The Baller: A Down and Dirty Football Novel(9)

“By all means. I don’t want a picture of that arrogant ass.”

“Sure you don’t.” She blew me a kiss and disappeared.

***

Delta custom configured planes for professional sports teams. A regular Boeing 757 held more than two hundred, but the aircraft that the league used had seats removed for extra leg space. In the rear of the plane, a few sections of seats faced each other across tables, designed for coaches’ meetings during flights.

All fifty-three active players on the Steel roster traveled together two days before the away game, along with seventeen coaches and a few office staff. About a dozen reporters were riding along with the team. Since WMBC was an official team sponsor, I was one of those reporters. And . . . I hated to fly.

Five minutes before boarding, I popped a Xanax and chased it with a full glass of wine. The last thing I remembered before passing out was the pilot saying something about a short delay due to a stubborn flock of birds. Birds?

When I woke up, I checked the time on my phone. I’d slept for four hours of the almost six-hour flight to California. My mouth was dry and my eyes even drier.

“Morning, sleepyhead.” The voice startled me.

Groggy, I turned my head toward the aisle, confused. “Where . . . where is Alan?” I’d fallen asleep sitting next to Alan Coleman, a reporter for Sports Chronicles. Sitting next to me now was none other than Brody Easton. And he was smiling from ear to ear.

“I offered him an exclusive interview on the league's new alcohol rules if he changed seats with me.”

“Why would you do that?”

“To sit next to you.”

“Did you enjoy watching me sleep?”

“I did. You snore, you know.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do. Want to see the video to prove it?”

My eyes widened. “You videoed me sleeping?”

“No. But you do have a little dried drool.” He pointed to the corner of my mouth. “Right here.”

I wiped it, even though I wasn’t sure if he was serious. “Did you come back here to annoy me?”

“Pretty much.” He smiled. It was a real smile; even his green eyes participated. Damn.

Just then, the plane hit a bit of turbulence, and whatever calm the Xanax had instilled in me went out the window. I gripped the armrests with both hands.

“Nervous flyer?”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“You should take something before you fly.”

“I did. But it must have worn off.”

“How about a drink to calm your nerves?”

“I shouldn’t mix any more alcohol with Xanax.” The plane shook again. “I’ll have a Merlot.”

Brody chuckled as he reached up and hit the button for the flight attendant. The leggy brunette responded quickly. She ignored me and spoke to Brody. “What can I do for you, Mr. Easton?”

“Can you bring us a Merlot and a bottle of water, please?”

“Of course.”

The minute it arrived, I gulped almost the entire full glass as if it were medicine. Looking over at Brody, I realized for the first time that he was dressed in a suit. He wore it well. “Nice to see you in pants for a change.”

“I can take them off if you’d like.”

“I’d need a lot more than one airplane-size bottle of Merlot.”

Easton quickly reached up and pushed the button for the flight attendant. I actually laughed a little.

“So . . . really . . . why are you sitting here?”

“Have you looked around this plane? There’s one hot woman and a hundred hairy men. The question should be, why isn’t everyone fighting to sit here?”

“That almost sounded like a compliment, Mr. Easton.”

“It was. You’re hot as f*ck. And I like you.”

“Oh really? You have a funny way of showing that you like me. Every time I see you, you try to sabotage my interview.”

“Every time I see you, I expose myself to you.” He flashed me his trademark smile. “That’s how we show girls we like them where I’m from.”

“Where are you from, the jungle?”

“Brooklyn.”

The offensive-line coach interrupted us. “Brody, I want to make some changes to Red Reverse Four. We just studied the tapes from last week and need to shift the play around a bit.”

“You got it, Coach.”

Brody took my hand and kissed it. Then he disappeared with the coaches for the rest of the trip. I didn’t see him again until game day.

***

As usual, the sun was shining in San Diego. I really missed California. After college, I thought I’d be back a lot more than I had. But over the years, my fear of flying had escalated, and now the only travel I did by plane was for work. This trip had reminded me that I was letting my fears control me, instead of the other way around.

I stood along the sideline watching the game with Brett Marlin, the on-air, play-by-play reporter. Part of my job as a staff sportscaster was to be Brett’s backup eyes. We consulted between live feeds—it was virtually impossible for one person to keep track of twenty-two men on the field at once. Four eyes did a better job.

As expected, the division-rivalry between San Diego and the Steel was intense. The outcome would determine first and second place between the two, and they played as if it were the Super Bowl. The roar of the crowd was so loud that it made it difficult for Brett and I to hear each other in our headsets. I felt the vibrations from feet stamping against the stands in my chest. God, I love games like this. With thirty seconds left on the clock before halftime, I stood near the goal line, watching as the Steel moved down the field. On a third and short, Brody dropped back to pass, only to find his receivers all under heavy coverage. Rather than chance an interception, he waited, somehow avoiding the head-on charge of a three-hundred-pound defenseman. Then he lowered his shoulder and charged toward the end zone. His legs never stopped moving until he crossed the line. Was it just me, or was the sun suddenly getting warmer?