His eyes are wide, and I can tell he wants to laugh but is kindly resisting the urge. “What’s the turtle’s name?” he asks.
“Shells,” I say, and he loses the battle. He doubles over, laughter booming out of him. “This is my actual life!” I exclaim, trying to sound angry, but it’s impossible with the grin he’s brought out of me.
“I’m sorry,” he says, sitting up and taking deep breaths to stop himself from cracking up. “I’m taking you very seriously. What do you do for work?”
“Oh, you’re trying to see me as a professional now and not as a foil for a turtle?” I watch him hold his breath, attemptingto not burst out laughing again, and I have to take pity on him. “I own a snack company,” I say, taking one out from my bag.
“Nosh Sticks!” he exclaims, and I beam with pride that he knows them. I’m already dreading hearing my mom call them “my little snacks,” so his acknowledgment bolsters me. But then he reaches into his own bag and, to my surprise, pulls out a few. “I love these, actually. Matzah is apparently a much better carb than what any of the other bars have, and then you’ve got them with nut butters—one of the guys on my team found them, and now we’re all obsessed.”
“Your team?”
“Oh.” He looks away for a moment. “I play football,” he finally says with a shrug.
“Like . . . for fun?”
His eyes snap back to mine, and all I can see now is fondness. “No. I mean ... yes. But it’s my job. I’m an offensive lineman for the Giants.”
“You’re going to have to explain all of those words to me.”
“‘No’ and ‘yes’?”
I chuckle and swat at him. “I meant the football words! Sorry, I don’t watch it.”
I wonder why I see relief in his eyes. “It means my job is to basically hold off big dudes who want to take down the quarterback.”
“The guy who throws the ball?”
“See, you do know something,” he says, and I snort a laugh.
“Seriously, that’s very impressive,” I say sincerely.
“You just said you don’t watch,” he teases. “How would you know?”
“Well,” I say, slowly, considering. “It sounds like your job is the most selfless one. You’re not getting the glory; you’re in service to the team. You’re a protector. That’s pretty cool.”
I wouldn’t have thought it possible that such a big guy could look so soft. “For someone who knows nothing about football, you somehow clocked my favorite thing about it.”
“Well, tell me more about it, then.”
The next hour flies by. I geek out over the extensive food regimen that comes with playing football, and he genuinely seems interested in the science of packaging (a topic no one elseeverfinds as weirdly fascinating as I do). We cover what you feed a turtle; the best concert seating; our favorite restaurants in the city—he’s convinced me I have to try this downtown restaurant from a chef named Kit Roth that he’s obsessed with.
Until finally I ask, “So what does your family do for Christmas?” and suddenly he clams up.
“I, uh ...” He pauses, and I wonder if maybe I’ve missed some Christmas etiquette I didn’t know about. “I actually haven’t been home for Christmas in four years.”
“Four years?”
“Well, the NFL has games on Christmas. And even if your team isn’t playing, you only get one day a week off in season, and the week of Christmas counts. So I just ... never made it.”
“What changed this year?”
He sighs and pulls up his pant leg to reveal a shiny fresh scar all the way down his knee. “I tore my ACL at the end of last season.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, knowing it’s not enough. But he gives me a grateful nod, like it’s better to say that than to try to put a fake positive spin on it.
“Hopefully I’ll be cleared to play in a few months, but since that’s not anytime soon, they said I should take the week off and see my family for the holidays.”
He’s not looking at me anymore, and I wonder if there’s more to his hint of sadness than just the injury. I don’t even know this guy’sname, so I’m not entitled to his family dynamics, but for some reason I want to understand. “Is getting to be home for Christmas not a silver lining?”
