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Terminology: 2; Rachael: 0. “Say something.”
He looked a little uncertain, and opened his mouth twice before anything came out. “Bhí dinnéar blasta.”
“Dinner was a blast?”
He grinned at me. “Dinner was delicious.”
I laughed. “Thanks. Though I just ordered a fixed menu from a deli.”
He tilted his head. “Did you end up paying for it yourself?”
This time, it was my mouth that opened and closed. “Uh—”
He shook his head. “Thought so. I swear, Abe has a mind like a sieve. How much was it?”
I considered. I had initially been furious at dropping two hundred dollars I didn’t have on a meal I hadn’t planned, but taking Ryan’s money felt like charity. “You know, it’s not a big deal.”
He dealt me a dry look. “Save it. We both know you’re going to tell me, and I’m going to pay you back, so there’s no use playing like we won’t.”
And there went two hundred dollars and our fragile peace. “I’m not playing. And I don’t need your money.”
He snorted and headed for the folded brown bags that the food had come in. From one, he withdrew a crumpled receipt that I probably should have claimed earlier. After glancing at it, he took a handful of twenties from his wallet and held them out to me. “Are you going to be gracious and take it, or are we going to fight about this, too?”
Poverty fought with pride, and won. “Thanks,” I muttered, and then sighed, and then tried for an apology as I folded the bills into my purse. “I was born without the gracious gene.”
His mouth quirked up. “Yeah. I kind of noticed.”
I tried to scowl at him, but his grin was too infectious and I laughed instead. “Yeah, well. I’m graceful in other ways. Theoretically.” I thought about it, and realized he’d been right earlier, when he told me he didn’t remember hearing any apologies. “I’m sorry about what I said when we first met. About damaging your grey matter. I didn’t realize that was such a serious problem. Have you ever been hurt?”
“Oh, yeah.” He sounded so nonchalant. “But I’ve always finished the season.”
“I don’t get it. If it’s so dangerous, why do you play?”
He smiled at the dishes as he finished them. “You sound like my mother.”
“I’m sorry, I know most people probably get it straight off the bat. I just don’t. Your mother doesn’t like you playing?”
He took a sip of wine, and then a larger one. “Didn’t.”
I opened my mouth to say something snarky, to ask if she’d changed her mind once he’d hit the big leagues, and then I closed it. “What happened?”
He smiled at me, the first soft smile I’d seen out of him. “She was like you. Book smart. A smart-ass. Didn’t like sports.” He paused. “I was seventeen.”
I swallowed. “I’m sorry. What happened?”
“Breast cancer.” He was silent a moment. “You ever get really hurt?”
Emotionally, I thought, but didn’t say it, nodding instead. That’s why I had walls; to keep from getting in too deep, to keep from getting wounded. Better that way.
“You only get hurt that badly when you’re doing something that matters. Something impossible. Taking a risk. Investing yourself. And ball’s worth it, the rush you get, the exhilaration... It’s worth a couple injuries.”
“Really? It’s the game itself? I would’ve thought the fame and money drew you in. The adulation.”
He made a noise between a scoff and a snort. “You forgot the drugs, the depression, the stress on families and relationships. It has to be the game.” He shook his head. “Sixty-five percent of players retire with injuries. Even more go broke. Almost everyone’s forgotten.”
“I don’t understand.” I waved at the apartment. “How can you go from a place like this to—nothing?”
“I told you, I’m one of the lucky ones. Most guys don’t have endorsements, but they do have medical bills and families to take care of and lifestyles to pay off.”
