I bet they’re not as amused by their resident goofball now.
Twenty-Seven
Conflicting Takes
My stomach lurches when I drive past Arrowhead Stadium on my way to Jet’s and see the media encampment sprawled out in the vast parking areas usually filled with happy tailgaters.
Oh, Keaton. You dumb, beautiful, sleazy assclown. What have you done?
Despite thinking they’d be leaving the training complex early, Jet and Rae have put in a full day, and then some, so I’m the first one to arrive at Castle Knox. After taking it upon myself to send Helen and Beau home, I kill some time setting the table.
When Jet arrives, he walks past me, through the living room, sniffing the air on his way to the kitchen. “Smells great,” he says shortly, as if I’m in any way responsible for the beef stir fry waiting for us.
Rae, closely behind him, points to his back and mouths “Hangry” with a roll of her eyes as we follow him.
I slow and hover on the threshold while he lifts the lid from the wok.
“Is this ready?” he asks, stirring, then scooping an enormous portion into a shallow bowl without waiting for my answer.
“I see today’s events aren’t killing your appetite,” I say, trying to lighten the mood without downplaying the seriousness of the situation.
“This is the first real food I’ve seen since breakfast, thanks to all the B.S. going on.” He moves down the counter to the heaping bowl of rice and makes a major dent in it, piling it on top of his beef and vegetables, like snow on a mountain peak.
Rae snags the wooden bowl of salad meant for her and nods her head toward the dining room on her way past me. “Come on. I’ll tell you the latest.”
She looks all too eager to fill me in. I remain in the kitchen with Jet, sidling up to him and pressing my nose against his upper arm. “Why does she look so smug?”
He shrugs. “Proves her point that all men are scumbags?” he hypothesizes, placing a kiss on my forehead. “I’ll eat, and she can report.”
I follow him into the dining room and sit to his right, facing Rae across the table from us.
“You’re not going to eat?” she asks, around a mouthful of lettuce and sprouts.
I shake my head. “Maybe in a minute. I have a feeling I might not want to have anything on my stomach while we talk about this.”
“Good point,” she allows. “Jet and I have been listening to the details over and over all day. We’re desensitized.”
“Speak for yourself,” he mutters into his bowl. “What’s happening is sickening. But my body needs to eat.”
She waves her fork dismissively at him. “Whatever.”
Before she can rehash what I already know, I tell them the few details I’ve gleaned throughout the day, then admit, “I’m still not clear about how it all worked, though—how extensive it is or who was involved.”
I glance at Jet, who wrinkles his nose and says with a full mouth, “Not me!”
I can’t help but laugh at his interpretation of my look. “I’m not accusing you! I’m— Wow. Uh…” I shake my head and tease, “That was a quick denial, though.”
He finishes chewing, swallows, and grumbles, “Just sayin’.”
Rae clears her throat, happy to provide the gritty facts. “The participants pay into the game at the beginning of the season—this would have been the third year, apparently—and score points by having sex with people in the cities they visit for games. The person with the most ‘scores,’ at the end of the season takes home the pot of money.”
She stops, but I blink, my mouth gaping. Again, I peek at Jet, who continues shoveling rice into his face like he’s in an eating contest. He doesn’t take his eyes from his bowl, so I return my attention to a gloating Rae, who smirks at my speechlessness.
“Yeah. That’s how we all looked for about the first half of the day, when the news broke.”
“Where’s Keaton during all this?”
“Oh, he’s been called to the Commissioner’s office to answer for his crimes. We’re just now getting wind of it, because the person who blew the whistle on him also sent her story to the media so there’d be no chance of the league sweeping it under the rug.” She taps her temple with the handle of her fork. “Smart chick.”
“One of the, uh, ‘scores’ blew the whistle?”
Rae nods. “A woman in Dallas. She had no idea what she was a part of when she went back to Busch’s room. I guess she figured she was simply hooking up with an NFL player.”
“Groupies,” Jet hisses behind his napkin while mopping his mouth.
Rae either doesn’t hear him or ignores him. “Turns out, part of the ‘game’ is providing proof of your score, and when Busch, who was drunk, according to this woman, tried to take her picture, she objected, so he explained to her why he needed it. He told her the whole thing, then logged into the spreadsheet where he kept track of the points system and had all the players listed by their real names. What a dumbass!”
“Well, jocks aren’t known for their intelligence.” At Jet’s warning glower, I clarify, “Lots of blows to the head, right?”
He growls something unintelligible, to which Rae replies, “Oh, don’t get all man-hurt, Knox. You have to admit, the guy’s a bonehead. He was so drunk and proud of his stupid scheme, he repeated the whole spiel for her when she pretended not to understand. She recorded it on her phone. Gosh, I’d give an ovary to see that video.”
“Not a huge sacrifice for you,” I point out.
She shrugs. “Well, it’s not worth an important body part. But I’d be willing to give up something.” Having told the story, she returns her attention to her salad.
But I still have questions. Lots of questions. Like… “What’s going to happen to Keaton? Is he going to be released from the team?”
I’m looking at
