The All-Star Antes Up
Page 12
“You just got me to go to her gala. She’ll be positively disposed toward you.”
“Seriously?” Doug’s eyes were wide. That was one of the reasons Luke liked his assistant; the kid didn’t take advantage of his access to a celebrity.
“Try it. I’m betting she’ll say yes.”
His assistant took a deep breath. “Okay.”
“Keep me posted,” Luke said.
Back out in the corridor, he debated whether to watch some video or go home. Instead, he shrugged into his leather jacket without zipping it and jogged across a couple of vast parking lots to the stadium. Swiping his security badge into the players’ entrance, he cut past the locker rooms and headed out into the big shell of the arena.
A couple of maintenance crews worked on the field, their black fleece jackets contrasting with the emerald green synthetic turf. A gust of wind pushed chilly air through the cotton of Luke’s shirt, but he kept walking until he was right in the middle of the Empire logo on the fifty-yard line.
He performed his weekly ritual, turning slowly in a full circle to imprint the empty seats and near silence on his brain. On game day he would use this image to overlay the roaring, heaving crowd of spectators so he could block out everything except the players on the field. His college coach had taught him the technique after his first game freshman year, when he’d been distracted by all the commotion on the sidelines and beyond.
Luke had always had natural field vision, the ability to see how a play was developing and what patterns the players were running. This visualization was one of the ways he’d honed it to a precision tool.
“Hey, I figured I’d find you here.” Stan Gatto jogged up to him. The older man had been Luke’s trainer since day one at the Empire. “We gotta talk.”
“About what?” Luke folded his arms across his chest.
“You know about what. And let’s do it inside. It’s colder than the hair on a polar bear’s butt out here.” He looked at Luke. “I know they call you Iceman, but you don’t have to take it literally.”
“Seriously, Stan? I’ve played in blizzards.” Still, Luke started walking back toward the tunnel.
“That’s different. The adrenaline keeps you warm.” As they passed through the big doorway, Stan glanced around and lowered his voice. “So what happened on that last pass on Sunday?”
“It got intercepted.” Luke kept walking.
“Yeah, even that moron announcer Chris Hollis could figure that out. What made you throw a pass that got intercepted? You could have connected with Marshall with your eyes closed, but you threw it right at the Patriots’ cornerback.” Stan put his hand on Luke’s nonthrowing shoulder and pulled him to a stop. “Talk to me.”
“In the training room,” Luke said, nodding toward a door farther down the hall.
Stan jogged beside him as he strode along the corridor and into the empty room. The trainer closed and locked the door behind them before he turned to Luke. “Well?”
Luke allowed himself to roll his shoulder. He should have known he couldn’t fool Stan. “I was cocked to throw to Rob when I saw that Marshall was wide open. I tried to make the change when this pain just ripped through my shoulder and arm. It came out of nowhere, and then it was gone again. That’s why I screwed up the throw.”
“Sit down,” Stan said, pointing to a chair. He came up behind Luke and started probing his shoulder and upper arm. “Does it hurt now?”
“Only when you jab your fingernails into my skin.”
“Smart ass.” Stan jabbed especially hard. “Answer my question.”
“No, it doesn’t hurt now. It hasn’t hurt since after I made the throw.” But it might in the next game.
The trainer took Luke’s arm and moved it through various positions before he stepped back. “There’s no damage that I can find. But we should get the doc to run an MRI to be sure.”
“No. This stays between you and me.” Luke met Stan’s eyes with a hard look. “It was just a twinge because I tried to change directions too fast. Give me some exercises to stretch and strengthen my shoulder.”
“I can give you all the exercises in the world, but neither one of us is getting any younger.” Stan patted Luke on his left shoulder. “You gotta watch the sudden moves.”
That wasn’t what Luke wanted to hear.
That evening, Miranda walked back into her office for her next shift. After her encounter with Luke Archer, she’d gone home to her apartment in Jersey City, fallen into bed, and slept for eight hours. Her dreams had been shockingly vivid encounters between herself and the quarterback, minus the T-shirt and jeans he’d worn that morning. She’d awakened feeling restless and unsettled.
The one task she’d accomplished that made her feel good was sending in another payment on the loan for her brother Dennis’s cheese-making equipment.
The Tate family dairy farm had been struggling until Dennis read an article about turning the milk he produced into artisanal cheese. Miranda had been a little skeptical, but her brother had rented a trailer equipped to make cheese and started experimenting. Much to their delight, New York City chefs and gourmet shops loved the concept, and the flavor of Dennis’s handcrafted cheeses. She’d even been the one to introduce Dennis’s products to some of the chefs at the multistar restaurants where she sent her clients.
The farm was already carrying a heavy load of debt, so Miranda had offered to finance the purchase of the equipment. It assuaged some of her guilt about leaving her parents and Dennis behind when she’d headed for New York City as soon as she graduated from community college.
“Seriously?” Doug’s eyes were wide. That was one of the reasons Luke liked his assistant; the kid didn’t take advantage of his access to a celebrity.
“Try it. I’m betting she’ll say yes.”
His assistant took a deep breath. “Okay.”
“Keep me posted,” Luke said.
Back out in the corridor, he debated whether to watch some video or go home. Instead, he shrugged into his leather jacket without zipping it and jogged across a couple of vast parking lots to the stadium. Swiping his security badge into the players’ entrance, he cut past the locker rooms and headed out into the big shell of the arena.
A couple of maintenance crews worked on the field, their black fleece jackets contrasting with the emerald green synthetic turf. A gust of wind pushed chilly air through the cotton of Luke’s shirt, but he kept walking until he was right in the middle of the Empire logo on the fifty-yard line.
He performed his weekly ritual, turning slowly in a full circle to imprint the empty seats and near silence on his brain. On game day he would use this image to overlay the roaring, heaving crowd of spectators so he could block out everything except the players on the field. His college coach had taught him the technique after his first game freshman year, when he’d been distracted by all the commotion on the sidelines and beyond.
Luke had always had natural field vision, the ability to see how a play was developing and what patterns the players were running. This visualization was one of the ways he’d honed it to a precision tool.
“Hey, I figured I’d find you here.” Stan Gatto jogged up to him. The older man had been Luke’s trainer since day one at the Empire. “We gotta talk.”
“About what?” Luke folded his arms across his chest.
“You know about what. And let’s do it inside. It’s colder than the hair on a polar bear’s butt out here.” He looked at Luke. “I know they call you Iceman, but you don’t have to take it literally.”
“Seriously, Stan? I’ve played in blizzards.” Still, Luke started walking back toward the tunnel.
“That’s different. The adrenaline keeps you warm.” As they passed through the big doorway, Stan glanced around and lowered his voice. “So what happened on that last pass on Sunday?”
“It got intercepted.” Luke kept walking.
“Yeah, even that moron announcer Chris Hollis could figure that out. What made you throw a pass that got intercepted? You could have connected with Marshall with your eyes closed, but you threw it right at the Patriots’ cornerback.” Stan put his hand on Luke’s nonthrowing shoulder and pulled him to a stop. “Talk to me.”
“In the training room,” Luke said, nodding toward a door farther down the hall.
Stan jogged beside him as he strode along the corridor and into the empty room. The trainer closed and locked the door behind them before he turned to Luke. “Well?”
Luke allowed himself to roll his shoulder. He should have known he couldn’t fool Stan. “I was cocked to throw to Rob when I saw that Marshall was wide open. I tried to make the change when this pain just ripped through my shoulder and arm. It came out of nowhere, and then it was gone again. That’s why I screwed up the throw.”
“Sit down,” Stan said, pointing to a chair. He came up behind Luke and started probing his shoulder and upper arm. “Does it hurt now?”
“Only when you jab your fingernails into my skin.”
“Smart ass.” Stan jabbed especially hard. “Answer my question.”
“No, it doesn’t hurt now. It hasn’t hurt since after I made the throw.” But it might in the next game.
The trainer took Luke’s arm and moved it through various positions before he stepped back. “There’s no damage that I can find. But we should get the doc to run an MRI to be sure.”
“No. This stays between you and me.” Luke met Stan’s eyes with a hard look. “It was just a twinge because I tried to change directions too fast. Give me some exercises to stretch and strengthen my shoulder.”
“I can give you all the exercises in the world, but neither one of us is getting any younger.” Stan patted Luke on his left shoulder. “You gotta watch the sudden moves.”
That wasn’t what Luke wanted to hear.
That evening, Miranda walked back into her office for her next shift. After her encounter with Luke Archer, she’d gone home to her apartment in Jersey City, fallen into bed, and slept for eight hours. Her dreams had been shockingly vivid encounters between herself and the quarterback, minus the T-shirt and jeans he’d worn that morning. She’d awakened feeling restless and unsettled.
The one task she’d accomplished that made her feel good was sending in another payment on the loan for her brother Dennis’s cheese-making equipment.
The Tate family dairy farm had been struggling until Dennis read an article about turning the milk he produced into artisanal cheese. Miranda had been a little skeptical, but her brother had rented a trailer equipped to make cheese and started experimenting. Much to their delight, New York City chefs and gourmet shops loved the concept, and the flavor of Dennis’s handcrafted cheeses. She’d even been the one to introduce Dennis’s products to some of the chefs at the multistar restaurants where she sent her clients.
The farm was already carrying a heavy load of debt, so Miranda had offered to finance the purchase of the equipment. It assuaged some of her guilt about leaving her parents and Dennis behind when she’d headed for New York City as soon as she graduated from community college.
