’t as bad, though the noise and stench hurt my over-delicate senses. I sat down in a corner seat, tucked my purse tight against me, and closed my eyes. I had a ways to go until I reached my stop, which was a massive, hellish muddle of tunnels and exits.
Once I’d navigated the station, I entered into the stadium, and then paused. Last night, we’d gone straight through to the stadium, but now I was lost with a thousand different directions to choose from.
I followed signs to the Team Pro Shop, figuring that at least had to have staff I could ask about lost and found. I didn’t even make it to the desk, immediately distracted by a hundred themed knickknacks. There were baby clothes with the Leopards insignia emblazoned across, salt-and-pepper shakers, pink helmets with leopard spots, nightlights, and a million racks of clothes. I stopped by the poster rack, and flipped through until I found one of Ryan. It was a really great shot of his butt.
“Can I help you find anything?”
I blushed and turned around. The saleswoman’s voice was a little too loud. “I was actually wondering if there’s a lost and found somewhere.”
“Of course. From yesterday?”
I nodded.
“That’s with Guest Services. Let me get you their number.”
I twisted my face apologetically. “I actually lost my phone.”
Guest Services hadn’t found my cell in their post-game sweep of the stadium, but once the shop lady put me in touch with them, they sent a helpful man down, who let me into the stadium and directed me toward my seating area. Down below, at the edge of the field, I watched a twenty-person group get a tour of the stadium.
I poked around under the seats. Maybe I should have asked the Lost and Found guy to stay and actually call my phone for me. That would have been a lot faster than peering into the dark spaces. Of course, peering into dark spaces was preferable to peering into the bright blue sky. Seriously, New York. Three-quarters of the time you’re bleak as houses, and now the sun was bright enough to scar my retinas? How unfair.
I was on my hands and knees, scrutinizing the underside of a seat, when a familiar voice rang out. “Rachael?”
No. Freaking. Way.
Ryan Carter walked up the stairs from the field, a bag slung over his shoulder. He looked pissed off, and far too good in sweats, but I was concentrating on not noticing that. Especially since I just couldn’t handle him this morning. “Ryan. Hi. What are you doing here?”
He looked insulted. “This is my stadium. I actually work here. What are you doing?”
“Your stadium? Oh, okay.”
“Rachael...” His voice was low and rumbling.
“I lost my cell,” I said stiffly.
He reached back to massage his neck. “Tell me another one.”
“I did!”
“Yeah. First your scarf, and now your phone? I don’t think so.”
“Just call me, okay?”
He dug out his phone. Still staring at it, he added in a particularly snide voice, “Nice T-shirt.”
“What?”
“Didn’t have time to change?”
Not far away, my phone started ringing. I ignored it. “What are you talking about?”
“You know, I didn’t really believe you at first. About your ad-agency boyfriend. But you two were really going at it yesterday.”
That damn Kiss-Cam. I kept my voice flat. “You’re talking about John.”
He stepped up a row of seats, heading toward my phone. “Yeah. You’d convinced me you were actually legitimately shy. Guess not.”
The hollow feeling in my stomach started to churn. As though he had any right to talk about my actions.
“I hope,” Ryan drawled, “that he was at least worth it.”
I broke. “Will you just shut up? No, he wasn’t worth it! And I was drunk off my head and in a bad mood and I slept with him just because—just because—I don’t even know, but I shouldn’t have and now I feel disgusting even though I don’t want to feel that way, I want to be able to hook up with people and feel carefree like those mythological normal, adjusted people out there. And I don’t want to deal with you right now, Mr. I’m-Such-A-Goddamn-Charming-Quarterback, with your snarky little remarks and your clever quips. I just want to be in a fucking bad mood! Argh!” I threw myself into one of the seats.
Ryan stared at me like a lion had reared up when he was expecting a kitten. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t have a fucking clue, okay? But obviously something, otherwise why would I jump in bed with a guy I don’t even like that much who has a girlfriend? God!” I drew my knees up and buried my face in them. “Haven’t you ever regretted sleeping with someone?”
There was a moment of silence.
“Okay.” Ryan lowered himself into the seat next to me. “You know what this calls for?”
“No.” I spoke grumpily to my knees. I’d humiliated myself, I was tired, and my head and stomach hurt. It made me petulant.
“It calls for Larry’s Diner.”
“That’s a dumb name.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Ryan looked amused. “It will make you feel better.”
“No,” I said again, quite definitely. “Nothing will ever make me feel better again.”
“Uh-huh. Okay, I have your phone with me. Me and your phone are going to Larry’s now. Are you coming?”
“Don’t treat me like a child.” I snapped my head up. “Ugh. Do you have any ibuprofen?”
Ryan smiled temptingly. “Larry does.”
“Fine.” I stood shakily. It took a lot more effort to get up than it had to sit down. “Let’s go to Larry’s.”
Chapter Nine
Larry’s was a small, packed diner with red Formica tabletop
s, olive-green booths and servers that were, without a doubt, of Eva’s ilk. Even at one o’clock on a Monday afternoon, half the booths were crowded with a mix of tourist families, parents with young children, and high school skippers.
Customers ordered at the counter, so we lined up there, behind a huge glass display of muffins and cakes. I craned my head back to view the numbered entrees, which all seemed to be variations on carbs and protein, with sugar and fat thrown in for good measure.
“This is hangover food.” I stared at the pictures of plates stacked high with pancakes, eggs and toast, bacon and hash browns.
Ryan looked confused. “You are hung-over, aren’t you?”
I scratched my head, rumpling my already messy hair. “Maybe.” In fact, I could feel myself entering Stage Two of hung-overness. Stage One was grouchy and ill and pissed off. Stage Two was a lot sleepier.
Ryan stepped up to the counter. “Two number fives, please.”
“I don’t want number five. I want the special.”
Ryan looked up at the words scratched in pink chalk. “Cocoa pancakes with strawberries covered with chocolate sauce and whipped cream?’” He shook his head in disgust. “You are such a girl.”
“I am a girl.” I almost stomped my foot. “So? And I’d like a chocolate milkshake, too, please.”
Ryan sighed and handed the girl a twenty. “Come on.” He put an arm around me and tried to propel me toward a small booth. “Let’s sit down.”
“You can’t always pay for everything!” I instantly regretted my shrill tone as vibrations echoed through my head. I hardly protested as he pushed me down on the cracked plastic cushions.
“Haven’t we gone over this before?” Ryan sounded terribly long-suffering from his side of the booth. “I can. Because you are poor, and I not.”
I aimed a sneaky glance his way. “Are you really a millionaire?”
“Don’t you think it’s pushing it to ask me my income?’
“I thought we’d already established we’re allowed to be rude to each other. Where’d all the money come from?”
“Jesus!” he exclaimed, thudding his head back against the wooden backboard topping the booth. “I’ve won the Heisman and MVP. I’ve taken my team to the Super Bowl. Why is this concept so hard for you to grasp?”
I supposed that meant he was worth his multi-million dollar contract. And maybe he did endorsements. “Did you say you did commercials?”
He tilted his head. “Yeah, like a week or two ago.”
“Give me your phone.”
“What?”
“Your phone.” I stretched my hand across the table. “You’re a millionaire, so you have a smartphone, right?”
“No.”
I lunged for his jacket, yanking it across the table and toppling the ketchup and mustard. Ryan tried to grab it back. “What are you doing? What is wrong with you?” I scrambled through the pockets until I found what I was looking for: a sleek, black cell with a screen the size of my hand.
“Aha!”
“Give that back.” Ryan glared at me. “Rachael. You’re acting like a five year old.”
I pulled up the browser and typed in “Ryan Carter car commercial.”
“Give that back!” He half fell on the table as he lunged across it.
I raised my brows. “Who’s acting like a five year old?”
Letting out a frustrated sigh and rolling his eyes upward theatrically, he came over to my side of the booth. When I held the cell to the opposite side, he slid into the booth next to me.
“Personal bubble,” I reminded him, clicking on the video and waiting for it to load. “Come any closer and I’ll yell ‘Ryan Carter’s right here!’ and that family filled with like five twelve-year-old boys is going to storm over and you’ll never be safe. Oh, look, it’s loaded.”
Ryan groaned.
A shiny, sleek car zoomed around corners, while slow-motion shots of Ryan throwing passes were interchanged with a sickeningly adorable home video of him running around in an overlarge jersey and shaggy hair.
“Oh my God, you’re adorable. What happened?”
“I am? Oh.Yeah. Pfft. I’m still adorable.”
He was too surprised. Clearly, he’d been worried I’d watch a different commercial, so I clicked the next link down.
My lips parted in shock. Here, he wore a three piece tuxedo, slid around in the same fancy car to clubs, and was surrounded by a bevy of longhaired women with very short dresses. He looked very, very good. “This is disgusting!”
He slumped in defeat. “You sound like my grandmother.”
“Your grandmother saw this?”
“I know!” Ryan sat up straighter and sounded as shocked as I was. Then smugness took over his voice. “She was appalled they made me work with such reckless young ladies.”
I started laughing, and clicked replay. “What did they do to your hair? It’s so...wavy.”
“I know,” he said sadly, leaning in closer to see. “I’m pretty sure there’s enough gel in it that pieces could have been snapped off.”
I snickered despite myself. “And look at the face this girl’s making. Ah! Look at your face!”
“What’s wrong with my face?” Ryan tried to snatch the phone away. I held on tightly.
“What did they tell you to do, glare smolderingly? You look like you’re trying to set something on fire with your mind, Mr. Jedi.”
“The director thought it was a good face!”
The laughter kept bubbling up. “You look like you’re trying to think, and it’s not going too well.”
“You think I look bad?”
I propped my head up, elbow on the table, giggling. “Ryan, we all know you’re beautiful. But next time don’t make it look like it takes you so much effort to use your brain.”
“You’re mean.”
“Someone has to tell you the truth, Golden Boy. What else is on here?” I kept scrolling through the videos. “Someone made a tribute reel about you? Wait, there’s more than one? There’s a highlight reel?”
“Give me my phone back!”
I clicked on one of the links. It started with a full stadium cheering Ryan on. He ran through the stadium—again—then again—and then he started making touchdown passes and rushing the end zone set to loud, triumphant music. And then there were clips of fans. And at the very end, a small clip, maybe from that commercial, with the little boy sitting on the ground, playing with a football.
I looked up at Ryan, my mouth slightly open. He looked at me warily, and when he spoke, his tone was guarded. “Are you going to make fun of that, too?”
“Make fun of it?” I repeated, my voice slightly high-pitched. “Ryan, I think that’s one of the sweetest things I’ve ever seen. People do that for you? That’s amazing.” The video struck a chord in me—the way Ryan must strike chords with the people who made it, the way he mattered to so many.
“Really?”
“Yeah. People love you.” I dragged the video backwards, freezing on the small boy. It was complete and utter hero worship. These thousands of people, completely obsessed with the stars of sports. It really was modern-day gladiatorial games. People had cheered just like this for their favorites in the ring. Right up until they cheered their bloody deaths. “You’re really lucky you weren’t born two-thousand years ago.”
“What?”
“Well, because you’d probably be dead. Because you’d be a gladiator, of course,” I said absent-mindedly.
Ryan started laughing. “Rachael, I have no idea how your mind works.”
Thinking about gladiators made me think of the manuscript in my office, the one on Alexander. I sighed. “You know, by the time Alexander the Great was twenty-five, he had conquered half his known world. He had just taken Babylon. Babylon.”
Ryan laughed even harder, pillowing his head on his arms against the table. “I can’t even tell anymore. Am I being insulted because I haven’t conquered Babylon?”
“No, I haven’t. Alexander
did, and you have fan videos, and I just live in a box in Brooklyn.”
“You’re totally and completely insane.”
The waitress appeared, swinging two hot plates down before us with the aplomb of an off-Broadway actress. “And here you are. One number five, one special, and one chocolate milkshake. Do you need anything else?”
“Are you twenty-five?” Ryan asked, snorting laughter.
The waitress aimed her bright smile to Ryan. “Um...I’m twenty-two.”
“Have you—” Snort, snort “—conquered Babylon?”
“Shut up!” I whacked him on the shoulder.
“Ow, that’s my passing arm! Thanks,” he said to waitress, who was slowly shaking her head and backing away. “I just wanted to be sure.”
“It’s not funny.” I pulled my chocolate-strawberry creation closer and liberally applied the scoop of melting butter. It smelled like heaven, smooth chocolate and sweet fruit. “I’m squandering my life.”
“Hey, I want to try that.” He tugged on my plate.
“No, you called it girly.”
“Did I hurt its feelings?” He took a forkful, cutting through the tower of whipped cream, chocolate sauce clinging to his fork. “Wow. Maybe last night would have been better if you’d had this.”
“You’re not funny. Go eat your bacon.”
“Uh-huh. So, why are you squandering your life?”
I would have sighed, but I was too busy chewing. Mmm, they did a good pancake here. Sometimes I thought diner pancakes didn’t have enough flavor, but this one packed a punch. “I don’t know. It’s just not easy. Not that I expected real life to be, but...” I put my fork down, depressed. My parents and brother had made being grown ups seem so easy. “Do you ever feel a knot of...apprehension, and worry, and panic, like you’re never going to be good enough? Like you’ll never go anywhere?” I took in the millionaire twenty-six year old beside me. “You probably don’t.”
“Yeah, I do.” An odd note was in his tone. “I feel that way right before games, sometimes. What if I disappoint my teammates? Or Coach, or the fans, all these people I don’t even know, who are relying on me... And I feel that way when I think about my mom. Like she would have wanted me to be doing something different.” He met my gaze, vulnerability in his, and I could see that small boy who had been caught by the camera and never again let go.
