Between Sundays
Page 6
“What’d that cost you, Hill?” The offensive coordinator shot him a look.
“If you paid her off, the press’ll find out.” Coach Cameron glared at him.
The team had nothing to worry about. Bill had paid off women before. No one would ever find out. Besides, he really had thought the girl was older. She lied to him, trapped him. Now she had what she wanted. She was a snake, and Aaron should’ve seen through her. But it didn’t matter now. The incident was behind him.
“Hey, listen.” Aaron kept himself from smiling. This wasn’t the time to act smug. He never meant to hurt the team. “I’m sorry, Coach. Really.”
Bill looked surprised and somewhat relieved. He cleared his throat. “Exactly, gentlemen. Aaron meant nothing by this. Taking away his starting position at the beginning of the season won’t be good for him or”—he looked straight at Coach Cameron—“for any of you.”
“It’ll be my decision.” Coach’s answer was quick. He stood, and the other three coaches followed suit. “We have another meeting. But we’ll be watching.” He narrowed his eyes. “I won’t have a team marked by moral failure.”
Aaron wanted to ask him whether the front office agreed on Coach Cameron’s definition of morality. “Can I say something?”
“What?”
He could feel the warning look from his agent, but he didn’t care. “I never asked to be defined by my moral character, only by my play on the field.” He crossed his arms. “I don’t want or deserve my reputation as a good guy.” His voice filled with intensity. “The fans did that, not me.”
“Oh, yeah?” Coach Cameron uttered a bitter laugh. “You’re unbelievable, Hill.” He walked to the door, stopped and looked back at Aaron one last time. “Rather than complain about your good reputation, maybe it’s time you start earning it.”
The coaches left the room and Aaron turned to his agent.
“Way to go.” Bill raked his fingers through his hair. “You don’t tell the head coach it isn’t your fault people like you. Fan support is huge to the 49ers.” Bill exhaled hard. “I spend my whole career investing in you, Hill. But you still don’t get it, do you?” He stared hard at Aaron. “You shatter the image, and it’ll all disappear. The fans, the endorsements, the autograph parties. All of it.”
Aaron stared out the window at the stretch of grass beyond. An image, that’s all he was. He knew it and Bill knew it. The coaches knew it. Maybe it would be easier if the fans knew it too. Derrick Anderson’s words came back to him. It’s what you do between Sundays. That’s what really matters. That was fine for guys like Derrick Anderson, but Aaron had already had his chance at doing things right. Way back when Amy Briggs was still in his life. Since then, the only thing he wanted to do between game days was push himself harder in the weight room, faster on the field, always looking for the edge.
“Look”—Aaron turned to his agent—“I give everything I’ve got on that field. The 49ers aren’t paying me to be nice.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you’d like to take a look at this.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a few pages stapled together. “AOL did a vote last night over a six-hour window.” He moved the document close enough for Aaron to see. “They asked the public if the story about you and the teenage girl lowered their opinion of America’s favorite quarterback.”
His heart beat a little faster than before. “They did that?”
“Look at the results.”
Aaron peered at the columns beneath the question. Sixty-three percent said the story had harmed the way they saw him. He winced. “Who verifies that garbage?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Bill flicked the paper. “Everyone who reads it takes it as truth, and in the process it becomes truth. Whether it’s true or not.”
“What’s the second page?”
“Two faxes from your top sponsors. They’re advising you to clean up your image or else.”
Aaron flipped the first page and stared at the first fax. “They’re threatening to cut me? Because of one story?”
“They can do that.” Your sponsors are in the business to sell tennis shoes and sportswear. They make their money on a clean-cut image. The good kids, the athletes—they wear the stuff.”
Aaron understood. He pictured himself sitting at the table with his offensive line Saturday night. The blonde vixen had lured him into the parking lot in no time. But who could’ve seen it leading to this? He sighed. “So what’s next?”
“Damage control.” He pushed the papers toward Aaron. “Keep that as an incentive.”
“Meaning what, an autograph session after practice?”
“You’re supposed to be doing that anyway.” The stress showed in the shadows on Bill’s face. “I was thinking more like this pizza thing Derrick Anderson is doing. Helping out with foster kids.”
Aaron tightened the muscles in his jaw. Derrick Anderson. The coaching staff had run the acquisition by him before they hired him: “He’ll be like a mentor, Aaron. Someone to help ground you a little.” From the beginning Aaron didn’t like the idea. Derrick was a legend. He would hardly go quietly into the night, so what place did he have on the 49ers? Aaron was the star quarterback of this franchise.
But the front office suits had their minds made up, and in the end Aaron had little choice except to make the best of it.
Aaron rocked back in his chair again. “So, go to the next pizza party with him? That’s what you want?”
“It’d be easy. The team hosts the Bears Thursday night, so Friday’ll be light practice. Spend the evening with a bunch of kids at a youth center, and people will think a whole lot more of you than they do today.”
Hanging around a bunch of kids no one else wanted? He had nothing to offer kids like that. He could think of a dozen ways he’d rather spend a Friday night, but the letters from his sponsors were serious business. He didn’t care about being good, but he cared about his sponsors. He could go with Derrick once, couldn’t he? Put in an appearance.
Bill was moving ahead, talking about the logistics. “I’ve already asked Derrick. He says you can join him, no problem. Once you commit, I’ll tip off the media. Tell ’em if they want to see the real Aaron Hill, they can catch him by surprise at the Mission Youth Center.”
“Won’t they see through that?” Aaron didn’t like the idea, but there was no other way. If the stunt was going to work to improve his image, then the media had to capture it.
“This city loves you, friend.” He gave a wary laugh. “Even now. Give them a reason to catch you doing something good and it’ll be front-page news. I promise.”
Aaron didn’t need long to think about it. He had no choice. “Fine. But just once. If I need a charity, it’ll be something less personal, raising money for a Little League park, something like that.” He raised one eyebrow. “Kid charities are for the married guys, right? That’s what you always told me, right?”
“That was in your first few years.” The lines at the corners of Bill’s eyes looked deeper. “To be honest, you’d be better off meeting a nice girl and settling down. You stay single much longer and people will peg you a playboy. I told you that last year, remember?”
Bill was probably right. He usually was. The agent had been with Aaron from the beginning, back when he was a sophomore in college. Bill couldn’t legally sign Aaron until after college, but he hung around, handing out free advice and connecting Aaron with the best trainers and dieticians and financial planners. His UCLA coach warned him about Bill and anyone else too anxious to step in and help Aaron make decisions. But by the time he graduated from UCLA, Bill was more a father to him than his own dad.
Which was why, when Amy called and said she was pregnant, Aaron talked to Bill first.
Good thing. Bill did some checking and found out Amy was seeing other guys on the side. Aaron was shocked, stunned. If Bill hadn’t had exact times and places where she’d been, Aaron wouldn’t have believed it. He had loved Amy, and the news crushed him as nothing else ever had.
“You’re better off single,” Bill had always told him. “More marketable. A relationship will threaten your role as America’s heartthrob.” And always he would add, “Whatever you do, Hill, don’t get someone pregnant. It’d be a death knell to your image.”
His agent doled out advice almost daily, and always it was intended to help Aaron some way. Bill looked out for him, and when he had an idea—the way he often did—he talked about Aaron as if the two of them were a team. “We should think about that…” or “We would never consider such an offer.” That sort of thing.
Now Aaron watched as Bill made a few quick phone calls, the tips to the media he’d promised. Bill would lay down his life for Aaron, no question. If he thought Aaron needed to spend a Friday night with Derrick Anderson and a gym full of foster kids, so be it.
Aaron stood and motioned to Bill that he had things to do. Before he left, he needed to check his locker. He was missing a pair of running shoes, and he had a feeling they were mixed with the junk at the bottom of his space.
The locker room was empty, everyone else enjoying the day off. Aaron hurried down the long aisle to his spot and opened the door. As he rummaged around, he felt the envelope—the letter from the foster kid. He pushed it toward the back. No time for fan mail today. He wanted to spend an hour in his pool and get his Hummer cleaned up. He had a date tonight with a French bikini model, the sort of girl he could picture himself settling down with. For a few months, anyway. Or maybe forever. Which wouldn’t be the worst thing. Because maybe settling down would do the one thing seven years and a string of women had never quite been able to do.
Make him forget about Amy Briggs.
FIVE
Megan had been up since just after four that morning, but she wasn’t tired. Today was Monday, and she had a shift at the youth center that afternoon. These were the best days of the week, the days she felt closest to God. On occasion, she read her worn-out Bible, the one that used to belong to her grandmother. From what she could gather, Jesus wanted people to serve. More than that, maybe the entire reason people were created was to serve. So the world would get a better picture of Jesus, the way He had worked when He was on earth.
Megan had known church kids when she was in high school. Mostly the kind that spent Wednesday nights at youth group and Friday nights slamming back a six-pack of Budweiser. Popular kids from the right families, kids who had convinced their teachers and parents that being part of a church meant they were the good kids. They stayed away from Megan because she didn’t have the right clothes or the right home life. Not one ever tried to be her friend.
No, Jesus wouldn’t have hung out in stuffy wooden pews with mostly hypocrites, reciting an hour’s worth of songs and prayers once every Sunday. He would’ve been at the youth center, shooting hoops with the kids who didn’t have anyone.
She finished her paper route and put in her time at the diner. Then she hurried home and ran up two flights of stairs to her apartment. She had thirty minutes to be at the youth center, where Cory had gone after school, just enough time to grab a yogurt and an apple. She rushed through the door and when she finished eating, she made a quick cup of coffee, poured it into her travel mug, and changed out of her uniform.
Cory hadn’t stopped talking about the pizza party, of course. When he was home, he checked the answering machine three times an hour in case he might’ve missed a call from Aaron Hill. Megan almost wished the guy would call. Then, for all time, Cory could put aside the fantasy that the quarterback was his father.
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ears and ran down the stairs. She was five minutes later than usual, and she wanted to make up the time. Which she would. She was used to making up time. Her jobs kept her running, and today was no exception. She hurried out onto the street, and five blocks later she zipped down the stairs and bought a ticket to Mission 24th Street. Some days she walked the whole way, but not this afternoon.
The kids expected her at a certain time. They counted on her.
Megan liked taking the BART—the Bay Area Rapid Transit system. It gave her a few minutes to think about the day and the grant proposal she was working on. She pulled it from her bag and studied what she’d written so far. It started with the scenario of a fictional foster boy, the year after his eighteenth birthday. In a short sequence of events, the boy graduates from high school and learns there is no longer room for him at his foster home. Not long afterward, he’s stealing from the cash drawer at a convenience store and being locked up for theft. When they let him out, he connects with a drug dealer, running deals, collecting cash.
The story was compelling, and Megan had a suspicion that if she could get the proposal into the hands of the right people, the grant money might actually become available. Maybe a person didn’t need to be highly educated or famous or wealthy to ask for government funding. Maybe they only needed passion.
She tucked the papers into her bag and surveyed the other passengers. At the back of the car were a mother and daughter, both of them hollow-eyed and silent. The girl was maybe ten or eleven, and she had her head on her mother’s shoulder. Megan didn’t want to stare, but for a moment she was looking at herself, just as she had at the youth center, the way she looked the few times she was reunited with her mother during her childhood. The brief flashes when she’d been granted the privilege of laying her head on her mother’s shoulder. Anyone who’d seen Megan back then would’ve known from her eyes what she was thinking. How, if only she could freeze time, she would never, ever leave her mama’s side again.
Megan looked away. The car was slowing, coming to her stop. She stood quickly and was the first one off. Whatever the story between the mother and daughter, Megan didn’t have time to stick around and find out. The city was full of sad stories.
She ran lightly up the stairs and down the sidewalk toward the center. The sidewalk teemed with people, folks of every color, size, and shape. San Francisco was a melting pot of nationalities. The shops along the way told the story. A Korean thrift store, a Chinese dry cleaner, a Vietnamese grocer.
Megan pushed open the door to the center and glanced into the gymnasium. Four older kids were playing Ping-Pong, but most of the regulars weren’t here yet. She set her bag under the desk in the office and found her whistle, the one she wore when she worked the pickup games.
On the way into the gym, she spotted a kid sitting on the floor in the hallway, leaning against the brick wall. His knees were drawn up, his head down, resting on his forearms. Megan looked closer and recognized him. He was a stocky black kid, loud and cocksure, a junior football player in high school. He’d been placed in a group home a few months ago—an event that triggered trouble for many foster kids. Last she heard, the boy was on academic probation, his place on the football team in jeopardy.
A trio of teenagers entered the building and grinned at her. Megan returned the smile and waited until they moved on into the gym. Then she headed down the hall until she reached the boy on the floor. “Rudy?”
He didn’t look up. “Leave me alone.”
Megan dropped slowly onto the floor in front of the boy. She sat cross-legged and made her voice softer, gentler. “Can’t do that, Rudy. You know me.”
A sigh slid through what sounded like clenched teeth. “Doesn’t matter.”
These were the same things she heard over and over again at the center. Doesn’t matter…leave me alone… Kids who weren’t coping, kids already jaded and betrayed by the system. The future was crashing in all around these kids. Of course it mattered or Rudy wouldn’t be here.
Megan wasn’t in a hurry. “Is it school?”
He was silent.
&nb
sp; Details came back to her, a conversation she’d had with one of the other volunteer counselors. “You had a big math test Friday, right?”
“Yeah.” He looked up, his eyes distant and defiant. Fear was there too, the way it was for most foster kids. But like the others, Rudy was good at hiding fear. He exaggerated a shrug. “Left my math book on the kitchen table and one of the kids took it. Couldn’t study without a book.”
Megan winced. “How’d you do?”
Rudy clenched his jaw. “Failed it.” Another shrug. “Who cares, man? What’s it matter?”
“A lot, Larry. You’re going to college, remember?”
“For what?” He narrowed his eyes and shook his head. “Man, you talked to Toby lately? Got hisself a scholarship until Christmas break. Then what? School closes and he winds up in a mission, mixing with the homeless.” Rudy shrugged again. “Didn’t go back, ’cause what’s the point? He wasn’t staying in no homeless shelter all summer, you know?”
Megan felt her heart breaking. This was the exact scenario that needed addressing. Why wasn’t a counselor at the college made aware of the situation for foster kids? What would it take to give them year-round housing through college? She stifled her frustration. “You can’t give up, Rudy. Education’s the only way out of here. You know that.”
They talked a few more minutes, and Megan patted his shoulder. “Bring your math test Wednesday. You and I are going over it one problem at a time. I’ll call your teacher so you can take it over.”
He lifted his eyes, apathy and doubt meeting in his expression. “Then what?”
“Then we spend a few minutes every day going over it until the semester’s over and you have a grade you’re proud of.”
Rudy looked at the floor for a few seconds. “I saw my picture the other day.”