The Snap, page 11
“Really?” That was strange. “Since when?”
“Since the red-haired guy went in there. I saw him at reception when I was delivering papers.”
I didn’t know about any meeting with a red-haired guy—certainly not one that would have started at six thirty. None of our assistants had red hair, and neither did anyone in the front office.
Unless…
Asbel, no.
“I’ll take the form.”
“Go, Super Pop, go!” Rodney called down the hallway after me. I ignored him and broke into a near run.
“He’s busy,” Asbel’s longtime assistant, Dot, said as soon as she saw me coming.
“Yeah, I just need this signed.” Increasing my stride, I headed straight for his office door. Dot leapt from behind her desk to block me. “Excuse me. I need this signed. I’m leaving soon and it has to get posted.” The blinds were drawn on the narrow windows to either side of Asbel’s door, and I ducked and squinted, trying to make anything out through the slats. The move brought a look from Dot that I hadn’t seen since my intern days.
“Leave it with me,” she insisted. “I’ll have him do it when he comes out.” One of her eyebrows quirked above her glasses as she showed me the bottom of her chin. We stared each other down for a few more beats, but I knew a brick wall when I saw one.
“As soon as he comes out,” I said, and Dot smirked.
Outside the stadium it was so cold that the sidewalk sparkled. I followed the stream of players in team-issued sweatpants and ski hats toward the two waiting buses. My winter-white dress coat looked great but tapped out at about fifteen degrees, meaning icy winds pierced it from all sides. I buried my hands deep within its pockets and hurried as fast as my ankle boots would allow on the frosted sidewalk. But then I stopped, forcing the crowd to split to either side, and looked toward the windows of Asbel’s office. Of course, the blinds were drawn.
What if I just—didn’t go? What if I stayed here and set up camp beside Dot’s desk until Asbel opened the door and had to look me in the face when Craig Washington walked sheepishly out? He was the only person in football I could think of with flaming red hair, and there was only one reason he’d be in a closed-door meeting before dawn with our general manager. I should be in that meeting, explaining that Asbel absolutely could not bring on our biggest and most hated rival, the one whose name was inscribed on Dallas’s stadium, in the wake of our beloved coach’s death. Craig Washington had retired three years ago and still couldn’t so much as fly over this state without being booed. Asbel wanted to give him Red’s office? No, he could not do this. I wouldn’t allow it.
“Yo, Poppy,” yelled Raj from the steps of the first bus. “You coming?”
My shoulders slumped in defeat. Asbel was always going to do what he thought would win the most football games. The rest did not matter to him, least of all my opinion.
I climbed into the second bus, where the blasting heat had cleared only a credit-card-sized bit of windshield, and dropped heavily into a seat beside our CR director, Drea. Her hair was in its usual giant bun, and I had never in my life met a human being more committed to polka dots. We had very little in common besides professional perfectionism, but that was enough for me. I liked Drea. She was good at her job.
A few rows back, Alec was leaning against the window, his headphones already in place. Across from him our backup quarterback, Will, was bobbing his head, bladed hands bouncing in front of him with the beat of whatever he was listening to. I didn’t know him well—no one but A.J. had started for us since the launch of Facebook, and Will kept mostly to himself. Alec caught me looking. “He’s old-school,” he called. “It’s A Tribe Called Quest.” His tongue snuck out the corner of his grin. “What’s on yours—Adele?”
I pulled a face, because having eighty brothers was more fun on some days than others. “Okay, she’s actually very talented,” I muttered. And then, to Drea, “Where’s A.J.?”
“He’s meeting us up there—on time, he swears. He had something else this morning.”
The drive to Fort Clinton took a little more than an hour, which the guys mostly spent on their phones. Drea was managing her emails, humming softly to herself. I should have been checking mine too, but I was restless, opting instead to stare out the window. We were going the wrong way. I was itching to get back to the stadium, to demand details around everything I’d been so stupidly excluded from, and instead we were heading toward the Canadian border.
Drea looked up from her work and followed my glance outside. At this elevation the snow stayed from November through May, and the blur of gray-white covered the ground, the trees, the sky. A gust of wind shook the bus, and for a moment the road disappeared as old snow blew across it. She snorted. “What idiot scheduled this in the middle of winter? Oh right—me. Lovely day for a trip to the mountains.” She turned to me anxiously. “You don’t think any of them will get sick, do you?”
“You’re fine,” I said, but my mind had gone white at day four. The words were like an ice pick to the back of the neck.
What do you think, I texted Dayanna. I didn’t have to specify about what.
Prank, she wrote back.
But who?
Instead of answering, she wrote, Have I ever told you what my boss did when I first came on? He claimed Buster was self-conscious about his glass eye and not to look directly at him, and that our owner was deaf in his left ear. Both bullshit, but I spent my first-ever team dinner refusing to look at our president and yelling at our owner.
I sent a laughing emoji and set the phone on my lap. I didn’t believe the notes were harmless and neither did Dayanna, but for right now we would both pretend for the other that we thought things would be okay.
A stocky man with black hair and a red nose met us at the installation’s gate. “We’re glad to have you folks,” he yelled. A vicious gust of wind caught my hair and whipped it around my face. I pulled my coat up over my mouth and nose.
Alec bumped my hip as he climbed off after me. “You cold, Poppy? We play in worse than this.”
“I’m great. Just point me to the press box.” My foot planted awkwardly on a set of frozen tire tracks, and I cursed my choice of ankle boots. There were patches of black ice scattered across the parking lot, and our next stop would be crossing the mud- and ice-covered grounds. And A.J. wasn’t even here. I felt banished by Asbel to the ends of the earth.
And then, from the almost empty defensive bus, a heavily padded leg swung into view. My stomach clenched. DeMario.
“I didn’t think you’d be here,” I said, but what I really meant was I didn’t think I would have to face you so soon. Shame bubbled sour and hot through my chest.
DeMario took his crutches from Drea and nodded toward the building. “I’m good. A torn ACL’s not the worst thing in there.”
The team trudged through outdoor training areas, gamely trying the obstacles despite the punishing cold. “I can’t take a team photo until that jackass gets here,” Drea said, removing her gloves to snap a picture of the offensive line by a decorative cannon. “Okay, guys,” she announced, “we’re calling it. Let’s get inside and hit the bagels.”
* * *
*
When we got to the cafeteria, I almost hugged the giant coffee carafe. The team filled their plates and then found seats with the servicemen and -women. I was trying to scrape the last bit of cream cheese out of its tub when A.J. finally walked in, followed by Omar Kadeer.
“What’s up, gentlemen?” A.J. flashed his trademark half grin to an explosion of whoops and cheers. It was a magic trick of charm and dimples that made me want to pluck the hairs from his head one by one. “You guys are the real heroes.”
“Obviously they’re the real heroes!” I said to Drea, but she just gestured toward a beaming servicewoman having Raj sign the back of her jersey.
“He’s here and they’re smiling. That’s good enough for me.” She raised her camera and went to get photos.
As I watched, A.J. passed by Alec, leaned in close to his ear, and whispered something that made Alec’s shoulders go stiff. A.J. looked at a particularly well-built serviceman, raised his eyebrows at Alec, then clapped him on the shoulder and moved on. “Asshole.”
“Excuse me.” Omar Kadeer had come up behind me looking like a European fever dream in slim-cut jeans, an indigo blazer, and brown dress shoes with no socks (in this weather!). He was shorter than he appeared in pictures and more soft-spoken than I expected. “You’re Poppy Benjamin. I’ve been wanting to meet you.”
“Really?”
“Well, we move in the same circles.”
We did not move in the same circles. Omar accompanied his A-list clientele to product launches in Dubai, while I spent lunch eating salad at my desk with my fingers. “I don’t mean this to sound rude, Omar, but what are you doing here?”
He gestured toward A.J. “Keeping him company.”
“Nice of you.”
“He’s our biggest client. There’s a lot going on right now, with Red, the way the season is going. It’s good to be nearby.”
“So you want to make sure he doesn’t say anything stupid to hurt his brand and your wallet. You know, if it’s such a tricky situation here for A.J. you could always shop him around to other teams.”
“So could you.”
“Sure—except that he has an ironclad no-trade clause, which you wrote.”
“Oh, that’s right.” Omar smiled, pulled out his phone, and started pecking at it.
“You could get him to waive it,” I said, “make a trade to Miami or L.A., or somewhere else your face doesn’t hurt when you go outside.”
“Nah. His brand is here. His legacy is here. A.J. in any other jersey just dilutes that.”
I watched the service members gathered four and five deep around A.J., who glowed under their attention. Most of them weren’t even from this area, but they loved him because A.J. as quarterback of the Syracuse Bobcats was an institution. They’d grown up watching him, and now here he was in front of their eyes, a real live superhero. Branding was all about establishing a strong identity, and Omar was right. Changing the costume would damage that because people needed to hear his name and conjure one, concrete image—not Aaron Rodgers in a Jets jersey, or Peyton Manning in Broncos orange.
“You don’t like him very much, do you?” Omar had put the phone away now and was looking at me with his head cocked, a smile playing at the corner of his full lips.
“It doesn’t matter whether I like him or not.”
“It’s funny.” Omar gave a little shrug and spoke over his shoulder as he walked off toward the group. “He says the nicest things about you.”
* * *
*
“What kind of a mindfuck is that?” I ranted to Sarah later. I was outside the stadium huddled in the alcove by the main doors, where it was still freezing but at least the wind couldn’t reach me. From here, I could see into Asbel’s office, which was dark. As soon as that light went on, he was getting a visit, and Dot had better just watch her toes.
“Is it possible he wasn’t messing with you?”
I made a noise somewhere between a snort and a harrumph. “I’ve worked with A.J. for fifteen years, and if you showed up tomorrow in a brunette wig and sat at my desk, he’d call you by my name. And frankly, the wig is probably optional. There is no way he said actual kind things about me to Omar Kadeer, of all people.”
“I like that we both realize that he is a first name–last name person—Omar Kadeer. What did he smell like?”
“Citrus sea mist with fruity undertones.” The light went on. “I’ve got to go.”
I marched into Asbel’s office to find him looking up at me with a bemused expression, which pissed me off even more. “What the hell is going on, Asbel? I know you had Craig Washington in here this morning. Do not lie to me.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Well—what the fuck? Are you bringing him in? You’re lucky Red is dead because if he knew you were talking to Craig, he’d kill you.”
“You don’t think I’d hire him if Red was alive?”
“Never, you would never have—” Asbel raised his eyebrows as the penny dropped. “You want everyone to know that this wasn’t in the works before. That you weren’t planning to fire Red.”
He picked up a pen and started scribbling, done with me. “Well, that, and there aren’t any other future Hall of Fame coaches sitting home on their sofas just now.”
Craig Washington was a brilliant coach, that part was undeniable. But he’d built his teams around players who could run the kind of flashy, quick-as-lightning offenses he favored. It took a very agile quarterback, someone who could read the defense and make a split-second decision on whether to run or pass. Someone who could handle the big hits that came from all that extra space between the offensive linemen, and the hazard of the trade that was a fat, juicy quarterback running with the football. Someone smart. Someone young.
Without looking up, Asbel said, “Everyone make it to the event okay?”
Goddamn it, Asbel. Of course I wasn’t just babysitting A.J. as a punishment—Asbel would never waste my time like that, not when I could be doing something for him instead. He’d needed me to meet Omar Kadeer and get a read on whether A.J. wanted out. And through sheer luck and stupidity, I’d done it.
Now that I wasn’t too annoyed to think clearly, I understood. Omar’s cocky insistence that A.J. was the Bobcats was about branding, but also legacy. There had long been a debate about whether the team’s success was down to Red or A.J. In our recent, leaner years, the conversation had shifted to whose fault it was. But with Red gone, A.J. had an opportunity to claim the glory once and for all. If we won now, it proved that he was the secret ingredient, that it was his brilliance that led to those Super Bowls.
Meanwhile, Asbel might like to seem tough, but he’d just hired the one coach who proved that he’d been planning to stand by Red, no matter how much pressure had been on him to make a change. And while Omar and A.J. were swanning into our CR event an hour late, Asbel was signing a coach who would prove that Red was the engine that had powered our success.
Because there was no way in hell that A.J., already geriatric in football terms, could run that offense.
Asbel was going to tank him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Game 16 closed out a perfect regular season. We freaking did it. On Monday morning for the first time in weeks people smiled at each other in the hallways. It wasn’t the end. Even with a first-round bye, the playoffs would be a whole other level, and those battles were coming. But for now we had a week to breathe, rest, and celebrate the pretty major accomplishment of four months of undefeated football.
Somewhere around October Brent’s boss, Richard, saw the trash can next to A.J.’s locker overflowing with unopened fan mail, and ever since I’d been responsible for answering it with Bobcats stickers, mimeographed photos, and cheerleader calendars. The upshot was that I had dibs on anything the fans sent in, and I thought fondly of Courtney from Utica, who’d mailed A.J. a Starbucks card “for their first date,” every time she bought me a coffee.
The rest of the department was scattered on assignments, and I was three mocha truffles into a similar gift when James swiped himself into the annex. I stuffed the truffle box under my desk and grabbed an envelope from the fan mail bin, wiping my fingers on my dress pants.
We hadn’t texted since Thanksgiving, although we still ate lunch together with Mo and Abby, and we both always refilled our coffee at one thirty. Or maybe I’d noticed that’s when James usually refilled his and timed things accordingly, but we’d lean against the break room counters chatting and laughing until someone else came to use the machine. I imagined that James was impressed by how cool I was playing it, not the usual needy girl who had to ask “Are you into me?” or “Why did you text me on a national holiday and then never again?”
“What are you up to?” I said.
“Taking a break from the new college scouting assistant. His desk is right across from mine, and I need a little fresh air.”
I finished copying an address on the envelope and dropped a fan pack inside. “No good?”
“He’s kind of a douche.”
“And you’re saying he doesn’t fit in.”
“Poppy. He put his DKE letters on his cubicle.”
“Oof.” A wave of secondhand embarrassment washed over me. “That’s awful, but I also feel kind of bad for him. It’s not easy being new here, especially this season. Everything has been so tense.”
“Yeah, and teams are tough to break into, but he’s not doing a lot to embrace the culture, if you know what I mean.” He nudged my desk. “Plus, you’re not new anymore. You’re a full Bobcat now.”
What I would have given to have popped on my recorder thirty seconds earlier. To be able to fall asleep at night with my headphones on while that person saying that thing whispered into my ears in an infinite loop. I smiled at James, a big, goofy, embarrassing smile. His smile back was a slow, cocky lift of the lips.
“Listen, we’re going out this weekend—Abby, Mo, and me. To celebrate the regular season. Do you want to join in?”
I forced myself to be cool. “Yeah—sounds fun.” I thought a minute, then added, “And let’s invite the new guy. So he’s not left out.”
“Fine.” James pulled out his phone. “Let me get your number.”
I laughed, and James cocked his head. “Oh—because, you know, you have it,” I said in a rush as his brows folded inward. The look of confusion on his face sent my stomach tumbling to the floor. He didn’t know what I was talking about.
That meant that James had never texted me, which meant that someone else had. And I’d flirted back. I’d sent a wink. Oh my God. Oh my God.
