Here I Am (Arabesque) - By Rochelle Alers Page 0,75
which he’d lean over to talk to a young child, his open smile, the warmth of his laugh and his firm handshake even while supporting himself on the crutches. His hair had grown out enough to touch the top of his ears and neck. A heavy wave flowed across the crown of his head, the flaxen strands shimmering like sunlight on bleached wheat. He was a male trifecta: face, body and brains.
“Viking, do you think you’ll be physically ready to play next year?”
Brandt smiled at the reporter shoving a handheld tape recorder inches from his face. “That determination will have to come from the team’s physician.”
“Is it true that you’re not talking to your teammates?”
His smile was still in place, but his eyes weren’t smiling. They were cold and piercing. “It depends on which teammate you’re referring to.” He put up a hand. “Sorry, folks, but I need to get off my feet.”
The excitement he’d felt when walking into the stadium was replaced by a panic that made it impossible for him to move his legs. He’d lost Ciara in the crowd. His gaze was wild, frantic when he searched the throng milling around him. Then he saw her. She was standing thirty feet away—and alone.
Their gazes met, his filled with relief. He beckoned to someone from stadium security. “Can you please tell the lady in the red jacket that we’re going to our seats?”
The man nodded. “No problem, Mr. Wainwright. I’ll escort you there.”
It took longer than expected to get to their seats because it was slow going with the crutches, and their progress was impeded when fans ran over to greet or touch him. They were finally seated in a section with league executives and season ticket holders.
It was an overcast day and the air was cooler than Ciara had expected. She’d decided to bring the jacket because she wasn’t certain when the game would end. Leaning into Brandt’s warmth, she smiled up at him. “You’re going to have to explain the game to me.”
Brandt lowered his head and kissed the end of her nose. “Didn’t you have football at your high school?”
“The year before I went to high school the school board disbanded the team after a boy died after being tackled in practice. At first they thought he’d suffered a concussion, but two days later he lapsed into a coma and was declared brain-dead. His parents signed the order to have him taken off life support and donated most of his organs. That left us with just basketball and baseball.”
“There are thirty-two teams, divided into the NFC and AFC, and each conference is divided into zones: east, north, south and west. Each team plays the other three teams in their division twice—once at home and once on the road.”
“How long is the season?” Ciara asked.
“Seventeen weeks, sixteen games.”
“That’s not very long, Brandt.”
“Long enough to get your brain scrambled. I usually don’t feel the pain when I’m playing, but the next day, depending on where I got hit, it’s no joke. That’s why I had the contractor include the sauna and steam room at my apartment. There’s nothing like moist heat for aches and pain.”
Ciara listened intently when Brandt gave the background on the game, but it ended when the teams took the field. She watched the action on giant screens. Her image appeared on the screen with Brandt’s and the stadium erupted in ear-shattering cheers. She sat, transfixed, when Brandt’s name was announced and he rose, using the crutches for support, and waved to the crowd and the players. Their images lingered when he sat, draped an arm over her shoulders and pulled her close. It was as if the entire world knew she was with Brandt Wainwright.
Brandt kept up a continuous commentary, explaining each play, shouting at the top of his lungs when his team scored the first touchdown, then covering her mouth with his, sucking the air from her lungs and leaving her struggling to breathe.
He loves this game. The four words taunted her. Brandt loved football, and the million-dollar question was, would he ever play again? Her cell phone vibrated at the beginning of halftime. Ciara pulled it out of her jacket pocket, staring at the display. Sofia had sent her a text: saw Viking suck yur face on prime time. U go Chica. She tucked the tiny phone into her pocket. If Sofia had seen her so did millions of others. The image was frozen in time for posterity.