“Oh. I need my keys to walk home.”
“You walk home?”
“Yep, got an apartment. You?”
“Not walking home.” Her old Toyota Camery was one of the few remaining cars in the Orange Lot west of the stadium.
“I love Tom Hanks,” he announced.
“Me too. He was great inSaving Private Ryan.” Tom Hanks was a little less ‘action movie’ actor than she preferred, though she could understand the appeal.
“No. I love him. He’s America’s dad.”
“I guess.” Not how she’d have characterized him.
Bowen had an explanation. “I’ve got a room for him at the apartment. Cut-out fromSplash, original movie poster ofBosomBuddies. He’s the only one left. Bill Cosby forfeited. Arnold cheated on his wife. Bruce Willis got sick. Tom was it. My dad was never around.”
“I’m sorry.” This explained part of why Bowen kept the media out of his life.
“Yeah. He only hits me up for money now when he feels like it. Doesn’t even ask about Mom. Not that she remembers anyone.”
According to his medical history file, Bowen was an only child, and there was something about dementia in there. It wasn’t generally discussed while prepping for a professional football game.
“Don’t be sorry though. I’ve been on my own since my two years of college. I got her put up in a nice home in Geauga. She has the best medical care. I visit her in the off season. Can’t give her back what’s not there anymore.”
“I understand. My mom worked at an assisted living for a while.”
He twisted his head around, trying to understand what she was saying. “She’s not in an assisted living.”
“No, she’s a nurse. She was part of the wave of Filipino nurses in the ‘70s. Met my dad, and they lived out the American dream.”
“Only you didn’t want to be a nurse?” he asked.
“No, I definitely like this better.”
“But Glazier is mean to you.” Bowen screwed his face up in a pout.
“He treats me no different than he treats anyone else.”
“I wish he would stop fucking swearing at you. Sorry. I try not to swear.”
“It’s really fine.” The swearing in the locker room was nothing compared to what happened in the Ortho surgery department of MetroGen.
“It shouldn’t be. I want to be better for you.”
“You are better,” she said sincerely.
Her badge let her into the player’s area and the locker room. He tried finding a light switch and became tangled up in his arm sling.
“Why is this on my arm?”
She shined her phone’s light at him. “Bowen. You dislocated your shoulder. We put it back in. Now you have to wear that full time.”
“Even when I play?” He poked at the shoulder strap. “How will it fit under my pads?”
“It doesn’t.” She walked over and tugged on his left hand, trying to get him to his open locker.
He went with her, his tone contemplative. “I can still tackle one-handed. I am that fucking good. Oh, sorry. I try not to swear around you. I’m that good.”
