He reached under the seat in front for his briefcase. Noticing the scratches and scuffs on the black leather, he wondered if he should have splurged on a new one. He knew what Birdie would say. You don’t get a second chance to make a first impression. Do it right the first time.
Suddenly he wished he’d told her about the interview. She would have agonized over his clothes choices, matching the right tie with the right shirt. There would have been no question about the briefcase.
It was how she’d helped him prepare for Albuquerque so long ago. You’re a star, she’d said fiercely, squeezing his shoulders, and don’t you forget it for a second. Channel 2 should fall on its knees at the chance to hire the great Jackson Shore.
“A star,” he murmured, realizing a second too late that he’d spoken aloud. He glanced around, but no one seemed to have noticed.
He could still remember how it felt; that was the hell of it, the thing that had haunted him. When you were on top, you glided rather than walked … doors magically opened for you long before you reached for the knob … and tables at the best restaurants were held for you. Most of all, he remembered how people looked at you.
“Mr. Shore? The captain has turned on the seat-belt sign. We’re about to land.”
He shoved his briefcase back under the seat in front of him, then smiled up at the flight attendant. “Thanks.”
The plane touched down gently, shuddered a few times, and rolled easily toward the terminal. Within moments, the flight attendant reappeared, holding his garment bag. “Here you go, Mr. Shore. You didn’t have a coat, did you?”
He flashed her a smile. “I forgot one. I haven’t been back east in a while.”
“How could anyone who played for the Jets forget a New York winter?”
She knew who he was. This wasn’t ordinary first-class service; she was flirting with him.
“I’m from Minneapolis, myself. I’ve got a two-day layover here … at the Warwick Hotel.”
Jack heard the shuffling, banging sounds of people deplaning. It all seemed very far away.
All he had to do was nod, say, I’ll be here for the night, too; what a coincidence, and ask for her name. They could spend tonight in the dark corners of a smoky cocktail lounge, with their legs pressed excitingly close together, making small talk until the time was right to stop talking altogether …
For a moment he wanted it—wanted her—so much he felt light-headed. Then he thought about Frank Gifford and took a deep breath. His equilibrium returned. Those days were behind him.
He reached for his garment bag, took it from her. “Thanks. Have a great time in New York.”
Her smile started to fall. She reinforced it quickly. “Have a good trip, Mr. Shore.”
“You, too.” He shouldered his bag and left the plane. At the gate, there was a crowd of people waiting for the next flight.
Warren stood out from the crowd like a two-hundred-year-old Douglas fir in a new-growth forest. He was tall and expensively dressed, but that wasn’t what separated him from the others.
The crown of celebrity sat comfortably on Warren’s head. He moved forward, grinning. The crowd parted to let him pass. They were pointing at him, whispering among themselves. Jack didn’t think Warren even noticed.
“Warlord, how the hell are you?”
“Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” Warren said loudly enough that people turned to stare. Recognition found its way onto a few older faces. The kids with bleached hair and nose rings moved on, uninterested.
Warren pulled Jack into a bear hug, then clapped an arm around his shoulder and guided him away from the gate. “God, it’s good to see you.” He kept up a steady stream of we-haven’t-seen-each-other-in-years-and-how-have-you-been-and-have-you-seen-the—
Old-gang conversation as they strode through the terminal, got into Warren’s red Viper, and roared onto the expressway.
It was a gray winter’s day. Clouds blanketed the expressway, sent a sputtering, drizzling sleet onto the windshield.
“Remember playing in this shit?” Warren said, honking his horn and swerving into the next lane to avoid hitting a Lexus SUV.
Jack grinned. He and Warren had been teammates at the University of Washington in Seattle. He was sure they’d played in the sun—they must have—but he couldn’t remember it. What he remembered was playing in Husky Stadium on days when it seemed as if God himself were pissing on the field. “Elizabeth and Mary used to wear Hefty garbage bags to the games, remember?”
Warren laughed. “What I remember about Mary is her tits and that I never shoulda married her.”
They’d been a foursome back then: Jack and Elizabeth–Warren and Mary. They’d been inseparable at the UW; then the draft had sent Warren to Denver and Jack to Pittsburgh. After several years and more than a few transfers, he and Warren had been reunited in New York. By that time, Warren had been married to Phyllis, and both he and Jack were superstars in the hectic, crazy world of the NFL. Of them all, only Elizabeth had kept her wits about her in the golden years, when money had flowed through their home like water. She’d saved as much of it as she could, but Jack hadn’t made it easy on her. He’d thought fame would last forever.