Today Will Be Different(55)
“You don’t have to stay,” he said.
“Huh?”
“The plan wasn’t to torture you,” he said. “The plan was for us to enjoy the game together.”
Eleanor’s whole being settled; her face relaxed. “Have I told you lately that I love you?”
Joe chuckled. It was their least favorite Van Morrison song.
“I can’t hear you!” a voice boomed. Macklemore, pretaped, hamming it up on the Diamond Vision.
Third down. Every fan knew what to do: Stand up and scream their guts out. Joe joined in, shrieking through cupped hands.
He turned to Eleanor. She wasn’t there.
Over his shoulder, between the fans, he saw her zipping up the stairs, two at a time.
Unbelievable.
She’d actually f*cking left.
Her seat was still down. The disbelief, the outrage, the alienation.
The empty chair.
Joe stumbled backward, one foot landing squarely on a clear plastic Seahawks tote. He picked it up. It was full of cracked makeup.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Three frat bros standing above did the slow, sarcastic clap.
Green sparkly fingernails snatched the bag. A pissed-off woman in a pink camouflage T-shirt with a sequined 12 whimpered in dismay.
“I’m sorry,” Joe said.
“Walk much?” her husband quipped.
“My favorite rouge!” the woman cried. “Now the hinges are cracked.”
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Something within Joe awakened. His eyes darted between the frat guys and the husband and wife.
“For real?” he said.
To a person, they averted their gazes.
Joe got the hell out.
Shaky, he jogged along the promenade, back through the section tunnel, and along the concession stands with their meaty, yeasty, cloying smell-storms. He pushed down the stairs past agitated latecomers. Up on a platform, a shiny Toyota truck frozen in mid-adventure, tilted, about to flip.
He flashed his pass at the guard posted outside the blue curtain. The restricted area. He followed the blue-and-green stripe on the concrete floor. It veered left.
Overhead: FIELD ACCESS THROUGH THESE DOORS.
“Dr. Wallace!” Another guard, Mindy, a secret Colts fan, stepped aside to let Joe through.
In giant blue letters along the white cinder-block hallway: GET THE WIN.
ALWAYS COMPETE.
LET’S DO THIS.
NEVER QUIT.
Joe’s stomach seized from the harsh smack of the words.
Another rush of dark thoughts.
The sending money to my parents. The charity trips. The fund-raising. The twenty-six-hour flights to Kenya. The extra time I take with patients. The lifting weights at the WAC. The cute links I send Eleanor. The steam engine built with Timby. The showers before getting into the pool. Notes praising helpful customer-service people. Picking up garbage off the sidewalk. Trips to the e-waste center. Keeping the thermostat at sixty-eight. Not wasting dinner rolls. Letting other cars into traffic. Mnemonics to remember the names of the OR staff. Salt-free potato chips. Games of Clue. Colonoscopies. Giving Eleanor the better parking space. The weekly hardcover purchase at Elliott Bay. Resoling shoes. Tipping hotel maids. Refilling growlers. Punctuating text messages— Boom! The thud of a cannon going off on the field.
Coming toward him down the tunnel: A bird of prey. Eye level. The real, live Seattle sea hawk, perched on its handler’s gloved arm. Joe locked eyes with the bird as he passed. The raptor held Joe’s stare, head gliding around, its penetrating gaze suggesting both wisdom and weariness.
Joe’s shoulders jerked with tension. He stepped out onto the turf.
The Sea Gals jogged up in formation and took their places, eight across, two deep, and began a lurid shimmy to “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap.” Makeup thick as tree bark, man-made cleavage, flesh-colored tights: a living affront to the natural world.
Joe looked away.
The Cardinals had the ball again; the ’Hawks must have gone three and out. The coaches and players were clustered at the far end of the field.
Joe spotted Gordy at the fifty. Just the sight of the trainer brought Joe a tickle of relief: his people.
Gordy was joking with the team “flexibility specialist,” basically a yoga teacher, a little guy with spindly legs who always wore a bandanna. He said something that had Gordy cracking up.
Joe picked up his pace, eager to join the camaraderie.
But then, in Gordy’s hand: a splint. The splint.
Joe scanned the action. Their defense was getting into position. He found number 27.
His back to Joe. DAGGATT.
Joe’s whole body juddered in disbelief. He stormed toward the trainer.
“What the f*ck, Gordy?”
Gordy turned. He knew how bad this was.
The yoga teacher got out of the line of fire.
“Vonte wanted to try a possession without it,” Gordy said, panic cracking his voice. “He was feeling good.”
“Not your call.”
“We’re cool,” said the yoga teacher.
“No,” Joe snapped. “We’re not cool.”
“He almost made the pick—” Gordy stammered.
“What, you have him on your fantasy team or something? You have one concern: to make sure none of those men have a career-ending injury.”
“I know.” Gordy looked on the verge of vomiting.