“Oh, I have plenty more where that came from. Maybe Pete and Monica needed to have more sex.”
He hands the tablet back to me. “Pete Jay’s sex life is none of my business. But I’ve developed a system for me. It works. And if something ain’t broke, you don’t fix it.”
“Is making yourself puke before games part of your awesome, unbroken system?”
“Damn it, Rae,” he curses under his breath.
Before his annoyance turns into a full-blown pout, I journey from my chair to his. Stretching myself between him and the arm of his lounger, I kiss his chin. “I told Rae I still love you, in spite of your gross pre-game habit. Don’t be mad.”
“I’m not.”
I poke at his mouth with my index finger. “Your lips are all white and pinchy, like they get when you have to throw the ball away on third down.”
“I’m about to tickle you.”
“Oh, now. Don’t waste your testosterone on such silliness.”
He wedges himself sideways to get a better angle at my midriff, but his action throws off the weight balance of the chair, which tips us onto the stamped concrete patio, me on top of him, the chair on top of both of us.
We’re both laughing too hard to say anything (or get up) right away, but I recover first and say, “Oh, crap. Are you okay?”
He smiles into my face. “Yes. Are you?”
Before I can answer, his phone rings on the table above us. A few seconds later, mine competes for attention. Soon, a new, more insistent chime sounds from Jet’s cell. It’s a noise I’ve never heard before, but his slackened face tells me he knows exactly what it means, and it ain’t good.
“What the hell is that?”
Gently, he pushes the lounger away from us and slides out from under me. After offering me a hand up, he rights the chair and looms over his phone, staring at it for a few seconds before prodding it with his pointer finger, as if it’s a small, dead animal that may be diseased.
My phone rings again, but I barely glance at the lit-up screen long enough to see it’s my dad. I figure I can call him back.
Jet cranes his neck to read the latest notification to come through. “Well, I have a new backup.”
My phone continues its frenetic activity, this time with an incoming call from Rae. I blindly reach over, reject the call, and push away the device. “Big whoop. These people act like nobody’s ever drafted a quarterback before. You’re not worried, are you?”
“Nah. I’m in good shape; I know the playbook inside and out; Coach loves me; and the guys respect me as a leader. There’s no controversy here. People just like drama.” But the confidence in his voice isn’t mirrored in his eyes.
Damn it. I wish I’d thought to turn off our phones earlier.
He scrolls through the first of many comment threads about the breaking news. Resigned, I slide on my shorts, gather the rest of my things, and head for the house.
“Hey, where you going?” he calls after me without looking up.
“Inside,” I toss over my shoulder. “There’s some leftover chocolate cake calling my name.”
By the time Jet follows me into the house, his phone is nestled in his t-shirt pocket, and I’m sitting on the kitchen counter, next to the sink, licking cake and frosting from a fork. I load up the next bite and offer it to him.
“No thanks. I have to be a good boy.”
“Overrated,” I muffle around a mouthful of chocolate.
“You’re a bad influence,” he says, scooting up to me and settling between my knees. He kisses my mouth and dips his tongue in.
After I pull away, laughing, I say, “You’re still technically consuming the cake, even if I’ve chewed it first.”
“Nope. There are no calories in food from someone else’s mouth. It’s science.”
“It’s disgusting.”
“No, delicious.” He runs his tongue along his teeth.
I swallow. “I’m sorry about the Draft pick.”
With a mighty, cocoa-scented exhale, he says, “Not you, too.”
“I’m not looking for drama where there is none. If I thought you didn’t care, I’d leave it be.” I set aside the rest of the cake and tuck my hands in my armpits while I wait for him to reply.
Instead of doing so right away, he picks up the dessert, steps back from me, and shovels cake into his mouth.
Oh, crap. It’s worse than I thought.
After several bites, he stops and tosses the now-empty container and fork into the sink, as if appalled at himself. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, jams his fists onto his hips and says at the floor, “Fuck. I— Why do they need that guy, huh?”
“They don’t.”
“But they obviously think they do. Or why draft him?”
“Insurance.”
He looks up. “I hate that I’m threatened by that. When am I going to stop feeling like I’m everyone’s second choice, like I’m a placeholder for when someone better comes along?”
Gripping the edge of the counter, I look down at my knees.
“Maybe I wasn’t upset enough when we lost that playoff game,” he speculates. “But I was upset. I just didn’t think it served anything to mope about it. And I had you. And I-I was too happy and hopeful to be sad or mad about it. I thought it made more sense to move on and look ahead to next season. But maybe I moved on too soon. Maybe the coaches and the front office and the guys, maybe they think I don’t want it enough, that I’m satisfied with making it to the playoffs and getting our asses handed to us. But I’m not.”
“Nobody thinks you are.”
He shakes his head and looks down at his feet.
“C’mere,” I implore him. When he shuffles back in front of me, I put one hand on each shoulder and squeeze, locking his eyes with mine. “You’re amazing. You are the franchise’s quarterback. This kid is exactly that: a kid. They’re going to be counting on you to show him
