It took everything in him to walk away.
The next morning, Elizabeth was wakened by the phone. She rolled over and answered sleepily. “Hello?”
“Hey, Birdie, rise and shine. Did you watch the show?”
She sat up, pushed a hand through her tangled hair. “Hi, honey.” She couldn’t tell him she’d forgotten. It would hurt him too much. She tried to manufacture a reasonable excuse.
But he didn’t seem to notice her awkward pause. “I did it, baby. You’re married to a superstar.”
“I’ve always been married to a star, Jack.” She let out a breath. “I knew how good you’d be, Jack. I’m proud of you.”
“I need to stay an extra day for some press opportunities. Do you mind?”
“Of course not.”
“Great. I’ll be home tomorrow, then. We’ll celebrate by ourselves, okay?”
“Okay, honey. I love you.”
“Love you. Bye.”
Slowly, Elizabeth hung up the phone. She hadn’t dared to ask him where he’d been last night.
Still, she couldn’t help wondering whether he’d been with another woman. It had been years since she’d questioned his fidelity, but he’d stepped onto the old fame track again, and that was where the road had taken them before. Infidelity could be forgiven, but forgetting it was impossible.
Strangely, that wasn’t what bothered her the most.
What bothered her was that she didn’t really care.
EIGHT
Jack sat at his desk, staring down at the notes spread out in front of him, sipping a double tall mocha.
Over the last few days, the Drew Grayland story had spread like wildfire, and every bit of coverage mentioned Jack. The Larry King interview had pushed him back into the spotlight. He was hot again, but it wasn’t enough. Broadcasting was a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately? world. Yesterday’s news was just that.
He had what he’d wanted for years: a chance. People were watching him again. Now he needed a follow-up story to cement his reputation. Something that would make the networks sit up and take notice.
Last night, as he’d lain in bed, listening to Birdie talk about her new design for the bedroom, he trolled desperately for an idea. About three a.m., it had come to him.
It started with Alex Rodriguez. Seattle had turned on the famous outfielder like a pack of rabid dogs when he’d signed the contract with Texas. As if Alex should have turned down the biggest contract in baseball history.
People didn’t understand how fleeting an athlete’s professional life was. You were old at thirty, ancient at thirty-five, and that was if your body held up. But how could a body take that kind of punishment year after year and not give out too soon? You had to take the money when it was offered. Tomorrow, there might be no one offering. No current athlete could dare talk about such a thing—they were too rich to be believed. But an aging, once-golden athlete who’d lost his career was perfect.
He looked down at what he’d just written: Through an athlete’s eyes. What it’s like to be a breakable god.
It had the right mix of glamour, corruption, and heartbreak. And Jack knew the subject inside and out.
Suddenly his phone rang. He picked it up. “Jackson Shore.”
A voice he hadn’t heard in years said, “Hey, Spaghetti-arm, how’re they hanging?”
“Warren.” Jack leaned back in his chair. “Hell, Butterfingers, I haven’t heard from you since the last time you got married and wanted me for your best man. Is that it—are you marrying another one?”
“No, no. Truth is, I had a little scare with my heart. A few nights hooked up to machines in the hospital will sure clear a man’s head.”
“Are you okay?”
“Better than ever. Turns out it was a friggin’ panic attack. Can you believe that? Fourteen years of pro ball and nothing. A few years as a studio analyst and I’m stressed-out. The docs say I need to relax. So, I decided to give up the broadcasting gig. Too much travel and horseshit, but the guys at Fox don’t want to let me bow out gracefully. They came up with this idea for a new one-hour show. It’s called Good Sports. They’re picturing a combination of Real Sports and Oprah, if you can believe that. We’ll be looking at athletes in a whole new way, trying to understand the pressures and heartbreaks. And highlighting the role models out there.”
“That sounds great. Maybe I could be a guest sometime, you know, talk about the Grayland thing.”
“Actually, we want you as more than a guest. They were gonna call you today, but I begged for the chance to be the one. The bigwigs—and me, of course—think you’d be a natural to coanchor with me. I’ve been trying to get someone in New York to take a chance on you for years. After this Grayland thing, they’re finally ready to listen. Think of it, Jacko, it’d be like the old days. We’d be a team again.”
“Don’t fuck with me, Warren. I’d give my left nut for that job.”
“Keep your peanut-sized balls. Just be in New York tomorrow for an interview.”