From the screen comes the groan of good ol’ Brad. “Gellis for another fumble. I don’t know what it is, folks, but the guy can’t hold on to a ball today.”
“Trent Butterfingers.”
With a snarl, she flips the screen the bird. “Pendejo!”
It’s said with such verve, I fight a smile. Because it isn’t funny. To most people, the men on the field are viewed through the lens of the game. They might be heroes or enemies. They’ll be the best thing in the world when they make the play. And the biggest dumbasses alive when they mess up. I get it. There’s a gloss of unreality about it. They aren’t quite human out there in those uniforms.
Unless you happen to be in love with one of them. It hurts to see them fail. I don’t know what I’d feel if I was publicly blamed for August’s bad playing. Maybe one day I will. But I imagine it would be a kick to the heart and soul.
“Do you want me to turn it off,” I ask Monica quietly.
She’s staring at the screen as if in a trance. The camera focuses on Jelly, hunched over on a bench, helmet in his hands. Sweat runs down the ruddy planes of his face. But it’s the stark pain in his eyes that really tells the story.
“I don’t know what’s going on with Gellis,” the other commentator says. “But he’s clearly going through some things right now.”
“Maybe it’s more a matter of what he’s doing off the field than on it.”
Monica’s chest lifts on a ragged breath.
“Hey.” I touch her arm and find it cold. “You okay?”
She snaps to attention and gives me an overbright smile. “Of course.” Her humorless laugh crackles between us. “It isn’t nearly the first time I’ve been picked apart by the public. Not even the most subtle way.”
“Why don’t we turn this off and go for a swim?”
“No, no.” She shakes out her hands, then visibly relaxes her frame. “I’d feel disloyal.”
I would too. But I’d do it for her.
“Well, there’s one thing we can solve.” I pick up the remote and hit Mute. “Take that, fuckos.”
“Fuckos?” Monica repeats with a delighted laugh.
“It’s an August word.Fucko.” Smiling, I set the remote down. “He uses it so much, I don’t think he’s even aware of it half the time.”
“Trent just loves the good old-fashionedfuck.” She waggles her brows. “And how.”
With that, she bursts out crying.
“Oh, hey! No...” Rushing over, I hug her to my shoulder and rub her back as she sobs. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
My heart squeezes with every sob that wracks her body. But it isn’t for long. Monica must either be used to letting go and getting it out fast or is holding it in with sheer force of will. She gathers herself with dignity and looks about, pressing the back of her hand against her running nose.
Quickly, I get her a box of tissues from the hall bath and then sit back as she blows her nose and dries her eyes.
“I’m a mess.” It comes out as an accusation.
I half smile. “But you always clean up real nice.”
Her eyes water again as she chuckles. “Fuck you, don’t make me cry again.”
We share a grin of perfect understanding, then hers fades. “I’m going to wash up and fix my face.” She grabs her purse and heads out.
Once she’s gone, I turn back to the game. Frustration rides high on the men. It shows in their expressions and body language. August’s, however, never exposes what he’s thinking. He never gives the outside world much. Already he’s able to internalize like a seasoned pro.
“Where’s that cocktail?” Refreshed, Monica strolls in, tossing her purse on the far chair.
I hand it to her and take a sip of my own as we silently watch the screen. “They might still win.”
