The Legend of Jesse Smoke (26 page)

“Well, look at you,” I said.

She nodded slightly and I took her arm and escorted her into the restaurant. I was proud to have somebody so beautiful and tall and young on my arm. I’m pretty tall too. We were a very big couple so of course we garnered a lot of attention as we made our way to our table. When we were seated I said, “What’s the occasion?”

“No occasion,” she said.

“Why the getup?”

“It’s not a getup. It’s a disguise.” The paparazzi had been following her everywhere she went. “I get chased no matter where I go, so I went to a hotel not far from here. Then I showered, changed, put on this costume—how do you like it, my wig?” She turned her head to side and modeled it for me.

“It’s nice,” I said.

“I walked out the front door like anybody else. Nobody noticed.”

“Come on. How could they not notice
you
? I mean …”

“I walked right by ’em. Nobody’s interested in a long tall Sally like me.”

“You have no idea, Jess.”

She sat back, and the way the light shone on her collarbone and neck, I thought right then she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

“You really do look beautiful, though,” I said. “Something I never thought I’d say to an NFL quarterback.”

A young man came to the table. I thought he was the waiter, but before I could ask him for a wine list he said to Jesse, loud and with no small amount of wonder, “You’re Jesse Smoke.”

Jesse nodded.

Immediately other people seated around us began to pay attention. I could hear them whispering. Somebody said, “And that’s Skip Granger.”

“Are you Skip Granger?” the young man said.

“Are you the waiter?”

“No, sir.” Then he turned back to Jesse. “Can I have your autograph?”

“Sure,” she said, smiling. Even without the freckles and
with
the eye makeup, it was a winning smile. She just looked darker, and—I hate to say this, but—downright sexy. She did not look innocent, I can tell you.

I watched her sign a dozen autographs. The entire waitstaff of the restaurant also got autographs. Only two of them were actual football fans. But they all knew who Jesse was, that was for sure. One guy said, “Great game Sunday.”

“You’re, like, just the most amazing athlete in history,” another said.

Jesse shook her head modestly.

“Certainly the most famous athlete in a long, long time,” I said, after the man had gone off.

“I guess,” she said.

Eventually we got to eating and people left us alone, although I could still feel their eyes on us. To have any sort of normal conversation we had to whisper, which wasn’t easy or fun. But people will listen to what you say—they’ll try very hard to hear every word, and they don’t try to hide it either.

The place was dimly lit, and in the candlelight, Jesse’s eyes and the jewelry sparkled. I ordered a steak and Jesse had the salmon. I ordered a bourbon and water with my steak, and she had a glass of white wine. We ate pretty much in silence and then she started talking about Darius Exley’s action figures.

“I just think it’s so cute he has so many of them, you know? And that he keeps buying them.”

“You don’t think it’s kind of … childish?”

“It’s just him.”

“You see much of him?”

“No. Not outside practice.”

“So when did you see his collection?”

“After the Los Angeles game.”

“Really. That long ago.”

She pushed her plate back and wiped her lips gently with a napkin. She took a sip of her wine, looking at me with something that might have been suspicion. She waited to see what I would say next.

“Dan Wilber teaches yoga,” I said.

“I know.”

“You’ve seen that, too?”

“No. But I heard about it.” She put her glass down and smiled. “He’s famous for it.”

“You think that’s cute, too?”

“I think it’s weird. But listen, I’ve come to depend on him. He’s my damn Rock of Gibraltar.”

“He’s a real gentleman is what he is. You can bet the players wouldn’t have warmed to you so quickly if it hadn’t been for him. That and the football you threw into Delbert Coleman’s face mask,” I added, chuckling.

“I think it’s when I cut my nose that I won them over.”

“You do?”

“Dan told me the guys really admired the way I didn’t, you know, let it bother me. They liked the way I kept going with blood all down the front of me.”

“Hitting Darius with that winning touchdown against the Raiders helped, too.”

We ate in silence for a while, then I said, “So, heard any more from your mother?”

Her eyes sank a little. “She sent another letter.” She started pushing the remaining salmon around the plate with her fork.

I watched her, waiting for her to go on. When she didn’t I said, “You going to tell me about it?”

“She’s afraid I’ll get hurt.”

“We’re all afraid of that.”

“Edgar said I should—”

“Edgar,” I interrupted her. “You call him Edgar?”

She nodded.

I shook my head.

“He insisted.”

“He doesn’t let anybody call him that. He makes us
all
call him Mr. Flores.”

“Guess I’m prettier than the rest of you.”

I didn’t laugh.

She looked away. I had the feeling I was making her uncomfortable. I raised my glass. “Anyway, this is supposed to be a celebration.”

She lifted hers as well.

“To you,” I said. I took a good swallow of my bourbon and water, and she took a small sip of her wine. “Jesse,” I said. Did you ever dream we’d actually be doing this? You know, what we’re doing?”

Now she smiled. “I dreamed it a lot. But … It was only ever a dream. I never actually thought it would happen.”

I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “I know I’ve said this to you before, but I have to say, I’m worried about all the men pursuing you.”

“All the men?”

“You are not just really smart, Jesse, you’re attractive. You know that.”

She said nothing.

“I mean, you just joked about being prettier than the rest of us.”

“I can take care of myself, Coach.”

“It’s not
you
I’m worried about,” I said. “I’m worried about the men around you.”

She looked truly puzzled.

“Think about it, Jess. This is a team, right? And I just worry that some of the men pursuing you will begin to see each other as rivals. That kind of thing can be truly destructive.”

She looked sullen as she forked up some salmon and chewed, staring down at the food on her plate.

“You have to guard against forming attachments. That’s all I’m saying.”

She did not like that I used that word. “I’m not
attaching
to anybody, all right?” She glared at me, straight into my eyes, and I felt as though I’d just tried to seduce her myself. “You make me feel like a mollusk,” she continued. “You know? I mean, I understand you don’t like the idea of me dating anybody on the team, but …”

“I’m not just trying to protect the team,” I said.

“What do you mean by
that
?”

“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

She looked at me blankly.

“I just … don’t want you to think I’m jealous myself, or something.”

Now she really seemed puzzled. “You don’t have to protect me, Skip. And, really, I don’t
care
if you’re jealous.”

“I’m just interested in keeping you safe,” I said. It was the truest thing I could think to say.

She ate some more of her salmon, and I decided to quit while I was ahead. I was wondering how to change the subject to her play calling when she took things in her own direction (it was becoming a signature). “My mother wants to come out here.”

“I thought that was already arranged.”

“No. I don’t want it.”

“Why not?”

“Edgar says he’ll fly her out here and give her the royal treatment. All I have to do is give the word.”

“So why don’t you want her to come?”

“I don’t know.” She put her fork down and laid her hands flat on the table. “It’s just—what does she want now? She walked away from us—my father and me.”

“And you haven’t seen or heard from her since?”

“I told you she wrote to me a lot after she left. E-mails. Letters. Sent me gifts for Christmas. My birthday. Things like that.”

“And you ever answer her.”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

“I hated her for leaving my father. For leaving me.”

“Did you keep the gifts she sent you?”

She wouldn’t look at me directly, but she slowly nodded her head.

“You kept them?”

“Yes.”

“And you never answered any of her letters.”

“I hated her.”

“You might have communicated that if you’d sent back those gifts, don’t you think?”

“I never used any of them.”

“Really?”

“Well, not right away at least.”

I took a sip of my bourbon. I forgot that I was supposed to broach the subject of play calling, but at a time like that it would have taken a pretty awful breach of decorum to start talking about football.

“What would you have done if your mother
did
call you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You think you would have hung up on her, or maybe talked to her? What do you think?”

“I said I don’t know.”

“What was she to think? You never responded to any of her letters, or her e-mails. She probably knew you hated her.”

“What does it take to write an e-mail?”

“About as much as it takes to make a phone call.”

“She could have called.”

“Maybe she was waiting for you to respond to the e-mails first. She might have called you if …” I didn’t finish the sentence, though, because of the hard-boned and steely look she gave me right then. I went back to my steak. “Look, it’s none of my business, Jesse,” I said as I cut a piece off the corner of it. “But I think if she’s family, you have to give her a little bit of the benefit of the doubt.”

“She
still
hasn’t called, though—there’s the thing.”

“Did you save any of the letters?”

“I have some of them.”

“Someday, you may be glad that you do.” I took the last gulp of my bourbon and water just as the waiter came back with a drink on the house. He had the manager of the restaurant with him, who wanted to shake both my hand and Jesse’s. They sat around the table and we talked football with them a bit. I drank the bourbon the waiter had brought, and then another. Jesse had two glasses of wine. We were all laughing after a while—as if we were old friends. We heard tales of the other celebrities who ate at the Rally Round; of deadbeats and drunks, wives and lovers; people who gave fantastic tips. Then the owner had one of the waitresses take a picture of both of us, then one with Jesse and him. Jesse was a full head taller than he was, but he wanted the picture with his arm around her shoulders. She leaned down and the waitress took the picture. I was feeling slightly sick from all the food and the bourbon and my nerves. I didn’t like the light in that room, or all the eyes on us. And the truth was, I was worried about Jesse.

The manager would not hear of us paying for our food. I thanked him and shook his hand, then he gave Jesse a big hug. One of the waiters wanted to hug her, too, and have his picture taken with her. We obliged him that but then had to back away and thank everybody noisily as we elbowed our way out.

In the street I took Jesse’s hand and walked with her down to where she’d parked her brand-new Mercedes.

“Nice car,” I said. I wondered if she still lived in the sparsely furnished apartment, but I didn’t know how to ask about it without being pushy, and certainly didn’t want her to think that I was trying to finagle an invitation. She stood by the door of the car and looked at me.

“You see much of Andy or Nate these days?” I asked.

“Just on business.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“I’m just too busy,” she said. “When I’m not in meetings with you and Jon, I’m playacting in television ads or, you know, at practice.”

“So he’s ‘Jon’ now, Coach Engram?”

She gave a short laugh.

“What do you call me?” I asked.

“Skip.”

“You do?”

“Of course.”

I don’t know why that made me feel so proud, but it did. I felt like one of the boys. Was I one of the boys I’d need to protect her from, I wondered. I patted her on the shoulder and she smiled. “Good night. Thanks for dinner.”

“I didn’t buy it,” I said.

“Well … thanks for the idea.”

“There was something else I wanted to say to you,” I said.

“You think I should let my mother back into my life, don’t you?”

“Well …” I averted her gaze, but she moved in so that she could get a good look at my expression.

“You do, don’t you?” She stared at me a moment longer, then shrugged.

“Look, Jesse,” I said. “I’m no expert, but I can tell you, if I had children and I was trying to stay in touch, I’d probably send e-mails or letters, too. And I’d hope for a response. A hell of a lot better than calling and being rejected outright, you know? It’s so final when a person hangs up a phone. I’d just think, eventually I’ll get a response,
and try to remain hopeful. Some people would say it’s harder to write an e-mail than pick up a phone.”

“That is so lame,” she said.

“Maybe,” I said. “But it was pretty shitty not to return her gifts if you wanted nothing to do with her.” I was, I now realized, a little drunk and felt bad for saying that the minute it left my tongue. But I could see it hit home.

“You don’t know what it was like,” she said, quietly.

“I know you were hurt. I know that.”

“It was the most devastating thing in my life. And I think it may have hastened my father’s …” she stopped. “I think now all she wants is to get in on the big money.”

“Well, if
that’s
what you think.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I think.”

“I’m sorry, Jess,” I said.

People driving by had started to slow down now, and some folks emerging from the restaurant across the street were laughing loudly one minute and then suddenly quieted down. I was pretty sure they noticed us standing next to Jesse’s car.

“Did you say you had something else to say to me?” She waited for a moment, but now I couldn’t even remember what it was.