Val glanced over to see how her wife had read her mind. Really, it wasn’t mind reading. Julie had always been able to follow her thoughts. She didn’t think she was that predictable, but there it was.
“It doesn’t add anything positive to the game. I get it for umpires, but why players? It’s just another enhancement, and everyone has to get them now or they’ll never play. Why would—” Val tore her eyes away from the jumbotron and glanced at Julie, who had a wicked grin on her face. The kids were watching them and snickering. “Are you messing with me?”
“Maybe.”
Val sighed and rubbed her neck. She didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing they’d gotten to her, but really, they knew that already. The least she could do was be gracious in defeat. She gave Julie a wry smile. “How do you know exactly which buttons to push to start me ranting?”
“Long years of practice, love.”
“It’s not like your rant button is hard to find,” said David. “It’s labeled ‘RANT’ in all caps.”
Julie grinned. “And it’s the size of a barn.”
“You’re right about all of it, Ma.” At least Sophie had some loyalty. “But they wouldn’t tease you if you weren’t so easy to tease.”
“Et tu?” Val asked. “I thought you’d have my back, at least.”
“I do, Ma! I wish the players didn’t have Pilots. You’re right that it’s lousy for the game, but what are they supposed to do, get them turned off? The younger players get them before they ever know they’ll make it to pro levels. The older ones get them so they’re not benched. You’ve given that speech at every ball game we’ve been to for years.”
“And all the games on television, too. Every sport.”
“And at meets you’ve coached.”
“And at end-of-year sports banquets.”
She looked from one face to another, from Julie to both kids, both laughing, their argument seemingly forgotten. If mocking her brought them together, she wouldn’t stand in the way.
“Fine,” she muttered. She sat back to watch the game again, but they’d reached the seventh-inning stretch. The jumbotron showed the usual distractions: the food race, with the animated hot dog dancing as it crossed the finish line first; guess the crowd size; dance contest. When they did the cartoon shell game, Julie and David both muttered “two,” though Val had long since lost track.
The shell game disappeared, replaced by David’s face. Val glanced around, looking for the camera, hoping it wasn’t a kiss cam since he was sitting beside his little sister. Except it wasn’t this David, who wore shorts and a T-shirt; Screen David wore a crisp collared shirt with the Balkenhol logo. He sat more formally, too, his military bearing on full display.
“My Pilot saved my life and my troop’s lives more times than I can count,” Screen David said. Real David slumped low in his seat. Sophie was at full attention, and even Julie had set aside her devices. Stock footage of Piloted soldiers replaced David, and Julie closed her eyes and covered her ears. For all the body-count sites she’d frequented in their son’s absence, she had never been able to stomach the videos; too easy to imagine him there.
This particular video was clearly designed to showcase their Pilots. Soldiers started to move, then paused. The doorway they would have stepped into exploded, but they’d already taken shelter, their Pilots presumably having delivered them some crucial information. The soldiers gave way to an operating room, then a classroom, then a plane’s cockpit. “Pilots are paving the way for a better tomorrow. They save lives in other ways as well. Pilots improve the attention of surgeons, of drivers, of pedestrians. They increase productivity and make our world safer.”
Back to the image of David, handsome and alert, staring right into the screen. “My Pilot makes me the best me I can be.” David dissolved into the Balkenhol logo.
The guy behind David nudged him. “Hey, buddy, was that you?”
David nodded, sitting straighter, as if remembering he was supposed to be a role model.
“Thanks for your service. It really saved your life?”
David nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Val turned to look at the guy. Thick-bodied and leather-skinned, late fifties or early sixties, maybe, or someone slightly younger who had done a lot of outdoor work.
“Like on the screen?”
“Something like that, sir.” He held his bearing, but his beer shook in his hand.
“Did you lose any—”
Julie interrupted. “I don’t think my son wants to go into detail.”
The guy glanced at her. He didn’t have a Pilot, Val noticed. He was the customer Balkenhol wanted. “I’m just trying to tell him I’m glad he got back okay, all right?”
“You said that already. Now you’re pushing him to talk about things he doesn’t want to talk about.”
“Jules,” Val whispered. “He can take care of himself.”
David had taken the moment to compose himself again. “Thank you. I’m going to get back to watching the game with my family. Have a good day, sir.”
The man sat back, mollified by one or the other or both responses. Val glanced over her shoulder and saw the whole section watching them. Julie and David had probably known that the whole time. Had it changed how either had conducted themselves? David had to know an ad like that made him a face for the company, and anything he did would reflect on them.
“David,” Val said, her tone low enough that the man behind hopefully wouldn’t hear. “Did you know about that ad?”
He shook his head, then shrugged. “I mean, I knew they were filming me, and I knew it was for an ad. I didn’t know I’d be the only one speaking in it and I didn’t know they were going to show it here, or I wouldn’t have come. It’s weird seeing myself on a screen. I wouldn’t have minded getting used to it phone-sized and maybe working up to the jumbotron.”
Sophie eyed him. “If you’d had a zit it would have been the size of a car.”
“Thanks for that.”
“It’s
