The referees confer. It takes another couple of long minutes. On the sidelines, Coach Beausoleil is red as a beet, screaming at Kaius, whose own helmet is in his hands.
The head referee makes the announcement.
“Number 99, defense,” he says. “Roughing the passer. Fifteen yard penalty, automatic first down. After the play was over, personal foul, unnecessary roughness, number 99 of the Cyclones. Personal foul, unsportsmanlike conduct, number 99 of the Cyclones. Number 99 is disqualified from the game.”
Kai throws his helmet on the ground, and even the most elementary lip-reader could discern the four-letter word that he yells. The crowd roars, half booing and half cheering.
“What does that mean,disqualified?” your mother asks obliviously.
“It means that he’s ejected,” your dad says grimly. “Probably fined out the ass as well. Maybe even suspended from future games.”
On TV, the camera loses Kai as he stalks off the field. It takes a little bit longer for the teams to reorganize where the last play left off. Thanks to the penalty against Kai, the Blues are now at midfield. Books is in at Kai’s position.
You feel numb. On your end of your parents’ couch, you sit, frozen like a statue. You only ate two of your mother’s (delicious) wings and picked at the veggies, but the little bit you consumed is currently roiling in your gut.
What the fuck did he just do?You feel like that was a stranger you just saw on the field. The Kai that you know is always gentle, always level-headed, always a stickler for rules. The person youjust saw on TV was a feral beast, something predatory and terrifying.
Right on schedule, your phone buzzes beside you.
Maeve:Okay, that was CRAZY. Desi will be messaging you in case we need a statement. This is officially NOT GOOD. You don’t need to do anything right now. Just be prepared to jump into damage control mode.
The next message has already buzzed before you’ve finished reading the first.
Desiree:Hi, Sterling. Sorry to bother you in the evening, but we need to talk. Can you call ASAP?
When you stand up, your legs feel unsteady. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a Blue skip into the end zone for a touchdown. Why the fuck not?
“Ster?” your mom says gently. “Is everything okay?”
“Kai won’t be able to talk, son,” your Dad pipes up. “He’ll be stuck in the locker room until the end of the game.”
You clear your throat, trying to force out the lump. “Good to know. But it’s actually my publicist. Gotta feed the vultures. You know how it is.”
Your mother’s face drops in pity and sadness. “Of course, baby. We totally get it.” She nods to your forgotten plate on the coffee table. “Are you going to eat some more? You didn’t really touch anything.”
“Oh.” You pick up the plate, because you’re not an ungrateful teenager. “Maybe, maybe not. I’ll bring it out back with me.”
“Will you be back to finish the game?” she asks hopefully.
The wince on your face probably says it all. “Don’t think so,” you admit. “I don’t foresee this being a short phone call. And, honestly, my heart’s not in it. I’m sorry. If you box up some of those leftovers, I’ll totally cheat and eat them for lunch tomorrow.”
“Okay.” One thing about Margo Grayson; she’s fully committed to her reality as a superstar’s mother. “We’ll see you in the morning. Try to sleep well.”
You kiss her forehead, and pat your dad on the shoulder. As wrapped up in the game as he is, you only have perhaps a quarter of his attention when he says goodnight.
As you predicted, you are on the phone for much longer than you would like. Desi’s phone call turns into a battle summit discussing how to word the statement that has already been requested by no fewer than a dozen major press outlets. You need to reiterate yoursupportof your boyfriend while also kowtowing to theauthorityandgood judgmentof the National Football Association, she decides. Kai has been coming off achallenging situationwith his recent head injury, and hisstress levelis high. You can hear the italics in her voice, the buzzwords peppered in her fragments of PR-ese. Honestly, you don’t know why she called to confer; she seems to have had everything figured out before you picked up the phone.
“Sounds like you have this under control, Des,” you say for about the fifth time.
“Of course, we may have to pivot when the Association’s official punishment comes down,” she prattles on. “If they really throw the book at him, and he’s suspended for multiple games, we might need to lean a little harder on the public’s goodwill.”
“Whatpublic goodwill?” you mutter. Without realizing it, you have started pacing the floor of the guesthouse, making a tight circuit from the door in the little front room to the back of the bedroom, where you’ve tightly shut the curtains. The phone is against your ear, and you keep going to crack your knuckles, only to realize that they are already sore.
On the other end of the line. Desiree pauses. It’s three hours earlier in Los Angeles, you think. Maybe the sun hasn’t even set yet.
“Well, yes,” she hedges. “That’s a fairly obvious complication. My contact with the NFA was keen to remind me that they swept the whole issue with the Hard Rock bomb threat under the rug for us, and heavily suggested that we return the favor by keeping any statements focused heavily on our agreement with the Association’s ruling. I mean, he doesn’t understand that we’re fighting a pretty intense war of public opinion, here. I think that we have to treadverycarefully. That’s why, again, I suggest…”
And then, just when you are pretty sure you want to throw your phone across the room, she reiterates the plan. Again.
