The Snap, page 21
“Hell, no.”
* * *
*
We won again the next week, and we did it without A.J. Caufield. His shoulder wasn’t as bad as it had seemed—a few hours in a cold tub helped—and Deon told Mo, who told me that there was no reason not to start him. Except that A.J. had looked grim and determined out there, a weathered soldier clinging to the smoldering end of his last cigarette, determined to guard that bridge if it killed him, and Will looked like a kid at Dave and Buster’s. He could take a hit, and his mobility cracked open Coach Craig’s offense, which was predicated on forcing opponents to defend the entire field at once—spreading them out. “Can I kick it?” blasted out of the postgame locker room, the entire team chanting back, “Yes, you can!” loud enough to shake the walls, and I was just allowing myself a moment’s shoulder shimmy when Bernie approached, looking serious.
“Can this wait, Bern? I just want to bask a little longer. Just until Monday. Then you can ruin my day.”
“I don’t think you want me to do that. I got a note.”
My blood froze. The music, the room—everything drained away except the muffled high-pitched ringing of a sonic vacuum after a bomb.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
That was the last time I saw Abby.
She wasn’t there when we won the game—of course we did, has anything ever been more predestined?—and she wasn’t there when Red Guillory was named Coach of the Year.
She wasn’t at the airfield back in Syracuse when we deplaned through the darkness to a crowd of thousands waiting in the snow, under floodlights, cheering louder and louder as each person appeared at the top of the mobile stairs until A.J. finally emerged carrying the League MVP trophy in one hand and the Lombardi trophy in the other and sent them into the stratosphere.
She wasn’t at the parade through downtown, the coldest day my body has ever experienced, when the city leaned into its snowy identity and used sleds as floats down unplowed streets, pulled by horses from a local farm in brilliant coats of Bobcats red.
She was just—gone.
“What do you think happened to her?” I asked Mo and James. Now that the celebrations were done we were settling into the languor of the off-season. The players were home, wherever that was for them, which meant staff could have lunch at any time. Until the draft, there wasn’t much to do in Media Relations except work on next year’s media guide and finally get some rest.
“I called her a few times,” Mo offered. “Straight to voicemail. She probably just moved on, though. She really wasn’t that into football.”
“She wasn’t a great fit,” said James. His voice was flat. “You know, you can’t do the stuff she did and hang on with a team very long. Once everyone knows about it, it’s pretty much over.”
I took a tiny bite of my sandwich and chewed it into dust. My postseason dream had been slow to start, but James and I were supposed to go to Francesca’s tonight, a popular restaurant on the North Side with brick walls, tea lights, and meatballs the size of bocces. I wondered if James saw the irony in his comments, since he was one of the men Abby had hooked up with and was going out with me later. He winked at me over the top of his cup and changed the subject to snowboarding.
* * *
*
“Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. Okay, right on. Poppy?”
Brent hung up the phone. I’d been staring dully at the empty Word document on my screen, watching the cursor blink, but when I heard my name I swung my chair around and raised my eyebrows. “Richard wants you. Not there,” he said, noticing my glance toward Richard’s empty office. “He’s with the big boss. They’re calling you in, kid.”
My hands shook as I swiped myself out of the annex, because if they wanted to talk to me together, it could be about only one thing. So much time had passed—it felt like years—since the conference finals that I’d almost convinced myself no one would ever know. But there were text messages and security videos, and what would I say if they confronted me with those now? What could I say?
My Bobcats badge flapped against my waist where it was clipped. Once, I’d imagined wearing it outside this building, a literal badge of honor. I never thought it would be ripped off and thrown into the trash. How was I supposed to explain that to my family? How could I tell my dad that I’d been fired—and why?
James smiled at me as I walked past his desk, but I couldn’t bring myself to do more than lift my fingers in a half wave.
The door to Asbel’s office was open, but Richard was standing with one hand on the knob, and as soon as I walked in he pulled it shut.
“S’down,” said Asbel by way of greeting. His face was unreadable. I looked to Richard, leaning against the wall. His hands were clasped in front of him, thumbs fidgeting. His eyes were on the carpet.
Lowering myself onto one of the chairs across from Asbel’s desk, I tucked my legs tightly together and ran my palms down my pants, trying to subtly wipe off the sweat gathering there.
Asbel put his elbows on the desk and looked at me like he could see under my skin. “Poppy. Is there anything you need to tell us?”
My heartbeat turned to horse’s hooves. This was it. I’d probably never see my desk again, they’d escort me out from here. Later someone would send a pitiful cardboard box of my belongings to my apartment, where Dave and Flossie would throw it away because I’d already moved home to Ohio. An endless pause stretched between us, lengthened, filled the room. I could hear my own breaths.
“We’ve received a complaint,” Asbel said finally, never taking his eyes off of me, “but there are some conflicting reports.”
“Oh?”
Richard picked up the thread. “Someone made a complaint about—a senior member of staff. Now, as a father of daughters, believe me, that makes me sick. But as Asbel said, there might be more going on in this case.”
It wasn’t about me. My mind raced through knee-deep mud, trying to catch up. “Abby?”
Richard tried unsuccessfully to exchange a glance with Asbel, who was still locked on me. “What makes you say that?”
I knew that there were going to be moments in my life that decided everything afterward, but they didn’t come when I’d expected. Choosing a college, a job. Making promises in church with the man I’d build my family with. Those were big, but you got to prepare for them, to think, and consult, and consider. The real defining moments were the ones that crept up on you on a quiet off-season Tuesday, when you had to answer fast, from your gut, and find out what your guts were made of. For just a moment, we were suspended in the intake of a breath. The air whistled past us like the breeze through a canyon, a deafening roar that filled my ears, nose, throat, lungs. The three of us sat, tipped at the very precipice of my life.
And then the moment was cleaved in two.
“It’s just that she had kind of a reputation. I don’t want to spread rumors, but she’s been with a few guys on staff, and there were some alcohol issues, too. So it doesn’t surprise me. Unfortunately.”
Abby didn’t even want to be here. She didn’t care about football, about the Bobcats. Maybe she’d left a little early, but she was always going to go. I, on the other hand, belonged here. I’d proven that, I’d earned it.
“Good,” Asbel said finally, slowly. “That’s good to know, thank you, Poppy.”
“I’m glad to help.” The meeting was ending, but there was more to say. There was more to take. Five minutes ago I’d thought I was about to be escorted out of here, and the threat of it made me want to fight. I wasn’t ever going to be bounced back to the outside. I wanted to be here. And I realized now—this was the game, it wasn’t changing, and I could either complain about it or start playing. “I think I could help more,” I said.
Richard’s eyebrows brushed the ceiling. Asbel just raised his chin, indicating that I should go on. My pulse was pounding in my ears, but I forced myself to stay steady. I forced my voice to be strong. “It sounds like nothing has been made public, which is great. But if it did…I just don’t see how anyone could believe something like that about a team hiring women to prominent front-office positions. Do you?”
* * *
*
Abby never went public with her claims, and shortly after the draft, Brent announced he was moving on to join the staff at Miami.
“I’ll finally be able to get a real tan,” he cracked.
“I didn’t know you were job hunting,” said our admin, Julie. She was standing in the doorway to her office with her arms folded and the corners of her mouth turned down.
“I wasn’t! They called me out of the blue—scouted! I met the director there during the Super Bowl, and I guess he liked what he saw.”
I wouldn’t be delivering papers and clips anymore. Now that I was the media relations manager, that job would fall to someone else. But first there was one last day of it.
I took my time and saved the coach’s papers for last. The coaches’ wing was quiet. Coach Guillory’s admin was off somewhere, as she so often was in the mornings. He was at his desk, drinking a refillable water bottle full of electric-green juice. “Mmm,” he said, holding up a finger as he swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hey there, Pop Tart.”
I smiled sweetly.
“Hey, Red.”
PART III
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
NOW
I climbed out of bed before dawn and pressed my feet to the freezing floor. The winter darkness was thick and deep as a mud puddle, and I shivered. I pulled on a bathrobe and slipped my phone into the pocket, then padded out to the kitchen. Coffee wouldn’t fix things, but it never hurt, and I started my expensive machine and rummaged in the fridge for some fruit. It wasn’t that I had any appetite—although my last solid food was yesterday’s lunch. But I needed the sensation of crushing something, of biting down and feeling it burst between my teeth.
I found an orange on the counter and peeled it. Its sharp, citrus scent hit my nose at the same time as the coffee, and together they snapped me into focus. I popped the first wedge in and game-planned.
Bernie’s face had been a mix of confusion, apology, and suspicion. When he suggested we step into the hallway, I’d followed, although everything in me was screaming to run, that if I didn’t hear this, it wouldn’t actually be happening.
Carolyn had sent the letters. She’d admitted it, and it was over. But when Bernie dropped his voice, looked at me hard, and said, “It was a tip,” I knew that it wasn’t. “You’re friendly with that lawyer for the Blizzard, right? The one who—”
“Yes. Good friends, actually. She’s a great person. You can quote me on that. Seems a little outside your jurisdiction, though.”
“It is…but you’re not.”
One of the equipment guys came through the doorway pushing a giant bin of laundry, and we stepped apart to let him pass, then came together again. “What are you talking about?”
Bernie scratched the back of his head. His shirt pulled untucked on that side. “I don’t like having these conversations—and with you…You’re like a daughter to me. I’ve known you since you were this high.” He hovered his hand above the floor. “You know, career-wise.”
“Tell me.”
“I got a tip that there’s a similar story around you to the one involving your friend. I can’t picture it, Poppy, honestly, I know that’s not you. I wasn’t going to say anything. But, you know, thirty-eight years of journalism, I can’t just shake it off, I have a responsibility. So I thought I’d come here, look you in the eye, ask you, and we can be done with it.”
Here was my chance. If I was sorry—now that I’d come to terms, now that I knew what I’d really done—I could stand here and tell the truth. I could dump out to Bernie, my friend, what Red did to me and what I did in turn to Abby. I couldn’t fix it, ever. I’d have to live with what I’d done. But I could be honest. I could let myself be called to account.
“Bernie…”
His eyes were pleading. His hand was on my arm. I was suddenly aware of the ache in the balls of my feet, screaming after twelve hours in heels. My neck was stiff. I felt tired, and old. “I am so hurt that you would even ask me that.”
* * *
*
Now I texted Annika, outside of the group chat. I’m sure things are still really tough at home, but I need you to get Carolyn some therapy or anger management or whatever. I want to help, but this can’t keep happening.
It was just after six here, which meant just after five in Wisconsin, but the text changed to “Read,” and almost instantly my phone rang. “What are you talking about?” I quickly filled Annika in, and just as quickly she said, “It’s not Carolyn.”
“I know you—”
“No. Believe me, I understand she’s capable of it.” That shut me up. “But it can’t be her. Grant took her to the cabin for the week. It was too much here, we couldn’t…Anyway, there’s no service. Or very limited. And she doesn’t have her phone. The doctor recommended it.”
It was the third week in November, which should have been the beginning of finals crunch for a first-year law student. Instead, Carolyn was back in Wisconsin undergoing a tech detox on the suggestion of a doctor. The Jensen family of highfliers had been torn apart, obliterated, and my cold heart ached for Annika.
“Anni, what Bernie said.” My head throbbed. “It’s true. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when things broke apart. It just…There’s a lot more to the story.”
“There always is.”
After we hung up, I stared hard at the counter thinking through my options. Someone knew more than I wanted them to about my past. Okay, then—why the dance? Why not just tell Bernie instead of being cryptic? In Carolyn’s case, I suspected it was because she’d wanted there to be another answer. Deep down, she’d wanted to believe that her mother was good, that there’d been some kind of mistake. For Bernie’s source, I had a more cynical explanation—whoever it was didn’t actually know the details, at least not yet. And I wasn’t going to just sit here until they found out.
I was sick of this—sick of these little surprises threatening everything I’d built. Yes, I’d hurt someone, badly, when I was young and stupid and naïve. Yes, there were things I’d give anything to redo now that I knew so much better. But if I was wrong, Red had been more wrong, and I wasn’t about to be held more accountable for not preventing his bad deeds than he was for committing them.
Damian Jokiak would be welcomed back someday. Mike Tyson served six years in prison as a convicted rapist, and now most people knew him for his fun celebrity cameo in The Hangover. Look at the guest list on his podcast. You could build a Pro Bowl roster out of NFL players who’d been accused of sexual assault, up to and including a multi-Super-Bowl-winning quarterback. Accusations were not convictions, but in one case the league felt strongly enough to suspend the player for six games and require that he undergo a league-mandated “professional behavior evaluation.” He won the Super Bowl again the following year, confetti raining down around him as he kissed the Lombardi trophy.
So while Damian would be back, Annika would not. And that was bullshit.
It was time to go on the offensive, and the most logical starting point was with Red because the only thing I knew for sure was that everything tracked back to him. The first note came on the day after his death, and all this started when he’d assaulted me in that anteroom. He was the key, and if I couldn’t go talk to him, I’d have to settle for the next best thing. Because like DeMario said, there were no real secrets between husbands and wives.
* * *
*
Lexi Guillory looked better one month after the death of her husband than I had on headshots day. That’s not to say she wasn’t suffering, because when she opened the door her eyes were sunken from too many tears and not enough sleep. Her hair—a long wavy mix of real and tasteful extensions, balayage blond—was scraped back into a greasy ponytail, and for the first time I could remember, she wasn’t in heels but fuzzy beige slides.
“You’re the first person from the team who’s come,” she said, bending down the four inches between us to wrap me in a hug. “I’ve had texts and calls, but no one else has actually been here. We’re selling the house, obviously.” It clicked that I was now in the place where Red was murdered.
My phone buzzed—a call from my brother Jeff. I hit Ignore and followed Lexi down a blond wood hallway and into a living room roughly the size of my townhouse. It had a soaring two-story ceiling and oversized windows with trendy black square frames. The sofas were white and cloudlike with no support, and as soon as I sat on the one across from Lexi I knew it would take an act of God to get me back on my feet.
“Do you want water or something? We have still, Perrier, San Pell…?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” What do you say to a woman whose husband was murdered? What if you were in the process of understanding things about him that made you want to shatter the windows, to scream so loud that the house came tumbling down around you? I’ve never been married, and so I don’t claim to understand the dynamic between husband and wife, the extent to which one becomes the other. But when I imagine two people linked the way they were, I don’t picture them laughing or walking into a black-tie event or having sex. I picture them sleeping, the hours each night spent defenseless and vulnerable, trading breaths, sharing the air. It seemed to me that during those hours everything in each of them tumbled into the narrow slip of bed between and swirled around, hitting one body, bouncing back to the middle, swirling again until it reached the other. Maybe that little world existed only while they slept and once their eyes opened it was gone, but I thought something must stay behind. Some essence of Red must have seeped into his wife’s bones, because she couldn’t spend so many years creating that nightly symbiosis with someone and not have an idea of who he really was.
