“Does he? Or is he upset that his colleagues were stupid enough to get caught, and this is a major distraction from Game One in Miami?”
“You probably need to stop talking now. You’re mad because he lost his temper and said some heated things, but—”
“This is so typical.” She stands and glares down at me. “You’re going to take his side and be all ‘stand by your man’ with your twenty karat vacuous smile?”
I rise, too. “I’m not smiling.”
“You will be soon enough, standing in the background, lookin’ so proud, like all you ever wanted out of life was to shop and have babies. Unbelievable.”
I clamp my lips together and stare at her, then ask quietly, “Is that how you see me?”
Arms crossed over her chest, she answers, “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to that, but I’m beginning to think it has.” She gestures to the house around us. “You like all this. You like coming home to a fully cooked meal in a spotless mansion, swimming year-round in the heated pool, and screwing your boyfriend in a different room every night of the week, if you want. You love rubbing elbows with celebrities and not only knowing all the gossip but being the subject of it. ‘Wedding Bells for Jetaura?’” she asks, assuming an entertainment reporter’s perky tone.
Before I can deny that ridiculous claim, she rushes on, “And you know what? If that’s what makes you happy, go for it. It would be nice, though, if you’d admit it and stop acting like you’re above it, like you’re still the same old Maura you used to be. Because you’re not. Not even close.”
She steps through the archway that leads to the front of the house. “Thanks for dinner and such scintillating conversation. It’s been enlightening.”
Twenty-Eight
Game Day Jitters
I thought it would be better to watch the first game of the season with other people, so I’ve stuck to my usual routine of hanging out with Greg at the new Richards-Snow residence (which is very nice, but nowhere near Jet’s house, geographically or otherwise). I invited Colin along for extra support. But now that we’re all here, and the game is well underway, I’m not so sure. I’m probably not much fun to be around.
“THROW IT ALREADY, JET! SONOFABITCH! GET OPEN, NEW GUY, YOU DUMB ROOKIE AMATEUR!”
A Cheez Doodle sailing from the direction of the other couch, where my brother is sprawled, hits me in the face. Without diverting any of my attention from the TV, I return fire a piece of caramel corn.
“Would you two please stop throwing your food at each other like animals?” Deirdre snaps, picking up the snacks from the floor before one of us can stomp it into the rug. “Or is it a crime for our new house to stay nice for a while?”
“Yeah, Greg,” I say, smiling against my beer bottle. “You’re such a pig. Is it too much to ask the offensive line to do their damn jobs and protect my boyfriend?” I’m normally a big fan of the passing game, but I’ve definitely developed a greater appreciation for the run game. I’d prefer Jet hand the ball off to someone else who can get clobbered by a burly defenseman.
Around a belch, Greg says, “Jet’s hanging on to the ball too long. It’s like the clock in his head is running in slow motion.”
“Everyone seems kind of out-of-sync out there,” I grudgingly admit.
Colin pats my knee. “It’s first-game jitters. They’ll settle.”
The huddle breaks, and Jet waves his arms at his guys to remind some of them where they need to be. The game clock ticks down to zero, and a flag comes out for a delay of game. I press my hand to my forehead. “What the hell is their problem? It’s like nobody knows what they’re supposed to be doing!”
“Including Jet,” Greg mutters, shielding his face from the flying popcorn that never comes.
I’m too worried to lob any more snacks. Plus, I wish I could protest and give examples to the contrary, but he’s right. Number Fourteen isn’t looking sharp.
I refuse to analyze the reasons for that as one of the linesmen flinches before the next snap, and Jet stoically walks backward another five yards with his team.
“It looks bloody hot there,” Colin offers as an excuse. “It’s not even the end of the first period—”
“Quarter!” Greg and I automatically correct.
“—but look at them! They’re all listless and dripping.” Colin wrinkles his nose disdainfully.
“That’s Miami for you,” I say.
He waves his hand in front of his face. “That changing room is going to smell ghastly at halftime.”
“Don’t think about it.”
“Maybe they got food poisoning at the hotel during second breakfast,” Greg supposes.
The speculation is doing nothing to sooth my nerves. “The game’s just started. Shut up. Everyone’s getting into a rhythm. At least the pocket is holding up better now.”
“If Jet can’t get a pass off, it doesn’t matter if he has all the protection in the world.”
“It’s not his fault! Nobody’s getting open!”
To prove my point, Jet’s next pass sails inches from his tripping intended receiver’s fingertips. Fortunately, there weren’t any defenders farther down the field, waiting to intercept. Unfortunately, that was third down, and we’re backed way up, so we have to punt it away.
“He’s throwing it too hard,” Greg says. “The ball’s like a bullet.”
“Which one is it?” I snap. “Is he not throwing it, or is he throwing it too hard?”
“Both.”
The camera follows Jet as he rips off his helmet and sets it on a drying post behind the bench. He slides on a sun visor and immediately grabs one of the sideline tablets to study the pictures from the last series. The quarterback coach sidles up to him, but when they start discussing things, the camera switches to a shot of the punter kicking
