“I don’t, either.”
“But you want to. I can tell. Dad’s all about spouting stats and discussing the business side of football. That’s boring!”
“Greg, this is the way it has to be, okay? I need Jet to have a good game and come home in one piece more than I need to be there.”
“Are you going to watch at all?”
“I… I’m not sure,” I reluctantly admit what I’ve been debating all morning and probably won’t decide until this isn’t as raw.
He scoffs. “This is effed up. You haven’t missed a game since… since I don’t know when. Never, maybe. Not since adulthood, anyway.”
I don’t need him to point this out to me, but it underscores the depressing nature of the situation. “It’s not that I don’t want to see what I’ll be missing; it’s also going to be torture to wonder during every offensive play if Jet’s going to survive it.”
“He’s ruined football for you. He’s ruined my weekend, my birthday present.”
If he didn’t sound so childish, I’d cry.
But I relish the opportunity to turn the tables on him and say to him, for once, “Oh, Greg, grow the hell up.”
It’s the best I’ve felt all day.
Thirty-Three
Dark Clouds
Now that my vacation plans have been eighty-sixed, my main motivation for getting through the past couple of weeks has been non-existent. I’ve walked through life on auto-pilot, robotically finishing the last-minute details for the fall job fair. Which is today.
And I wish I could say it’s going to be the tour de force I imagined, but “Be the Star of Your Life” is about to fall spectacularly to Earth, leaving a huge crater where my so-called career used to be.
I’ve been keeping an eye on the weather forecast for a week, watching the green blob on the radar creep closer and closer to the KC metro area. When I tried to lobby for an indoor event, Cynthia, not often interested in pulling rank, wouldn’t budge on her long-standing policy of holding all job fairs in the office park’s courtyard.
“We have to take advantage of the beautiful setting and the visibility from passersby,” the director said dismissively, not looking away from her computer monitor to address me. “That’s why we go to the trouble to set up that huge tent. If it rains, it’s not a big deal.”
While the tent will keep fair participants perfectly dry, the humidity is going to kill the cardboard standees I made, some with my own money when I ran out of official job fair budget. I tried to explain my setup would be more sensitive to weather conditions than anything Arnold’s ever done, but Cynthia waved me off. “I suggest you do something lower maintenance then, Maura.”
Um, too late!
And now it’s like someone took over my body (and head) and suddenly gave a shit. What has it gotten me? This morning, a puffy face.
As usual, Jet calls me at 6:30, as he’s heading to the training complex. His call typically serves as a delightful wake-up, the next best thing to opening my eyes to his smile. This morning, however, I’ve been awake for a while. Awake and panicking.
“’Morning, Beautiful.”
“Have you seen the weather?”
“Uh, yeah. Hard to miss it. It’s a monsoon out here.”
I whimper into the phone at how cheerfully he says that, like it’s the most delightful development.
“What? Oh, yeah. Shit. Your job fair’s today.”
“Yes,” is all I can manage.
“I didn’t forget. I’m just— With everything going on the past couple of weeks, and being cleared to play this weekend…” He clears his throat.
Thanks to Jet’s diligence with his physical therapy and the team’s early bye week, he’s completed his recovery right on schedule, and ready to start this Sunday.
And none too soon. As much as I’ve reassured him over and over (and over and over) again about the security of his starting status, I have to admit Wilcox did a phenomenal job while Jet was on the bench.
After a shaky start during the Monday night home opener against the Patriots, where the rookie displayed some understandable nerves during the first two series, he settled down, in large part due to Jet’s calming influence on the sideline and in the helmet speaker. Wilcox led the team to an eked-out win that came down to a missed field goal by the Patriots at the end of regulation. The Chiefs’ win the following week at home against San Francisco was much more authoritative, however, and I could tell Wilcox was getting mighty comfortable out there as Mr. Starting QB.
We can’t have that.
The backup’s growing confidence hasn’t been lost on Jet, either. The long stretches of silence have returned, but this time, I’m not taking it as personally. It’s still unnerving, but I realize he has a lot going on, most of it between his ears.
Now, for the first time in weeks, he’s the cheerful one. “Aw, it’ll be okay. It’s coming straight down, so it’ll be fine under the big top.”
“The booths will be fine. The people will be fine. My standies aren’t going to hold up.”
“Oh. That sucks.”
“To put it lightly.” I release a shaky breath. “All that work. All that—” I almost say “money,” but I don’t dare go there with him, so I bite it back and amend, “All those ideas! And I’m only serving cookies and lemonade, because I was counting on the theme to bring people in, not the promise of free food. When I pictured the day, it was sunny, and the tent was crowded, and everyone was impressed with my life-sized cut-outs.”
“I’m so sorry. This is a major bummer. I wish I could help.”
Running my hand through my bed-head hair, I say miserably, “Unless you can make it stop raining.”
“Nope.”
“Then I’m screwed.”
“Well, what’s your backup plan?”
“I don’t have one. This is it. It works one way.” I sit up in bed and punch my mattress.
