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“That’s because he’s a pediatrician, Mom,” Jacob said, giving me an amused look. “Anyway, Mom, this is Sasha.”
“Sasha Copeland,” Ms. Everett said, and even though her smile didn’t change, exactly, her eyes did. They went appraising and more than a little pitying. Not cold, exactly, but more like Ms. Everett thought she was looking at a very cute kitten, or one of those slow Loris creatures.
“Sweetheart, how nice to meet you. We so rarely meet Jacob’s girlfriends,” she said, and reached forward to lightly hug me. I reciprocated, and was nearly blown over by the intensity of Ms. Everett’s perfume.
“Let’s see, where’s Walter then,” Ms. Everett said, turning away from me and sliding her arm through her son’s. “There! Walter! Jacob is here!” she called. Her husband was at the concierge desk, but abandoned the woman manning it— mid conversation, from the looks of things— to walk over to us, hard soled shoes clicking hard on the floor.
“Jake! Any shoulder updates?” Walter Everett— hedge fund manager, six brothers, smokes Cubans, two affairs, plays tennis, uses the non-word “conversate” daily— asked stopping short in front of his son. Walter Everett was clearly where Jacob got his height, but the father had the lean, almost gangly appearance of a basketball player rather than the rock-solid musculature Jacob sported.
“It’s healing. I’ll be back in by Clemson,” Jacob said.
“Well, let’s go get something to eat, keep your strength up,” Mr. Everett said, and ushered his wife and son toward the restaurant entrance without even looking at me— though to be fair, Jacob was probably blocking the view of me.
“Wait— Dad, this is Sasha, the girl I was telling Mom about,” Jacob said. He unwound his arm from his mother’s, and placed it gently around my shoulders.
“Oh! Well, you’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?” Mr. Everett said in a voice that was a half-degree from being inappropriate. Jacob grimaced, but I smiled— inappropriate was fine, so long as they liked me. I’d dealt with inappropriate rich men plenty of times waitressing in Tifton.
You’ve got this, I told myself for the thousandth time that day.
“Pleasure to meet you,” I said, and extended a hand to shake. Mr. Everett took it lightly, like he worried he might break my delicate-lady-hand, then gave Jacob a conspiratorial glance that made me wrinkle my nose.
“Sorry about him. Them. Us,” Jacob muttered down to me as we proceeded toward the restaurant.
“It’s fine,” I said.
“Make it up to you later,” he answered, and slapped me lightly on the ass. I jumped and laughed, quelling it when Ms. Everett glanced over her shoulder to see what the noise was about.
I considered myself a pretty decent conversationalist— I struck up discussions of local golf courses, the latest Lululemon line, and the neighborhoods most likely to be sound real estate investment decisions in Atlanta, all topics I’d carefully brushed up on before the meal (except the investment decisions bit— I was already carefully watching various neighborhoods and constantly comparing the cost of my student housing to the cost of a mortgage). Try as I might, though, I couldn’t steer the conversation too far away from one subject: Football.
“See, son, you should’ve considered doing the draft last year. I’m telling you,” Mr. Everett said, shaking his head.
“Not as a quarterback, Dad,” Jacob said in a way that made me certain they’d had this discussion a million times before.
“Why not as a quarterback?” I asked. Keeping myself in their conversation was exhausting.
Jacob turned to me, looking relieved that I’d stepped in. “The quarterbacks that are successful in the NFL aren’t the ones who are fast or have the footwork or whatever. They’re the ones who are smart.”
“They’re the ones who are there,” Mr. Everett said.
“Walter,” Ms. Everett said testily, and rested her fingers on her husband’s arm.
Jacob went on. “I want as much experience at the college level as I can get, so I’m not one of those punk kids who gets into the NFL and gets crushed by some four hundred pound defensive lineman.”
“But plenty of people get that experience playing in the NFL. The year passes either way,” Mr. Everett said.
“And once you’re in the NFL, every year that passes where you’re not stellar is a strike against you in a way it isn’t in college.”
“But if you are stellar—“
“Enough, boys, enough,” Ms. Everett said, sipping her cocktail and rolling her eyes. “Jacob, we just worry you missed an opportunity, especially now with this injury, is all. If this had happened while you were already in the pros, you’d be able to collect the rest of your contract. Now…”
“Well, he will have a college degree though,” I pointed out. It was clearly the wrong thing to say; Jacob’s parents gave me a wary look.
“Oh, honey. He will, and that’s fine, but you have to understand— Jacob just has so much potential. We hate to see it go to waste,” Ms. Everett said, pursing her lips a bit.
