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“It’s a players’ game, even if the former inhabitant of this office frequently forgot that.”
“He forgot it as soon as he stopped being a player,” I said.
“They played hard. All I can ask.”
I walked over and bumped him some fist.
“Look at you. You sound as boring as the other head coaches already.”
I was home later, alone, having a glass of wine to celebrate, when my doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole and saw my ex-husband standing there.
I opened my door just to give myself the opportunity to close it in his face.
He got his foot down just in time.
“Honey, I’m home.”
“My home,” I said. “Go away.”
“No ‘Nice win’?”
“I have nothing to say to you.Wehave nothing to say to each other. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure that we ever really did.”
“I came here to tell you that I’m on your side, whether you believe me or not,” he said.
I couldn’t help myself.
I laughed.
“I wouldn’t believe you at this point if you told me water was wet.”
He still had his foot preventing me from closing my front door.
“And as for ‘Nice win’? We didn’t win today because of anything special you did. We won because we went back to running the ball.”
“You happen to be right,” he said. “But I didn’t come here to talk football.”
“Then why did you come?”
“To tell you that as soon as your brother can get you out of the way, he’s got a deal in place to sell the team to Gallo,” Ted Skyler said. “Now can I come in?”
Twenty-Eight
JACK WOLF KEPT HISscull at the Bair Island Aquatic Center, in Redwood City. It was a couple of miles from the spot where he’d rented a small apartment for himself and Megan Callahan—under her name—when they were still together.
That was just another form of exercise, he thought, nothing more, just less rigorous and satisfying than single-sculling.
And he’d kept the apartment.
Win, win.
The Wolves had played a one o’clock game, which he’d used to entertain advertisers in his suite. Once the game was over, he’d driven over here and had been in the water ever since. He was still in his wet suit, on his way out of the boathouse, when he saw Seth Dowd standing by his car.
“Shouldn’t you be off writing me a column about how winning one game doesn’t change what a Dumpster fire the Wolves have become?” Jack said.
“Isn’t that what you told me to write?” Dowd said. “Written, sent, probably already up on the website.”
“Who told you I was here?”
