The Snap, page 10
“You’re a Renaissance man,” I managed weakly.
“Nah, I like Marriott. Better pillows.” With a wink and a click of his tongue, he was gone. I looked into the admin’s office to see if she’d registered the pinball effect—ding! ding!—of Brent’s cringe-inducing comments. Her glasses were pushed on top of her head, and she was mouthing along to something on her computer. She either hadn’t noticed or wasn’t bothered. See? I chided myself. You’re being a baby.
I grabbed my lanyard and headed toward reception. If anyone asked where I was going, I’d say I forgot something in my car. Maybe ten minutes in the cold would finally force out the flush my cheeks had been carrying since the morning. Maybe the bitter Syracuse winds would be the slap that snapped me out it.
“Hey, Poppy!”
It was Neil, from accounting. I was sure there were people I’d be less happy to see—Slobodan Milošević, maybe—but when he came bearing down on me with his sausage-like fingers and dusting of white flakes on his shoulders, I wanted to punch the wall. I wanted to bolt for the ladies’ lounge, fling open the door, and scream, “SANCTUARY!” and then enjoy five minutes in a place where men couldn’t paw at me.
“Hi, Neil.”
“Nice skirt—love that schoolgirl look.”
“I’m just heading out to my car for a second.” I started to move around him, but he stepped to the side, blocking my path.
“Without your coat? Iiieee. It’s freezing out there. You don’t want to get goose bumps—or any other signs of the cold, right? Ha!”
“I’ll be fine, thanks.”
I all but pushed my way past him, crossing my arms tightly in front of my chest. His shoes squeaked as he followed me down the hall. “So what’s your plan for Thanksgiving? Are you going home?”
“No.” The team was playing on the road, so I could technically travel back to Ohio, but hard pass. I didn’t want to fight the vicious traffic all the way down I-90, and for complicated reasons, Thanksgiving wasn’t my favorite holiday.
I turned into reception, and Neil dropped back to let me through the doorway, then scuttled along until we were even again. “You know, my wife and I host every year, so if you need a place to go for dinner—”
“Actually, we already made plans.”
Abby appeared out of nowhere and stood beside me so that the two of us made a wall across from Neil—me feeling like a rabbit trapped in the center of the road and exhausted from darting between the cars. Abby in her polka-dot blouse and heels no thicker than kabob skewers. Either one of us on our own would be physically unimpressive. Either one of us alone could be pushed up against a wall. But together we swelled to greater than the sum of our parts. Together we drove Neil from accounting all the way out of reception and back down the hallway with nothing more than two hard-eyed stares.
“Say thanks to your wife for us, though,” muttered Abby when he was gone.
“Thank you,” I said.
“Don’t mention it. Oh, and you totally can, you know. Come for Thanksgiving. My roommate is traveling, so it’s just going to be me at my place.”
“Oh, no, that’s okay.”
Abby arched an eyebrow. “You have plans?”
“I don’t,” I admitted.
“So let’s just say that now we both do.”
* * *
*
Abby’s apartment was in a U-shaped complex of three buildings around a courtyard. Hers, the base of the U, had a common room with a large-screen TV and a pool table, a bar area, and a gym. It felt like a grown-up dorm, the type of place where I wanted to live, not the seventies-style attic I tiptoed around in because the insulation was so thin. Abby didn’t have to time her laundry so that the dryer never buzzed after ten p.m., and there was no one here to sneak into her apartment and put their fingers on her private things. But the budget was the budget, and so Dave and Flossie’s it was for me.
Abby opened her door in a black silk maxi dress and bare feet, a half-full wineglass dangling from her fingers. I immediately wanted to back away in my skinny jeans and one-shoulder blouse, but she reached out and squeezed my arm. “Cheers—yours is on the counter. Come on in. I have no idea how to tell when the chicken is done.”
It wasn’t until I hung my coat in the closet that I realized I should have brought something. Great—underdressed and empty-handed. Abby was probably already regretting inviting me.
I took in the apartment, chic and sunny with its light floors and sky-blue walls. The foyer blended into a kitchenette, which in turn became the living room on the far side of the breakfast bar. The coffee table held a stack of copies of The New Yorker, and I recognized a framed Ansel Adams photo above the sofa. The Mission-style furniture was basic but in good condition.
“It’s gorgeous in here,” I said, spinning to take it in. “And it smells like…did you say chicken?”
“I couldn’t find a small enough turkey. My oven only fits chickens.”
“Really?” I peered through the glass window at a tinfoil-covered bird. It did look pretty tight in there. I stood. “Okay, put me to work.”
We chatted while I peeled potatoes and Abby dumped sliced apples into a premade pie crust. She mixed in scoops of sugar without stopping to measure or consult a recipe, just assuming that whatever she threw in would make a pie. And for someone like Abby, it probably would.
If I was home right now I’d be shivering under a blue-and-cream stadium blanket as Dad’s team faced off against their crosstown rivals. My brothers and I would be passing a thermos of spiked coffee, warming our insides against air crisp enough to pink our ears and cheeks. I could almost hear the muffled thwump thwump of my hands as I clapped in thick wool mittens. I looked forward to that game all year.
But afterward, my brothers got to join Dad and his team for a pizza lunch while I had to go help my mom. We’d work in the kitchen side by side, which wasn’t so different from this except that I hated being pulled away for no reason other than the fact that I was the girl. I resented my mother for making me peel and stir and sift and slice. She had always been jealous of how close I was with my dad, and she was always doing petty things like that to get between us. Every year while I stirred the cranberries I’d watch them pop and hiss in the pot and think, I know what you mean. But this year, someone else would have to make the sauce. I was busy doing something important, something the whole country was watching and following and talking about.
“I think we’re ready.” Abby broke into my thoughts. “Let’s eat.”
We filled our plates and carried them to the small square table marooned between the kitchenette and living room. The Dallas-Philadelphia game was on in the background, and we watched as we ate since Dallas, the defending two-time Super Bowl champions, had knocked the Bobcats out of the playoffs both times. They looked unstoppable again. The difference was that this season, the Bobcats did too.
The Dallas quarterback handed the ball off to his running back, who plowed forward three steps, pulled up, and lobbed the ball downfield. The receiver was all alone when he caught it, and he streaked to the end zone untouched. On the sideline, Coach Craig Washington, a six-foot-five giant with a shock of orange hair, pumped his fist. Dallas ran a dazzlingly fast, mobile offense that had earned the nickname Hell on Wheels, and people had already dubbed a potential showdown between him and Coach Guillory “Red vs. Red.”
“Can you imagine us running a halfback option?” I asked. “A.J. would give up his endorsement portfolio before he’d let someone else throw the ball.”
“What’s a halfback option?”
I looked to see if Abby was kidding. She wasn’t, so I gestured toward the TV. “What they just did—the quarterback gave the ball to the halfback, and then the halfback threw it instead of him. It’s super rare.” When she shrugged and took a bite of salad, I said, “Are you not that into football?”
“Not really.” She put three fingers to her mouth while she chewed, then swallowed. “I want to be in marketing, but for something a little more important, you know? Maybe like an art museum, or for films.”
I scooped up another forkful of potato. Films was one of those red-flag words that usually signaled someone I was not going to be very close with. And shouldn’t a person who wanted to work at an art museum have deeper cuts on her walls than Ansel Adams?
“How did you end up working here then?”
“Oh, like everyone else—I had a connection. My dad’s firm worked for the Aberfords and Mel liked him. And then Mel’s youngest grandson is interning with my dad’s firm now. That’s just how it works, you know?”
Not really, no. That wasn’t how it worked for me, but did that make me weird? Football was my life, it was all I’d ever wanted to do, and these jobs were so underpaid and hard to get that I’d just assumed everyone else at work felt the same. But was being at the Bobcats just another job to them? Was everyone laughing at me, skulking around the practice field and trying to sniff the grass?
Abby must have misread my stricken expression, because she gave me a sympathetic smile. “It’s your first time away for the holidays, huh?”
Maybe that’s what this was—she’d taken me in for the day like a lost kitten. I was wearing the wrong thing and fangirling over offensive schemes and yes, okay, maybe missing being with my family for the holiday, but I was also an adult.
“It is, but that’s fine with me. Actually, I prefer it.”
Abby cocked her head, looking at me with new attention. I’d surprised her and it felt good. “My Thanksgivings were not great either. My mom would spend all day cooking a huge meal and then every time I put something on my plate she’d do this little half cough. It was like a test.” Looking down at tonight’s dinner, Abby pushed the plate away and sipped her wine instead.
“My mom never stopped wishing I was someone else. And I guess that’s her right, but don’t tell me about it, you know?” I wrinkled my nose. “She calls me ‘Sunshine.’ Like, not in a nice way.”
“My mom enrolled us in the Mommies and Minis doubles tournament at our club and then got mad at me when I played ‘mannish tennis.’ Like it’s my fault Sloane Gimbsly has a shit backhand.”
“Sounds like you were pretty good.”
“Miss Junior Vermont Tennis Association Champion, 1996 through ’98.”
Abby refilled her glass and then tipped the bottle toward me. Most of my drinking had been from plastic cups in crowded bars, shots with degrading names like Redheaded Slut or Dirty Girl Scout. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d had wine without the word zinfandel involved, and I’d never tried the blood-red kind in front of me now, so thick in my mouth I almost chewed it. I’d had enough, but we’d bonded there for a minute and I didn’t want to ruin it, and so I nodded, and we clinked.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out expecting to hit ignore on a call from my parents, but it was a text from an unknown number. “Sorry,” I said as I opened it.
Happy Thanksgiving, Pop Tart. Hope you got your fill today.
James. A warming bubble rose through my chest as my free hand played with my hair. He was thinking of me? On Thanksgiving? I took a long drink and typed back, You too. Go for the extra dessert. After some thought, I added a winking emoji. Why not? It was more flirtatious than I would normally be, but I was out and chewing wine on my first Thanksgiving away from home. A little adult banter seemed appropriate.
Abby half stood from her chair and craned to see. “Okay—what’s that about?”
“Just James.” I snapped the phone shut and jammed it back into my pocket. “I don’t even know how he got my number.”
“Staff directory,” said Abby. She pursed her lips in a teasing smile. “Are you into him?”
“Nope.” I said it too quickly, but she was nice enough to pretend she didn’t notice. “We’re just friends. Not even that, really—we’re like, work…people.”
Abby raised her glass and winked at me before downing it. “Well, here’s to work people.”
* * *
*
“Poppy B,” said Brent when he walked in Monday morning. From the looks of things, he’d gotten a fresh dye job and hit the tanning bed hard over the holiday weekend, but he sounded lackluster, a little less Brent-like than usual.
It was good to be back after so many days away. I didn’t have any friends here outside of work, and Abby and I had already hung out on Thursday. I wanted to text James, but I really wanted him to text me, so I held off, and Mo and I didn’t know each other like that. I’d considered making up an IT problem so I’d have an excuse to get in touch—maybe accidentally on purpose changing a few settings on my work laptop?—before realizing what a jerk move that would be during the break.
“Did you have a nice holiday?” I asked.
“Yeah…” He sighed. “Listen, kid, let’s talk.”
Nothing good has ever come from that opener, and my body was instantly on full alert.
Brent peered at me. “Did you spend Thanksgiving with that girl Abby? From marketing?”
“Yeah,” I said, completely thrown. How would Brent know about that already?
“Don’t hang out with her.”
The words slapped me. That was outside of work, my private life, and it’s not like I was hitting up P.F. Chang’s with one of the players. Abby was just another female employee about my age. If I couldn’t hang out with her, who was it okay to be around?
“Look.” He leaned his elbows on the desk. “You’re doing a good job here. We like you.”
“Thank you,” I managed.
“I want you to be here next season, and I think you want to be here next season, and so we both need you not to get fired.” I was still reeling at the word fired when Brent continued, “Abby has…a reputation. That shit catches like viruses, and if people knew you were hanging out with her, her bad reputation becomes your bad reputation.” He held up his palms. “I have nothing against the girl, I don’t even know her. It just is what it is.”
“What kind of reputation?”
Brent’s eyes flicked to the closed annex door. “You know, her outfits are kind of…She likes to show it off, she likes the attention. And maybe she’s not trying to snag a player, okay, maybe she just likes people looking at her, but it’s not cool at work, you know?”
“Uh-huh.” Pencil skirts. Fitted blouses and sweaters. Yes, they were tight, and yes, she looked great in them, but I tried to remember if I’d ever even glimpsed Abby’s shoulders. And then it clicked—Neil from accounting. Abby was the one who helped drive him back, she’d sent him packing down the hall by fibbing that we’d be having Thanksgiving together. And then he ran to Brent, all concerned whispers. I’m worried about Poppy. She’s too good of a girl to get mixed up with someone like that.
“I don’t think she’s missing too many happy hours at Thirsty Charlie’s, if you know what I mean, and—look, I shouldn’t be telling you this,” his voice dropped even lower, “but last year she was fucking a scout. Major league sloppy, everybody knew about it. She would have gotten fired if her dad wasn’t some big friend of the Aberfords. That’s that nepotism shield for you, and it sucks, but it’s the way the world works.”
That was the way the world worked? Because it sure sounded to me like two consenting adults hooked up, and only one of them was in trouble. Was that because scouting was more important than marketing, or because the scout was a dude and Abby wasn’t? My heart raced at the thought of the texts I’d exchanged with James. If Brent knew about them, would he still think I was doing a good job?
Brent’s shoulders relaxed, now that this Very Uncomfortable Conversation was over. He cracked his gum and patted my shoulder.
“Don’t worry about it, Pop, you couldn’t have known. I’ve got your back.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
NOW
Coach number three was also homegrown. Four years ago Dominick Russo retired from heading the tight ends and had worked in the front office ever since. I saw him most mornings in the kitchenette trying to decode the cappuccino machine, and now he would be at the helm of a multibillion-dollar franchise.
“I know it’s only three games,” said Rodney as we watched Chloe carrying a potted plant toward the coaches’ wing. I’d dispatched her to help bring Coach Russo’s things into Red’s vacated space. “But don’t sleep on that ficus for coach. We could get it a hat and some tiny sunglasses.”
“Asbel knows what he’s doing. Just do a find and replace on the release about Nate,” I instructed, checking my phone for the millionth time. I’d just finished reading Bernie’s story on DeMario, which had brought a flurry of demands for immediate availability. I had a blistering headache, and thanks to Asbel’s new edict that I follow A.J. around, in twenty minutes I’d be on a bus headed toward the Adirondacks. Don’t forget, hissed a little voice, it’s day four. As if I could. “Or, actually,” I amended, “forget it, I’ll do that.”
“Poppy.” Rodney gave me the look he reserved for when I was being, as he called it, Super Pop. It wasn’t that I couldn’t delegate, I just knew what I wanted and could do it better than anyone else, and so it saved time if I did it myself. I grudgingly sighed.
“Fine, you do it. Thank you.”
Chloe returned, wiping dirt from her hands onto a paper towel so as not to stain her high-waisted trousers. She was young and bright, in sharp contrast to my own drawn, exhausted face. When had that happened? When had passing expressions of anxiety and concern become permanent, so that my baseline was a deficit I had to work against just to look normal? I took in Chloe’s glowing skin and upturned mouth and felt like a fairy-tale witch lusting after her youth. “Chlo, can you go take this to Asbel to get his sign-off?”
“I can’t—his door is closed.”
