He slides a card onto the table, nods to me once more, passes byentirelytoo closely—close enough that I can smell something subtly woodsy and tobacco-ish along with something that smells like dog shampoo, close enough that I can feel heat radiating off of him, close enough that I can see the thick veins in his forearms—and then walks away.
Just walks away.
Doesn’t repeat his request for me to be a publicity stunt.
Doesn’t tell me that my memory is wrong about our last interaction. Or that he does or doesn’t care about that.
Simply walks away.
Everyone around us watches his ass as he goes.
And I don’t think it’s because he’s in sweatpants, or because said sweatpants have POUNDERS written across the ass.
I think they’re watching him and his ass because even though he’ll never be known here in America the way Silas tells me he wasknown in the UK—rugby isn’t that popular here—his presence saysyou should know me.
“I don’t trust him,” Odette says as I slide back into the booth, which is still warm where his ass was.
I sip my spritzer and pretend I can’t tell warm from cold on my butt. “Lucky all of us, we’ll never have to see him again. Did you all get your obituaries written?”
Evelyn and Sheila share a look, then both look at me.
Evelyn slides Fletcher’s card off the table and into her purse.
The rest of us stare at her.
“Oh, let an old lady get a thrill at telling the world a big hot rugby player personally invited her to a match. I’m demanding a backstage pass too. Or whatever it is in the sports world. I don’t have to like his mustache to take advantage of this situation.”
Even I smile at that. “I’m related to one of the other players. I can get you into the locker room before a match. Probably into the announcer booth too. Without you having to call the devil.”
“The devil?” Sheila asks. “Why would you call him the devil?”
I drain the rest of my spritzer. “Obituary time! Let’s have them, ladies. I can’t wait to learn more about Drugstore Steve.”
4
Fletcher
I’m squeezingpeaches in Crunchy, the organic supermarket down the street from my flat—mycondo, I mean—when a tingling sensation tells me I’m being watched.
I keep squeezing peaches while I do a slow perusal of the produce section without being obvious about doing the slow perusal. It’s a trick you learn when you’re on display often enough.
I don’t catch anyone watching me, but I see something that catchesmyeye.
A tall-ish white woman with a great rack, long legs, and black-brown hair tied back in a ponytail under a pink baseball cap leaving the produce section to head deeper into the store.
Hello, Goldie Collins.
And thank you, rugby gods.
And also my good hearing and Silas Collins’s big mouth.
My sister’s moving to London so she’s cooking me dinner tonightbecause it’s an asshole move for her to leave and say she’s never coming back to watch me play ever again.
I was walking Sweet Pea when I saw Goldie leave a residential building about four blocks from my flat—mycondo—the other day.
So I followed her to the wine bar.
I was basically going the same direction anyway.
