“My dad and I used to watch football together. You were his favorite player. He pointed out every move you made, analyzed every pass you threw. I was eleven when he died—cancer—and when I remember those days, I always think of football. Every day after school, I sat beside his hospital bed. On the weekends we watched the games together. I think it was better than talking.” She looked at him. It took her a second to smile. “He always said you were the best quarterback to play the game, and now you’re in Portland, Oregon, on the lowest rated newscast in town. What happened?”
It was what they all asked, sooner or later. How did you lose it all? He always gave the same answer. “You know I blew out my knee.”
She leaned forward, gazed at him earnestly. “There’s more to it, isn’t there?”
It felt dangerous suddenly, this moment; a slow, conscious skate toward the edge of intimacy. He knew better, of course. Every man his age did, but he’d been lonely for a long, long time, and just now that burden seemed heavier than before. “It started in the hospital.”
Amazingly, he told her all of it, how he’d gotten addicted to his pain medications and blown his shot on Monday Night Football.
It came back to him like a handful of broken glass, all sharp edges and reflected light. He knew that if he held it too tightly, his hand would bleed, but he couldn’t stop himself.
He’d tried so hard to pretend that losing football didn’t matter, but the game had been his life. Without it, his days and nights had unfurled like scenes in a silent black-and-white movie. He’d anesthetized himself with pills and booze. His excesses had become legendary. He went from golden boy to party animal. There were huge chunks of time he couldn’t even remember.
But he remembered The Accident. It had been late, or early, depending on your perspective, on a cold and snowy night. He shouldn’t have been driving, not after a long night spent drinking at the Village Vanguard. But hindsight was twenty-twenty. What he remembered most was the screeching scream of tires and the smell of burning rubber.
“I didn’t hurt anyone,” he said softly, but that wasn’t the point. “My agent kept it out of the papers, but my career was over anyway. After a stint in rehab, the only job I could get was for a local station in Albuquerque. It’s been a long, slow climb back.”
He looked at Sally and knew that something had changed between them. For the first time, she was seeing beyond Jackson Shore, Football Legend, to the man he was inside.
He tried to look away. Couldn’t.
She touched his arm. “This story is going to make both of our careers.”
Her touch was like an electrical spark.
He forced himself to look down at the papers spread out between them. He tried to read. Words drifted up to him, meaningless and unconnected. Then he noticed something. “The campus is closing today for winter break.”
“I know.”
He had to do something. Anything was better than sitting here, suddenly aching for a woman he couldn’t have. “What do you say we go back, drive around? The administrators and staff will be gone. Maybe someone will talk when the wardens aren’t around.”
“It’s worth a shot.”
Jack paid the bill; then they left.
Back on campus, they tried all their usual places, looked for all their previous sources. They made themselves impossible to ignore, easy to find.
Nothing.
Finally, they pulled into the parking lot and sat in the car beneath a bright streetlamp. A silvery rain beaded the windshield.
“I guess that’s that,” he said at last, reaching for the keys. A glance at the dash clock revealed that it was one in the morning. In a few hours, he’d have to show up for work again.
A knock at the window shocked the hell out of both of them.
Jack rolled down the window. There, sidled close to the door, was a uniformed campus police officer, a man they’d tried to interview earlier. Sally immediately reached for a notepad and flipped to a blank sheet.
“You’re lookin’ for the dirt on Drew Grayland?” the officer whispered.
“Yeah. We heard he got picked up for drunk driving last Saturday night.”
“Nothin’ new in that. These athletes get away with murder. I’m sick of it. I’ve got daughters, you know?”
“Can you confirm that Drew was arrested on Saturday night?”
The officer laughed. “Arrested? I doubt it.”
“What’s your name?”
“Mark Lundberg.”
“Can we quote you on the record?”
The officer shook his head. “I got two kids to feed. I can’t take on this fight. But I can’t stand by and do nothin’ anymore. Here.” He slipped a manila envelope through the open window.
Jack glanced down at the envelope. There were no markings on it of any kind. When he looked back outside, Lundberg was gone.
Jack opened the envelope and withdrew the papers, scanning them. “Oh, my God …”
“What is it?” Sally asked, her voice spiking up in anticipation.
“Incident reports. Four women have accused Drew of date rape.”
“And he’s never been arrested?”
He turned to look at her. “Never.”
Elizabeth checked her to do list for the final time.
Mail packages
Pick up dry cleaning
Stop mail
Stop milk delivery
Change batteries in smoke detectors
Confirm seats
Everything was done. By this time tomorrow, she’d be at her dad’s house, with her daughters and family around her, celebrating an old-fashioned Christmas.