Enlisted by Love (16 page)

“I usually like pretzels,” Greta admitted cautiously, not wanting to commit herself wholeheartedly. You never knew what a football fan might think constituted a pretzel.

The loudspeakers squawked and Ian tilted his head, apparently able to make out the announcer's words.

“Come on,” he said, seizing her sticky hand and tugging her through the crowds. “Let's get some good seats.” He steered her toward bleachers located near the center of the stands, a half-dozen rows back from the field. He greeted some of the other fans around them, introducing her as “My friend, Greta. She's the one decorating my house.” She didn't point out that she preferred to be called an interior designer — to Ian she would always be a decorator, and just try dislodging something like that from his brain — and smiled politely at the people, shaking hands when they were offered. How had Ian gotten to know so many people in town? He hadn't lived here very long. Of course, she thought sourly, he was a friendly man.

“So tell me,” she said as they finally settled on their cold metal seats. “What is the purpose of this game?”

“The purpose of
this
game is to defeat Lawrence High School,” Ian said. “Here, you should have brought gloves.” He pulled a pair of leather gloves from his jacket pockets and handed them to her.

“I know that beating the opponent is the basic idea,” she said. “But I mean, what is the purpose of football? In general?”

“You've never seen a football game?” She had his full attention now and she wasn't sure she liked it. She waved a gloved hand dismissively in his direction.

“Oh, I've seen them,” she said. Her ex had enjoyed watching football, beer in one hand, remote in the other. But he didn't like interruptions. He didn't like talking or questions. He didn't —

Greta blew out a breath and said, “Michael's always watching football,” as if that were her sole exposure to men and their football viewing habits. “All it appears to be is a bunch of men falling on top of each other.”

Ian grinned. “There is a little more to it than that, although that is the main theme.” He explained about the sides and the basic plays and continued the conversation even after the game started, never getting impatient when she interrupted his concentration to ask about what was happening on the field. By the end of the first quarter, she was able to start making sense of what the players were trying to accomplish: moving the ball at least ten yards in order to earn a new batch of downs, punting the ball if they didn't manage that, running to gain yards sometimes and throwing for the same reason at other times, with the ultimate purpose of putting the ball over the goal line in some way, shape or form.

She intuitively understood the importance of field position and had even grasped the principle of each of the major penalties — really, men made the game sound so much harder to understand than it was — and she thought by half-time she might be able to guess why a penalty had occurred without having to ask, at least some of the time.

The boys playing seemed young but they were very serious and confident as they took their places for the next play. Listening to the fans yelling on the sidelines, she hoped
they
didn't take the game too seriously. After all, it was just a bunch of kids trying to have fun on a Friday night.

Was it fun? Was she having fun? It was hard to say —

“Oh, no!” Ian's groan caught her attention.

“What?” she demanded, looking around in concern. She couldn't immediately identify the problem.

“They're bringing on the kicker,” he said mournfully, subsiding back onto the bleacher seat. “They're going for the field goal.”

That
was the cause of his heartfelt groan? “You said he's a good kicker, so he'll probably make it. That's good, right? They'd get three points.” She was rather proud of herself for remembering that. When had she ever remembered a football fact? When had she ever known one?

“Yeah, but a field goal is not a touchdown,” he explained. “You gotta go for the touchdown when you can.”

“Ah. I'm starting to understand men much better than before.”

He glanced over at her. “Did you just make a joke?” he asked suspiciously. “Are you having
fun
?” He recoiled in pretend horror and she laughed and pulled his knit cap down over his eyes.

The Firebirds lost in a squeaker, but though he groaned, he shrugged and said, “Next week will be better.” Standing up, he said goodbye to his acquaintances in the bleachers and took her hand as they made their way down from the stands. He brought her to the sidelines to say a few words to the coach, whom, it turned out, he knew. He introduced her as his friend again, this time leaving out the information about decorating — in deference, she supposed, to the level of testosterone floating around. He greeted a couple of the players and said a couple of platitudes that Greta recognized from chance exposure to ESPN. Then the team trotted off to the locker room, while parents and other fans milled about, talking and reliving the experience, complete with sound effects.

“How do you know the players?” she asked Ian. “You haven't even lived here that long.”

“I met some of them at the Boys and Girls Club.”

That was so unexpected she blinked and looked up at him, baffled. “What do you do there?”

“I volunteer, help out with the programs. Prevent fist fights.” He shrugged. “The usual.”

Well, no, it wasn't the usual. She didn't know anyone else who volunteered there. She hadn't even been aware that the organization served Lawrence. “I didn't know you were a kid person,” she said. She was pretty sure you'd have to like kids a lot to keep going back long enough for the kids in question to remember your name and to look happy to see you. Why had she automatically assumed that because he was a still bachelor at his age he couldn't possibly care about other people?

The crowds began thinning, leaving small knots of people talking here and there. The overhead lights were still on, but the night beyond was quite dark and she thought about having no place to go on an evening like this, especially if you were a kid, restless and bored.

“I don't help out because I'm a kid person,” Ian said. “I do it because I was a kid once.”

“Ah,” she said. She rubbed her arms. Even in her quilted jacket she was getting cold. But she didn't want to suggest they leave just yet because she was curious about Ian now and they'd established this odd rapport. She'd never been curious about him before and she wasn't sure why she was now. “You didn't have an easy time of it, did you?”

“No.”

Obviously it was tough for him to talk about — ordinarily he was not a man of one-syllable answers — but she just kept quiet, watching him. Either he would make some flippant remark, and that would tell her one thing about their relationship, or he'd say something serious, and that would tell her a different thing. Finally, he said, “I was lucky. I don't know what would have happened if people like Mrs. M hadn't been there for me. People who had no relationship to me, people who had no reason to mentor or guide me except they thought it was the right thing to do.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked away. He had chosen serious. Great. She was trying very hard not to like him, to remind herself how insufferable he was, and he picked serious.

“Mrs. M? Michael's mother?” She couldn't keep the question out of her voice. She knew Michael and Ian were long-time friends, but it had never occurred to her to ask either of them how their friendship had come about. On reflection, it was clear that their age difference — Ian was about five years older — meant they wouldn't have been classmates.

“Sure,” he said, giving a casual shrug that she was sure was not in the least casual. “She and Mr. M basically adopted me when my mother died.”

She tried to imagine Michael's mother and Ian co-existing under the same roof. “Wow,” she said softly. She had never looked past the brash exterior or thought of how it might have come to be. But just like her, he'd once been a scared kid.

The stadium lights went dark and she flinched in surprise, but instead of saying, “We should leave,” she put a hand on his arm and cleared her throat. “Well. Mrs. M should be proud of how you turned out.”

In the moonlight near the almost deserted stands, she could see his smile. “Did you just say something nice to me?”

Now it was her turn to smile. That was definitely the Ian she knew. “I'll try to restrain myself in future,” she said. That broadened the smile on his lips. Emboldened, not at all sure why she was doing it, or if she should, she took a step closer to him. He didn't move, just stood there, looking at her, strong and steady, keeping his hands in his pockets instead of reaching for her. Letting her take the step, be the one in control. She reached up and touched her lips to his, putting her hands on his shoulders to steady herself. He didn't say anything as she lifted her head and looked up at him. His breath tickled her cheek. She brushed her thumb along his lower lip. He kept perfectly still. He'd taken his hands out of his pockets, but he made no sudden moves. She touched her mouth to his again. Then somehow he was kissing her back — and she wanted — she wanted —

She pulled away. He started at her reaction, and looked surprised when she pushed him a step back. “I didn't hurt you, did I?” he asked. “I didn't meant to do anything — I'm sorry if — ”

“Of course not,” she cut in on his obvious agitation. “Ian. We talked about fun. I was thinking, you know,
fun
. That was something else.”

“You can say that again,” Ian said, raking his hand though his hair. “You're okay?”

“I'm fine.”

“I'm sorry. Greta, I — ”

“I'm ready to go home, Ian.”

“So what you're telling me is that you got her to go along with you,” Tess said, sipping one of her disgusting chocolate coffees and sizing him up. “And she had fun.”

“Yes,” Ian said cautiously.

They were at one of the small marble-topped tables at La Prima Tazza, the coffee shop Tess frequented, and Ian was trying to figure out how he'd gotten here. No, he knew how he'd gotten here. Greta wouldn't even take his calls, either turning them over to Tess or letting voicemail pick up, and he couldn't leave well enough alone. No. He had created the problem and now he had to fix it.

“So then you — what? Had a heart-felt conversation, which inspired her to trust you enough to kiss you.” Tess was ticking the points off on her fingers like a school principal chastising a pupil. He squirmed in his chair.

“Uh,” he said.

“And then you went and messed it up,” she finished.

“I — ”

She held up a hand. “I do not want details of what you did or did not do during the kiss.”

He gave her a disgusted look. “Trust me, I wasn't about to divulge any of that information. But I didn't
mess it up
.”

She nodded and leaned back in her chair. “Okay. Then to sum up: you were making excellent progress and then — bam! — it's over.”

He winced. “It wasn't like that,” he said, drinking his cup of Colombian black. Strong, rich, a little bitter. Full flavored, not doctored up with sugar and cream. He eyed Tess's cup of mocha skeptically. He knew that Michael also drank chocolate coffee, just like Tess did. How did a man go up to the kid at the counter and order a thing like mocha coffee? With skim milk? He'd heard Michael say that: “with skim, no whipped cream.” A man shouldn't have to specify “no whipped cream” on his coffee.

Even so, while drinking chocolate coffee, Michael had managed to get hold of Tess. And Ian was drinking black coffee and making the girls run away. It was almost enough to make a man break down and order a latte. He snuck a glance at the drink menu. Maybe next time.

“All right,” Tess said. “It wasn't like that. How was it, then?”

“You know, I'm generally regarded as a smooth operator,” he said.

“Just not by Greta.”

“What is wrong with her?” he demanded. “We're both adults, we like each other, we've got this sparky thing going.”

“Sparky?” She lifted a brow. “
Sparky
?”

“I'm a man, I don't know how to explain emotions,” Ian grumbled, folding his arms over his chest. Just like a balky third-grader. He moved his elbows to the table and dropped his head in his hands.

“You have got it bad,” Tess said.

“Haven't I been telling you?” he said, not looking up because she would probably be smirking at him. “What do I do?” he groaned, knowing he was pathetic and still letting Tess see the depths of his patheticness. It was actually kinda cathartic. He was starting to understand why women liked sharing their emotions.

“First, let's start by not saying there's something wrong with Greta,” Tess said. “That phrase irritates me. Most people have good reasons for doing what they do, if we could just all be patient enough to pause and figure that out.”

Ian, remembering that Tess's daughter Belinda was cognitively impaired, mentally kicked himself for using a phrase Tess had no doubt heard one too many times.
What's wrong with her?

“Sorry,” he said, straightening in his chair. He should probably have asked, “What's wrong with me?” Since meeting Greta that first time, he'd become a walking coil of frustration and it was starting to annoy him. On the other hand, Tess would probably have objected to that, too.
Let's not focus on what's wrong with people
, he encouraged himself.
Let's focus on solving the problem.

“Second,” Tess lectured — she was ticking her comments off on her fingers again and he listened like a good student — “let's not assume that just because Greta doesn't want to do what you want to do that you're right and she's wrong.”