An After-Hours Affair

Later that night, Mitch reflected on how much he loved being alone with Jenny.

He lay in his bed, propped up on one elbow, the light sheet covering him from the waist down.

Jenny had slipped into one of his faded football jerseys and rolled the long sleeves up to her elbows. It was green and white, with the number twenty-two across the back, and it hung nearly down to her knees.

Her hair was mussed from their lovemaking, and she couldn’t have looked more adorable.

“And this one?” she asked, lifting a gold trophy from the shelf beside his dresser.

“High school,” he told her. “Junior year.”

She held the etched plaque close to her face, squinting. “Player of The Year. All State.”

“It was a good year. I had a lot of lucky breaks.” He patted the bed beside him. “You must be getting cold out there.”

She replaced the trophy, picking up the next one. “You need to dust these.”

“If you’re going through the entire set, it’s going to take all night,” he complained.

“The Dallas Devils?”

“College.”

“It’s heavy.” She hefted the tall trophy.

“Careful.”

“I won’t break it.”

Mitch rolled out of bed. “I don’t want it to break you.”

She giggled, as if his worry was absurd.

He strode across the hardwood floor and lifted the trophy from her hands, setting it safely back on the shelf.

“What are these?” She opened a cherrywood box that his mother had given him when he was about fifteen.

“Come back to bed.”

“They’re rings,” she exclaimed, running her finger through the box. “They’re gorgeous. Look at these.”

“I’ve seen them.”

“The Lightning Bowl. The Ibex Cup.”

He bent to kiss her tender neck. “You can look at those any old time.”

“Are these real diamonds?”

“I don’t know. Probably.”

“How many of these have you won?” She checked through the contents of the box.

“I have no idea.” His kisses were making their way toward her lips.

She held a ring up to the light. “Tell me that’s not a real emerald.”

He didn’t bother looking. “That’s not a real emerald.”

“You’re lying. Look at that color and clarity.”

“You want the ring? Take the ring.”

“I don’t think it’ll fit.” She dropped it and let it fall loosely onto the base of her thumb, spinning it around for a moment before putting it back.

Mitch gave up on kissing, pawing his way through the box and extracting a gold ring with a flat face, a ruby chip and the entwined platinum letters S and C in relief. “Try this one.”

She accepted it in her palm. “It’s nice.”

“My first.” He smiled. “Sixth grade. It might fit.” He snagged her hand, slipping it on to the ring finger of her right hand.

Laughing, she tried to pull away.

But he held her still. “See, it fits fine.”

“I’m not taking your ring.”

“Why not?” Grinning, he kissed her palm. “It’s not like I’m going to use it again. You want to go steady?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Her smile disappeared. “Don’t do that.”

“I was just-”

“I know how you feel, Mitch. Don’t mess around.” She determinedly tugged off the ring.

He opened his mouth to explain. But what could he say? He’d done nothing but make his position on a serious relationship repeatedly and abundantly clear to her for the past few weeks.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

She dropped the ring back into the box. “Nothing to be sorry for.” Then she pasted a determined smile on her face, snapped the wooden box shut and set it back on the shelf. “You’ve had an amazing career,” she bravely carried on, but there was a warmth missing from the tone of her voice.

“You’re what’s amazing,” he told her honestly, but she shifted away.

He wanted to kick himself. He’d hurt her feelings again. Hurt her feelings, frightened her and forced a cool distance between them, when all he wanted to do was carry her back to his bed and make love to her, or maybe just hold her in his arms for the next few hours, or days or weeks.

Eleven

After Mitch’s stupid slipup about going steady last night, Jenny had left his house. It had been nothing but a joke, but it had obviously rattled her. And now he didn’t know how to fix it.

This morning, he was frustrated and in no mood for Cole’s interference. He glared at Cole across his office desk. But Cole didn’t back down, parroting Mitch’s words. “No, this is absolutely not rich, successful Cole Maddison, throwing poor, pathetic Mitch Hayward a bone.”

“Then give me an explanation.”

“The explanation is that you should get your head out of your ass.”

“You’re saying the White House randomly thought of me? A washed-up quarterback from Royal, Texas, who hasn’t won a significant sports award in nearly a decade?”

“No. Someone at the White House probably watched your touchdown rush in the Folder Cup, saw your charitable endorsements to Childhood Special Teams, read about your work with underprivileged teenage players, noticed the hundreds of thousands of hits on your fan site and heard about your Youth Outreach Award from the governor last week!”

“Keep your voice down.” Mitch’s office door was closed, but Jenny could arrive at any moment.

“Then listen to me. This is not some fabricated, make-work, patronage position invented out of pity. You’d have a staff, a budget, three regional offices and a mandate that covers the country.”

Mitch drew back, trying to wrap his head around the unexpected proposal. “And it’s the President’s council.”

“The President’s Council on Physical Fitness.” Cole’s voice was flat, his frustration still evident. “You’d be the Director for Children and Youth.”

Mitch tried to picture it, but couldn’t.

“Listen,” said Cole, backing off and plunking down in one of the two guest chairs at the front of Mitch’s desk. “It sucks that you got hurt. It truly does. But you did, and you can’t change that. So, you can sit around and cry about it, or you can pick yourself up and dust yourself off, and get going on the rest of your life.”

Mitch resented Cole’s implication. “Have I, ever once, come whining to you in self- pity?”

“You’ve got a lot of self-discipline. I’ll give you that. But actions speak louder than words.” Cole glanced around the big office. “In December, this gig’s going to end. And then what?”

Mitch had been trying hard not to think about that. But Cole was dead right on that count.

“And it has to be in D.C.?” Mitch forced himself to think through the potential of the unexpected offer.

“You gotta be where the action is. Part of your job will be to schmooze senators and congressmen to make sure the program is well funded.”