The Baller: A Down and Dirty Football Novel(70)
“Yes. And Indie?”
“Hmmm.”
“Thank you for doing this.”
***
I’d barely slept last night. The thought of having to go into the Steel locker room tomorrow and pretend that everything was fine made me feel like vomiting.
I wasn’t sure what I thought would happen after I ran out of the Regency four days ago, but it certainly wasn’t what happened. Nothing. Nothing had happened. I had never been the kind of girl who wanted to be chased, but some sort of attempt at contact would have made me feel better. It made me wonder if Brody had just gone back into his suite and moved on.
But then I’d seen a picture of him walking into practice the other day. His eyes had been dark and sunken, his head hung down in defeat. Against my better judgment, I called the press photo up on my computer. He looked like he’d singlehandedly just lost the Super Bowl. It was all I could do to stop myself from calling him every time I saw it. And apparently I was into self-inflicted pain—because I had made a point of looking at the photo an awful lot over the last few days.
A piece of me felt guilty for running away from him after he had just laid to rest a woman he cared for deeply. It had been two years since my dad died, and the agony of the loss was still fresh some days. But then I remembered that Brody wasn’t alone. He had Willow to console him. I needed to force myself to remember that every time I got the urge to call him. And what if I called, and she answered the phone?
“You ready, Thelma?” Indie popped her head into my office.
“You bet, Louise.”
The drive to Maryland was five hours, although it actually went by quicker than I had expected. Indie was one hell of a road-trip companion. Not only did she stock us up on road-trip essentials—Pringles, trail mix, and Cheez-Its—but she somehow managed to keep my mind off of all things Brody Easton, for at least a few hours of the drive.
Our hotel was near the stadium. The corporate travel office had booked a block of rooms, knowing the city was going to be a madhouse during the days leading up to the first playoff games. I wanted to switch to anywhere the Steel weren’t staying, but the city was booked solid. As we neared the stadium, Indie broached the subject.
“It’s going to be impossible to avoid him. I scouted the nearest ice-cream shops. There’s a Baskin Robbins one block to the east and a Scoops about four blocks to the west.”
“Thanks.” I chuckled.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“You have to promise not to get pissed at me.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “Okay . . . ”
“You believed Brody that he didn’t cheat on you, but you don’t believe that he is over Willow?”
It didn’t make sense, but for some reason, that was what I believed. “Yes.”
“Have you wondered why you believe him about one thing, but not the other?”
Even though I had pretty much done nothing but think about everything that had happened the last few days, if I was being honest, I actually hadn’t questioned why I would trust him about one thing, yet not the other. “I guess it’s because I feel like he can control his desires, but he can’t control his heart.”
“But how do you know his heart still loves her?”
The question seemed ridiculous to me. “He loved her and lost her. Why wouldn’t he still love her?”
Indie reached over and took my hand. “Sweetie. Are you talking about Brody and Willow or are you talking about you and Drew?”
***
Michael and Indie chatted away during dinner. There were six of us from WMBC having a business meeting at the hotel’s steakhouse, although we really hadn’t talked much business at all. I tried in earnest to enjoy myself, but a perpetual state of glum followed me around like a shadow I couldn’t outrun.
“What’s your thinking on it, Delilah?” Marvin Clapman was the head of the station's engineering division. He was one of the few remaining employees who’d been there since the station was founded forty years ago. Having worked his way up from equipment repairman, he was now responsible for everything from the microphones working to the feed making it to the television in the viewer’s living room. And he was staring at me expectantly, waiting for an answer.
“Um, I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?”
His eyes narrowed. “The Pro Bowl. Is it better for the station that they keep it during the bi-week between playoffs and the Super Bowl? Or should it come after, so the players from the two teams in the Bowl that were selected can go?”
“Oh. I think it’s better for the station that it stays in the bi-week. People want something to watch during that off week, so the advertising is prime. But it’s better for the players for it to be after.”
Luckily, Aileen Fisher, one of Marvin’s department heads, jumped into the conversation, so I was off the hot seat. I tipped my head back as I downed the last of my wine and looked through the bottom of the glass. There was a commotion near the front of the restaurant. My stomach sank at seeing familiar faces. Familiar player faces.
The entire restaurant paused their dinner to watch the hostess seat them. Even if they weren’t famous football players, the sight would still have caused a hush. Six extraordinary large men dressed in suits, one louder than the other. I breathed an enormous sigh of relief at not finding Brody amongst the crowd. Until I saw that the party of six was being seated at a table for eight, with two empty chairs.