Sinners Football 01- Goals for a Sinner (20 page)

“I’ll send you one if you promise not to bring a date. Since I’m making fifteen million a year now, I can afford to be generous,” Joe boasted.

“That’s obscene—another example of the inequity between men’s and women’s sports. I can buy my own ticket since I’m not one of your bimbos.”

“Yeah, yeah. Heard it all before.”

“But you don’t listen. I said I had dinner with an old friend. An old friend named Stevie Dowd.”

“Steel-hearted Stevie? I hope she’s miserable.

I’m on my way to Connor’s right now. He had a bad day glued to the bench. This was a crucial game and Coach thought he’d cost us yardage in penalties. I guess he would have put him in if Deets and Forte hadn’t come through, but they did. I should be out celebrating, but the temptations are less over at the Riley hospice for the lovelorn. I’m on my way over there. You know, with no women around, I have to get my own beer.”

“Wish I were lovelorn. Stevie must have dropped twenty pounds, and I could stand to lose some myself. Say, I thought you were just coming out of the shower?” Jackie countered.

“Toying with you, sugar,” Joe Dean teased.

“Anyhow, I was about to tell you she cracked.

She’s on her way to New Orleans. I hope that story you told me about the shrink is true because I don’t want her mad at me again.”

“God’s honest truth. I hate that shrink. They sent me to him once to discuss my, quote, sexual addiction. I still say there is nothing wrong with loving women, lots of women.”

“I agree with you there, bro,” Jackie chimed in.

“Always good to be backed up by a lesbian.

Anyhow, he tried to tell me my insecurity about my abilities as a quarterback caused me to overcompensate by scoring with women. I never went back. I saw the guy again while I waited for Connor. Four months, I told him, four months without women. He said he applauded my reaching a new level of maturity. I bet he never gets any.”

“If you can get your mind off yourself, you might mention Stevie is back in town and give your friend a little lift. As for me, I sure as hell hope my dad never finds out I told her he kicked me out for being a lesbian. He would be so pissed. Dad is my biggest fan. And then there was the Darlene story.”

“Who’s Darlene?” Joe Dean had to ask.

“My supposed college lover who could not accept my career choice. Remember that detail, please.

Also, you invited me for Christmas in Chapelle.”

“But of course I did. My mama would feed you up, and my male cousins would try to straighten you out. You are welcome anytime,” Joe offered.

“God help me if there are more like you back on the bayou.”

“
Beaucoup
, Jacqueline, but they cannot throw zee football,” he joked, putting on his best French accent.

“That’s all I can take tonight. I’ll be at my sister’s place for Christmas as usual. Keep me posted, jackass.”

“
Bonsoir
, bull dyke.”

Oh that Jackie, she did make him laugh, and he needed some laughs right now. Joe Dean pushed his speedometer up to eighty, no big deal in Louisiana and after today’s game if he were stopped, there would be no ticket; only a few autographs handed out. He felt a need for speed.

Connor had ducked out as usual while most of the guys were in the showers. No need to shower when you didn’t play, but the man didn’t shave or fix up to go out for a victory celebration either. Once, he caught the former best wide receiver in the league sitting on the locker room bench rocking back and forth like one of those monkey babies deprived of its mother or in this case, Stevie Dowd. Connor stopped as soon as Joe noticed. Stevie sure had wrecked a great player. Now she was coming back, just in time maybe, and Joe got to deliver the great news. He would do anything for his team. Didn’t his celibacy vow show that?

Crossing the long concrete bridge spanning Lake Ponchartrain, Joe kept his eye out for accidents. A foot on the accelerator and Connor’s nice little Jag could top those guardrails easy. Yes, things had gotten that bad, and he was scared as hell about what he would find at Riley’s house.

Connor’s gate stood open again, and his door was unlocked—damned careless considering how rabid fans could be. He was none too popular right now. It took only one lunatic who thought he was doing the team a favor by taking out Connor Riley to barge in with a gun. Welcome to my home. Come on in and shoot me. Maybe that’s what Connor wanted.

The house, dark and quiet, not even a game tape playing, gave Joe Dean a chill up his back. The only lights shone on Stevie’s pictures in the den. Connor sat slumped in his leather recliner. For a moment Joe thought his friend was dead from an overdose, but the broad chest did move slowly up and down.

His eyes were open, but he said nothing. Was this a mental breakdown in progress? How the hell would a quarterback know?

“How’s it going, Connor?”

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever,” Connor quoted, staring at Stevie’s pinups.

“Something we read in high school? Some poem about big jugs, right?” Joe guessed.

“Keats.
 
Ode to a Grecian Urn.
 
Stevie said that about her sports photography. She said the pictures she took of me were things of beauty. Good she can’t see me now, huh? They didn’t need me in the game. I never left the bench.”

“Whose fault is that? You got to snap out of it, man. Never mind. I have some news you need to hear,” Joe rushed on.

“They aren’t going to renew my contract, are they?”

“I have no idea. Stevie is back in town.”

“It’s too late, Joe, too late. Why don’t you take those posters down and carry them home with you.

Don’t throw them out, though. They are things of beauty.” Connor closed his eyes as if waiting to hear the sound of paper being torn off the wall but not wanting to watch.

“Let’s leave them be, bro. I plan to spend the night.”

Joe Dean stretched out in the other recliner. He picked up the remote and channel surfed. Connor took no interest at all. Finally, he came across a John Wayne film festival. Just what the doctor ordered.
 
The
 
Sands of Iwo Jima
,
 
The Alamo
,
 
The
 
Horse Soldiers, She Wore a Yellow
 
Ribbon,
 
all were movies about brave stands and great victories, even that last one with the sissy title. John Wayne never gave up and probably didn’t know the meaning of the word “depression”.

Joe thought about getting a beer, but no. Alcohol would make matters worse. If he got Connor through the night, he could call in reinforcements come morning. And the Rev better get the fuck over here sooner than those slackers who were supposed to relieve the Alamo.

Chapter Twenty

Joe Dean Billodeaux woke to the smell of dark roast coffee wafting through the house. Stiff, he crawled out of the recliner and did a few quick stretches. In the other chair, Connor slept on, his head skewed to one side. Joe was damned grateful the man had not gotten up in the night. How uncomfortable to follow a friend to the bathroom filled as it was with things like pills and razor blades and not give some kind of explanation. Quietly in stocking feet, he left the den and headed for the kitchen.

Eula Mae and Miss Essie were enjoying a cup of Community brew and sharing a copy of the
 
Times
 
Picayune.
 
Joe saw Eula Mae cover a tabloid that had his picture on the front with one of her big hands. He pretended not to see and began issuing orders.

“In an hour or so, we’ll want breakfast—grits, eggs, bacon, whole wheat toast, orange juice and coffee.”

Little gray-haired Miss Essie continued to sip her dark roast blend. “Mr. Connor says he don’t want nothing but coffee no more. I already been told three times I’m not his mama, and I don’t want to lose my job.”

“Speaking of which, where is Mrs. Riley? I don’t think she’s the kind to stand by and do nothing when her son is in trouble. She spent months in Seattle watching over him,” Joe Dean asked.

“Mr. Connor sent his folks on their dream cruise right after Thanksgiving. Gonna see England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland, then come home for Christmas. A early present, he says. Gettin’ them out the way, I says. His brother got the company to run and all them kids, so he’s not around neither,” Eula Mae answered.

“Phone.” Joe Dean held out his hand.

Eula Mae gave him an ‘I don’t work for you’ look and pointed. “Right there by you.” Joe dialed the phone on the counter and woke up the Rev. “You tear your big black ass away from Mintay and your wedding plans and get down to Connor’s place. I need some help. You’re the one wants to be a preacher some day. You can get some practice in right now. Good. I’m counting on you.” Connor, apparently following the smell of the coffee, straggled into the kitchen. He seemed bleary-eyed and sluggish even though they had done no drinking the night before, only watched old war movies far into the night.

“Skip the coffee and put on your running shoes.

I figure we can run a few miles before breakfast,” Joe announced.

“What if I don’t want to run?” Connor groused.

“Then I’ll be assuming it’s because you let yourself get in such sad shape that I am now faster than you, super star,” Joe challenged.

“You’re wrong.”

“Prove it. We got an hour or so while these fine ladies get breakfast to cooking.” Joe moved down the hallway to find the upper end Nikes he had shucked off in the den the night before. Connor followed reluctantly.

They stretched on the portico, then slowly jogged down the long drive to the open gate. Turning along the lakeshore road, Joe picked up the pace gradually until he figured they had reached a good halfway point. He turned and appealed to Connor’s competitive nature.

“I figure I can beat you back to the house with no trouble at all, big deal wide receiver.”

Connor took off with Joe on his heels. By the time they were half way back to the house, Connor had gotten far enough out in front to run backwards and taunt, “Who’s in lousy shape, smart-ass quarterback?”

He waited by the gate until Joe caught up. Both men were sweating but not winded. They cooled down on the long driveway.

Breakfast waited on the table when they got in.

“Looks great, Miss Essie. Feel like eating now, Connor?”

“Yeah. I guess I could eat.” He did, abundantly for the first time in weeks.

“Okay, now,” Joe Dean instructed. “Go get cleaned up, and I mean showered, shaved, and that girly hair washed. We got a team meeting, and I know you have an appointment with Dr. Mind Fuck at eleven. Don’t deny it. You spill that sack of shit you been carrying around all over him. After that, we drive down Poydras, cut over to the French Market. You buy a bouquet of freakin’ daisies while I circle the block so we don’t have to waste time trying to park. I pick you up in front of the Central Grocery. I know Stevie is back in town, hence the daisies. Need I say more? We do a diagonal to her place, and you go in to score. I’ll wait in the car for as long as it takes.”

“She won’t be there,” Connor insisted. “Stevie is gone forever.”

“I’m the quarterback. I call the plays,” Joe Dean asserted.

****

Things went pretty much as Joe Dean Billodeaux called them. When Connor left the doctor whose actual name was Edwin Funk, the psychiatrist said a few parting words at the door.

“Good progress today, Mr. Riley. A breakthrough.” Joe Dean tossed down the
 
Golf
 
magazine he had been passing the time with and said, “Hey, Doc, four sexless months.”

“I commend you, too, Mr. Billodeaux. Excellent progress, both of you.” Dr. Funk shut his door with a crisp snap.

“That man is going to be so disappointed come February. I figure if I do two a day, I won’t run out of women until training camp starts. I’ve been thinking of going semi-celibate next year, cutting back on cunt while I’m playing. Seems to help my game.”

“Joe Dean, you are either celibate or you aren’t.

There is no such thing as being semi-celibate,” Connor corrected him.

“Well, there should be, I mean as rewards for good behavior. Yes, indeed.”

Joe did the driving and managed to circle the block in the sluggish New Orleans traffic without hitting any tourists or getting scratches on his little red sports car. By the time he got back, Connor had the daisies and two giant muffuletta sandwiches stuffed with cold cuts and olive salad and wrapped in waxed paper to go.

“Feeling better? Hungry?”

“I guess so,” Connor admitted as he slid into the car while horns blared behind them.

They raced to Stevie’s place. Daisies in hand, Connor took the steps up to her door two at a time.

No one answered his knock. He came back down, looked around the back and returned to where Joe Dean waited.