Sinners Football 01- Goals for a Sinner (17 page)

****

Two days out of New Orleans on the long stretch through Virginia, Stevie’s cell phone rang. A quick glance told her the number was unfamiliar. Could be Connor using someone else’s phone, but after burning up her resources during the long stay in Seattle, she could not afford to ignore a possible offer of work. Stevie answered.

“Have I reached Stevie Dowd, the photographer?” a nasal female voice asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, have I got an offer for you. This is Margaret Stutes of the Sinners’ publicity office. It seems we suddenly need another official photographer. You must come by my office to talk terms tomorrow.”

“Thanks for the offer, Ms. Stutes, but I wouldn’t be interested.”

“It’s a great opportunity. I need to see you right away.”

“Did Connor Riley ask you to call me?” The woman hesitated. “Actually, no. It was Joe Dean Billodeaux. Whatever our new star quarterback wants, he gets.”

“I appreciate what he is trying to do, but the answer is still no. The same if Connor Riley asks you to contact me.”

“Connor and Joe Dean? Girlfriend, whatever you got, I want you to boil it down, put the essence in a bottle and ship it to me express. The closest I’ve gotten is putting my name in Joe’s little black book and with a last name like Stutes, I am way down the alphabet. He won’t get to me ’til next Christmas.” A heavy sigh ended Margaret’s side of the conversation.

“Joe Dean might start with the Z’s. Who knows?

Good luck, Margaret.”

“Yeah, sure. The management won’t be happy with me if I don’t deliver you. Could I tell them you are thinking it over?”

“Of course, but the answer will still be no. I’m on my way to cover the LPGA tour. Tell them that.”

“I guess that will explain the rejection. Still, if you get back to town, drop by my office. We need to talk. The name is Margaret Stutes.”

“I got it. Heavy traffic ahead. I need to hang up.

Bye, Margaret.” Stevie disconnected and kept on driving toward Pennsylvania.

****

Springfield, Tulsa, Portland, Sacramento and North Augusta, because Augusta would not have the
women golfers, Stevie let the places she had been run through her mind. September had gone and the finest month for football played outdoors arrived, October with its bright blue weather, as the poet said. She had been to the west coast and back only to arrive at a place putting her in driving distance of Atlanta where the Sinners played the Falcons that afternoon.

The television sets in the bar at Mount Vintage were tuned to the football game. Men married to women on the golf tour had done their duty and walked the course behind their money-earning wives. Some only joined them for the weekend and went back to their jobs on Monday. Others toured with their spouses. All watched a man’s game now.

In the restaurant nearby, Stevie took pictures of Connie Parks, her husband and twin daughters who were celebrating both a first place victory in the tournament and the girls’ first birthday. Connie said today she could not lose. Photographs by Stevie Dowd memorialized the events.

Now sitting at the bar, Stevie pushed aside her empty glass. The young bartender, who had been getting progressively more friendly asked if she wanted another. She nodded. He fixed her up and mixed in a big smile. Jackie Haile strode across the room fresh from the showers and seized the stool next to Stevie.

Giving her a squeeze with one arm and hoisting Stevie’s drink with the other, Jackie declared, “Just what I need, a long, tall ice cold drink.” Jackie took a gulp, coughed, set the glass down slopping some over the edges. “Not iced tea then. Got quite a kick.”

“Long Island Iced Tea with no tea in it, but it’s got vodka, rum, tequila and I forget what else,” Stevie recited. “Great stuff.”

“Coca-Cola,” the bartender added. “Can I get you something, sir, er—ma’am?” he asked Jackie as he took note of the small, hard breasts beneath the Izod golf shirt.

“Another one of those.” She slicked back her short wet hair with a hand. “Damn, no wonder I lost.

I forgot to put in my lucky earrings, the classy ones made like little gold knots you gave me last time I had a big win.”

“Hit me again,” Stevie said finishing off her third without taking her eyes from the TV screen.

“Babe, you shouldn’t be watching this.

Remember you said out on the west coast you were glad they didn’t show the Sinners’ games. I’ll ask the barkeep to turn it off.”

“No, don’t. Jackie, I cheated. I watched the ESPN news Sundays in Portland and Sacramento. I have to know if he’s been hurt.” A cheer went up from a group of Louisiana tourists. Connor Riley caught another of Billodeaux’s long passes and headed for the goal line again. The Falcons fans looked glum and with a score of 10-28

Sinners, they had a right to be.

The bartender, a little less friendly than before Jackie’s arrival, set another Long Island Iced Tea in front of Stevie and shoved one toward her companion. “You must be a Falcons’ fan.” Stevie shook her head no. She glugged down half of her tall drink. “Sh-Sinner,” she mumbled, her tongue stumbling numbly.

“Here, let me pay for this and her tab, too.” Jackie held out two twenties.

“No. I pay my own way, Jackie.” Stevie fumbled in her vest for cash.

“You give that football player as hard a time as you give me? Won’t let me buy you a drink, a meal, a room or a plane ticket even with all the luck you’ve brought me.”

Jackie watched Connor gallop into the end zone with nary another player near him. “Of course, that $180,000 pot I took at Berkleigh and the State Farm purse are nothing compared to what your former boyfriend makes.”

“Yeah, I gave him a hard time, but I’m fine, jush fine.
 
Golf
magazine wants me
 
.
 
Even
 
Sports
 
Illushrated
 
needs a picture of Connie and the twins and her big win.
 
I’m doing fine all by myself. All alone.” Stevie watched Ancient Andy come out and make the extra point. The clock ran out. Game over.

The commercials rolled.

“But what really gripes me is coming in second to a woman who gave birth to twins last year. She should stay home with her kids, don’t you think?” Jackie joked.

Stevie nursed the remainder of her drink and waited for the beer ad to end. There he was, Connor Riley with a microphone being shoved at him by a sports reporter. He’d scored four touchdowns in one game. He would be the first interviewed.

Jackie looked at the screen. “So that’s my competition, not that I’m getting anywhere with you.

Friends, that’s all we’ll ever be. Even I can appreciate that long blond hair damp with sweat, those big baby blues, great Viking cheekbones, and all that ‘aw shucks’ modesty.” Up on the screen, the interview continued.

“What a blowout, Connor Riley. Four TD’s for you, one for Deets, and let’s give some credit to Rev Bullock for an interception and two turnovers against his old team, 35 to 10. What do you have to say about your phenomenal game today?” the reporter asked.

“I’ve given everything to the game and this is the result,” Riley answered without a smile.

“Just nine months ago, you were flat on your back, hospitalized with a broken neck. No one thought Connor Riley would play again and yet this is your best season in an outstanding career. You seem stronger, faster than ever. What do you have to say about that?”

Connor turned from the reporter and stared into the camera. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” The man who was being touted as the finest wide receiver in the league appeared grim despite the victory.

“Boned up on your classics while you were convalescing, I see.
Tale of Two Cities,
 
right?” the commentator said brightly.

“It was spoon fed to me along with my pudding,” Connor acknowledged, still unsmiling.

“This has got to be the best of times, then, for Connor Riley.”

Riley did not respond. He turned from the camera and the reporter, who sidled quickly over to Revelation Bullock.

“Rev, great game for you, too.”

“Yeah, man, it was a good move for me to sign with the Sinners. We giving each other just what we need.”

“And what’s that?”

“A ticket to the Super Bowl, man.” The Rev’s round brown face filled the screen. He bared a grin you could bounce sunbeams off.

Jackie finished her drink. “Well, I’ve had enough of this crap. How about you, baby doll?” Stevie buried her face in her arms on the bar.

She mumbled a few words.

“Got to pick your head up, babe. I can’t hear you.”

“Our children would have had blue eyes.” Stevie’s tears rolled down both cheeks.

“For God’s sake, I can’t stand a sloppy drunk.” Despite her comment, Jackie blotted Stevie’s face with cocktail napkins. “Can you walk?’

“I can walk,” Stevie claimed sliding from her bar stool, missing the bottom rung and falling back against the counter. “The important thing is that I cannot drive, not to Atlanta, not nowhere.

Tomorrow, he’ll be back in Naw Orlins, you see.”

“Yeah. I do see. Let’s get you out of here.”

Chapter Seventeen

Joe Dean Billodeaux rang the bell at Connor’s place. No answer. He pounded on the oak door. No one came. “Shit,” he muttered and tried the latch.

The door was unlocked. Being as noisy as possible, he moved down the hall. No one wanted to come up on Connor suddenly these days. The man might have a gun, and his temper had gone off the charts lately.

“In here, Joe,” Conner called in a raspy voice.

The game tape played in the den, but no hall lights burned. Eula Mae and her mother were nowhere and the house seemed too still. Connor sat tilted back in a leather lounger, eyes on the big, flat screen dominating the far wall.

The only lights shining were the tracks that usually highlighted his trophy cases but now illuminated the two full-length posters of Stevie Dowd wearing mostly sand in one and mostly nothing in the other. The pictures hung on either side of the television screen. Certainly more exciting than watching the Sinners smash the Falcons again, but maybe not as healthy.

“Hey, man, let’s get some lights on in here. My mama would say you’re gonna ruin your eyes. A wide receiver with bad eyes retires early, no?” Without waiting for an answer, Joe flicked on a few more lamps and took a seat in another lounger.

Connor squinted in the brightness. “Sorry, didn’t hear the bell ring. This game was a blowout, but there are still a few things we could have done better.”

“Tell you what, bro. We got a bye-week coming up and we played good ball yesterday. What say we go down town? There’s always some action in the Big Easy even on a Monday night.” Joe waited for a positive answer. He was disappointed.

“I thought you were doing the celibacy thing so I could play ball. What is it, six weeks, and you’re giving up? I held out through most of the playoffs.” Connor shook his head in disgust.

“And then, along came Stevie. Hey, I can still drink and attract the babes for you. Let’s go.”

“Along came Stevie,” Connor repeated as if he had not heard the rest of Joe’s sentence.

“This is no good, man. Look, let me take down those posters. Every guy knows there is only one cure for getting over a woman. More women.” Joe Dean moved towards the photos of Stevie.

“Don’t touch my posters, Joe. I warn you, hands off!” “Okay, okay,
 
bien
. I’m going to do you a big favor, bud. I have here Joe Dean Billodeaux’s little black book just chock full of names of willing women who I can’t satisfy right now because of my vow.

Every time one comes on to me, I whip out my book and say, ‘Sugar, I made an oath to stay celibate for the season, but you put your name and number in Joe Dean’s book and he will get back to you come spring.’ Good for me spring comes early in Louisiana.” With a big grin, Joe tossed the address book to Connor.

“Not interested.” Connor tossed it back.

“Come on. I gar-run-tee you me, there is not one dog in the pack. All lovely ladies who don’t know a quarterback from a wide receiver. They only want to sleep with a football player. We can perpetrate a kind of quarterback sneak on them. What do you say?” Joe threw Connor an encouraging look accompanied by a little grimace to show it hurt a little to make the offer.

“Joe, the Rev said I’m grieving, and I got to get over Stevie in my own way. This is my way.”

“The Rev also said you shouldn’t be alone during your time of trial. So, I’m here for you, bro.” Connor, sunk in his misery, declined to say thanks. “See that third touchdown pass you threw.

Real careless. If I had been shorter, that would have been an interception.” Connor froze the tape at a point showing him leaping above an opponent to catch the ball higher in its arc.

“So we would have won 28-17. If it has to be football, can we just have a beer and watch the Monday night game?” Joe Dean settled in his chair.