“That was amazing,” I told him as we started to climb. “It was so good.”
“I did sign my name very clearly,” he agreed, but when I turned to stare, he was smiling. “I know what you mean. How many flights?”
Just one, and there was an elevator for Willow. “I didn’t want to call it because it makes a lot of noise,” I explained. But even my words in the stairwell were enough to annoy my neighbor, whose door flung open as we passed.
“Shut the fu—oh,” he said, his scream petering out.
“Get back in there,” Everett told him, and he did. With haste. “What the hell is wrong with him?” he asked me, in a normal tone instead of a whisper.
“He likes the quiet,” I explained as I opened my door. I waved him inside and then carefully closed it, because “slams” were also something that bothered the neighbor. “He gets furious about noise and he never seems to leave his apartment, so he’s always there to hear us. We really can’t talk in the hallway.” Or inside, either.
“Does he bother you? Threaten you?”
“It’s ok. Here, take the chair,” I offered. He stepped around two of the boxes and eased himself into it.
I didn’t have much to eat here, nothing like the sumptuous dinner I’d prepared earlier in my daydream, but I did open the cupboard and refrigerator and offered what was available. “Are you hungry?” I asked. “I have some frozen peas. I also haverice that I could make with them.” The neighbor got mad when we cooked because he claimed that he could smell it, but I didn’t believe that he could actually catch the scent of rice through the wall. “We have two burners,” I added, pointing to the little stove. “No oven, so I can’t bake. Also, I don’t have any ingredients for that.”
“I’m not hungry.” He was peering into the cupboard. “You have that chocolate spread.”
“Willow loves to put it on toast. Do you want some?” I tried to be sparing with that because it was so expensive, but he was a guest.
“No, I’m really fine.”
I shut the cabinet doors, which inspired my neighbor to hit his wall in protest of the clicking sound, and sat on the bed. “How do you feel after a football game?”
“In general? I’m tired, sore, ready for sleep. But tonight, I’m pretty keyed up.” He smiled at me, showing off the dimple.
“You should be!” I was smiling too, and I bounced slightly on the mattress. It was so exciting and I was keyed up, too.
“The second half started and I went out there, and then it was like…” He looked up at the stains on the ceiling, but I didn’t think that he saw them. “I don’t even remember that first pass. It all went by so quickly.”
“That used to happen to me when I got really into a piece of music,” I agreed. “I mean, it’s different, because what you did was on a national stage and you also got paid a lot for it, but Ithink I can relate a little. I got so focused that it was like I woke up when it was over.”
“It sounds like you also got into a zone. That half of football was…” He paused again, as if it was indescribable.
But I could say it. “You were so good that I almost cried. The woman sitting in front of us did cry.” My voice had gone up in volume and my neighbor knocked to indicate his displeasure. “Ignore him,” I advised. “He’ll pound there all night. Were your coaches happy?”
“They seemed pleased. Jim Roberts never shows too much emotion.”
I knew that name: he was the head coach. “How about the mean guy?”
“Who, Rami? The offensive coordinator? He’s not mean,” Everett told me, smiling again. “He shook my hand on the sidelines. Kayden Matthews also sent me a message.”
That interested me. The former Woodsmen quarterback hadn’t done what Everett had predicted and retired from football after the donkey-induced injury to his knee. Matthews had done his press conference and had made jokes about the dangers of small farm animals, and then he had discussed how he would be gone for the season. Only the season, that was it. He was asked directly if he planned to come back after his surgery and he’d said yes. Then he’d flown to Detroit to have it, and now I wasn’t sure where he was. He hadn’t been on the sideline tonight.
“What did he say to you?” I asked. “Did he think you played better than he would have?”
“Uh, no, he didn’t use those words. He congratulated me and said that Dallas and I had done a great job, and that he’s around if I want to talk about anything.”
I frowned. “He might have said, ‘I think I just lost the starting job permanently to you.’”
“I don’t have it, not even temporarily,” he told me. “I played well tonight, but Coach Roberts already told me that Laforet and I will keep doing the fifty-fifty split next week when we go to Brazil.”
“What?” That didn’t make sense. “But you were miles ahead of him!” I’d been too loud again, so I heard more thumps. I shook my head at my neighbor’s anger and at the irrational Woodsmen coaches. “Don’t they look at statistics?”
“Definitely. But maybe what I did tonight was a fluke.”
“No.” I shook my head, my loose hair flying in every direction. “No, that was no fluke. That was the result of skill, practice, and determination.”
