Touchdown (2 page)

“What?”

Goldie nodded. “I'm telling you, Chumie Stern is mean and spiteful. And she plays with people's minds. I've seen her do terrible things. She gets people to see stuff that isn't there. I wouldn't put it past her to . . .” Goldie turned her head and caught a glimpse of a man walking past. She knew that face—but from where?

Mindy tapped her sister. “What?”

Goldie pointed. “Did you see that guy who just ducked into that doorway?”

Mindy looked toward the door they'd just passed. “I don't see anyone.”

“Tall-ish guy, sandy hair, white suit. Now who would wear a suit in this heat? Although it was sharp. And so were his shoes, from what I could tell.” She pondered for a minute, and then shrugged.

Mindy shook her head. “There's nobody there, Goldie.”

“I could have sworn I saw him hanging around Brenda's when we walked in.”

“I haven't seen a soul,” Mindy said.

“Well, then. No worries. I'm probably just having wedding jitters.” Goldie smiled as she waved ahead. “Hey, Avner!” she called out to her fiancé as she spotted him waiting for her in front of the restaurant.

“Hey, Goldie.” Avner smiled and nodded to Mindy. “Extreme shopping?”

Goldie held out her bags to Avner. “Extreme? I'd say I scored a touchdown!”

Avner laughed as he led his fiancé to the door. “So you bought out the whole store?”

“No,” Goldie said as they entered the restaurant. “Just half.”

Avner looked at his bride and smiled. “Then you're all set for the wedding?”

Mindy smirked as they were seated at the front table. “She's set for the next decade.” She sat down heavily.

As the waitress brought them some water, Avner ordered fried rice with spicy stir-fried chicken and veggies for the table, while Goldie asked the waitress to be sure to use fresh oil for the order so Avner wouldn't get an upset stomach. Goldie also reminded the waitress to bring Avner extra fortune cookies because they were his favorite dessert.

Mindy sat back. “So did you guys decide where you're going for your honeymoon yet?”

Goldie's eyes lit up. “I'm thinking the Caribbean—beach and shopping. Avner wants . . .”

“Israel. Spiritual retreat, maybe hang out in Jerusalem and watch the sunrise over the Temple Mount, or spend time in Safed, the birthplace of Kabbalah . . .”

“Avner!” Mindy nodded. “That sounds awesome. I would so do that if I ever got married. Goldie, you could go shopping in Israel, too.”

Goldie shrugged. “I suppose.” She glanced around the restaurant, noting the tacky checkered tablecloths. They practically screamed retro.

“Anyway,” Avner said, leaning close to his fiancée and running his fingers through his curly black hair. “I have a surprise for you.” His dark brown eyes sparkled with merriment.

“Earrings?” Goldie guessed.

“Better,” he said, his grin getting bigger.

“What could be better than earrings?” She pondered for a moment, while Avner pulled out a magazine from his briefcase and handed it to Goldie.

Goldie took it. “A magazine?” She looked up at him, puzzled.

“Read it,” Avner nudged.

“Touchdown by Avner Finkelstein.”

“Oh, Avner!” Goldie squealed. “Your poem—it got published! I'm so happy for you!”

Avner smiled. “I wrote it for you.”

“That's sweet, Avner,” Goldie smiled. “But where's the surprise?”

Avner paused. “That was it. The poem.”

Goldie stared at her fiancé. “Right, I knew that.”

Mindy interjected. “Why don't you read the poem out loud, Goldie?”

“Um . . . all right,” she said, and she read aloud:

Avner stared, glowing, at his fiancée. “The editor asked me for more.”

“That's nice,” Goldie said as she helped herself to more fried rice. “But do you have time for that?”

Avner looked at her earnestly. “I could make time.”

“I just wouldn't want your little hobby to distract you from the business.”

“Little hobby?” Avner bit his lip. “You know I love writing poetry.”

Goldie stared at Avner.

He glanced at his watch. “Look, my dad wanted me to join a conference call to Hong Kong. I should be getting back to work now.”

Mindy glanced at her sister, then back at Avner. “It's a really nice poem, Avner. Congratulations. Goldie's really touched. Right, Goldie? It's a love poem, Goldie. For you.”

“Love.” Goldie sighed then turned to her fiancé. “Thank you, Avner, it's sweet of you to write me a poem.” She smiled. “So call me as soon as you're done today? I need to show you the watch catalogue so that you're happy with my gift, and I also have some wallpaper samples we need to review.”

“Wallpaper. Right.” Avner exhaled. He paid the check and left without looking back.

Goldie left Mindy at the table to freshen up in the bathroom. She walked to the secluded antechamber that led to the men's and women's lavatories.

There he was again—the man she'd seen earlier. The one she was sure was following her. The guy in the white suit. She stared at him. She knew him—she was sure of it—but could not remember who he was or how they'd met. He pretended to be checking himself in the hallway mirror, but Goldie knew better.

He looked at her, his eyes so blue that Goldie thought she could see straight into his soul. And they were beautiful. Yes, she knew those eyes. A chill ran up her spine as she remembered the place where they'd met: in her dreams. She closed her eyes for a moment and recalled the dream she'd had sporadically over the years: of her dancing slowly with that man in a grand ballroom to the sound of a mournful tune. What was that song? She heard the music again. It seemed like it was from another time, another place . . . But how did she know him? Why had she dreamt of him? And more importantly—who was he and why was he following her?

“Hey,” she said as she opened her eyes and held his gaze. “I've got a cell phone and I'm prepared to use it.”

The man looked puzzled. “Excuse me?”

“Look, Mr. I-don't-know-what-your-problem-is, but if I have to call the police, I will.”

“You must be mistaking me for someone else,” he said.

“No. I'm never wrong. So how about you tell me who you are and why you've been following me?”

Her cell phone rang, and Goldie took her eyes off the man for a second to dig it out of her purse. When she looked up, he was gone.

Clayton Harper ran his fingers through his hair then straightened his tie in the locker room mirror as he tried to tune out the loud chants emanating from the stadium. It was yell night for the Emmett University Georgia Bullfrogs, and thousands of people were waiting for Clay, the star quarterback. He was expected to throw the first football to start the season—before their first game the following Thursday night—a tradition his town took seriously.

How would he place in this year's NFL draft? Or would he make it at all? Clay swallowed. He was good. He knew he was—he'd led the team to victory last season! But was he good enough? He smoothed his hands over his suit, then noticed a piece of paper flutter to the ground from his gym bag which he'd dumped on a counter by the mirror.

He picked up the note and smiled, recognizing the handwriting. Leigh! Wouldn't miss this for anything—I'll be there. You've got the talent.

Clay exhaled. Wouldn't miss this. His best friend rarely got to see him on the field since she usually had to work, but tonight was different. It was close to midnight and she could make it.

Go Bullfrogs!The sounds of the students chanting in unison from the bleachers was deafening, but Clay was used to it—he'd chanted like that when his brother Russ was the star quarterback. But that was before Russ's injury.

You've got the talent, Leigh had written. Clay shut his eyes tight, knowing it was true. His family had always teased, “Clay's got the talent and Russ's got the drive.” And Russ's drive had propelled him ahead. He was a born leader.

And he should be here now, instead of me . . .

Clay shook his head. He couldn't go there. If he had one ounce of doubt about his gift, or if he questioned his place even for a moment, then he couldn't lead. Because a weak quarterback meant a weakened team which translated into loss . . . and injuries . . .

Go Bullfrogs!

Clay glanced at his watch. It was nearly midnight—at which point he had to throw the ball before all the students who'd gathered together to practice their cheers for the season. Only . . . Why am I here when it should be my brother? Russ was his older twin (by four minutes) and growing up, they'd done everything together. Russ would come up with an idea and Clay would follow his lead. Their neighbor Leigh would usually hang out with them too, though she'd wisely point out when they were spiraling out of control. That's just how they rolled, and how it had always been. Russ was the one with the fire in his belly, the big dreams, and—because of me—a busted knee.

“Stop it,” he said aloud as he stared into the mirror. He couldn't go there. It had been Russ's choice to play that night, even though he'd pulled a muscle earlier in the day during a fight with Clay. Hadn't it?

Clay swallowed and pushed his doubts into his belly as he tried to see himself as others did: tall and fair, with light blue eyes, and a strong arm. A quarterback. A leader. But he didn't feel like one. He was the middle child in a struggling family who'd worked real hard to get through school. (When she'd tutored him in high school, Leigh had told Clay that he was smart, that dyslexia just meant it took longer to read, and he shouldn't believe his dad when he called him stupid.)

But really, what was he doing here? He'd never thought that it would happen for him, that he'd be standing here, leading all these talented and driven men toward victory. He loved to cook and hang out with Leigh—he'd only gone out for football because that's what guys did. And because Russ had told him to. Football had always been Russ's dream—Clay had been happy for his brother when Russ had made first string quarterback and then later, when Clay was recruited to Russ's school and placed as third stringer.

Until that night.

It had been a crazy fluke that Russ's career-ending injury occurred at the end of the last season just as the second stringer, Thomas Booth, was in rehab and Coach was trying to smooth over Booth's DUI. So Clay went out as quarterback and brought a mediocre team to victory. But he couldn't stop the voices of doubt in head: Do I belong here? Can I do this? Do I want to?

Stop! He knew he had to quell his doubts—and fast. But they constantly pounded inside his head. His opponents were giants—they could kill him. Or worse. They could maim him and leave him incapacitated like they'd done to Russ.

He didn't want to be here. He felt like he was going crazy. But he couldn't think about his fear or his doubts. He couldn't let himself feel anything because if he did, he might hesitate and if anyone got a whiff, then he'd lose.

And football was his chance. His only chance to make something of himself. He wasn't the best student, and his dad's bookstore business was failing. (How could he forget? Dad reminded him harshly every chance he could in that tight voice of his, hoarse after too many drinks.) Sure, he dreamed of moving to France and studying to be a chef, but really, who was he kidding? He couldn't afford that.

Go Bullfrogs! The great cacophony of cheers pulsated through the stadium and locker rooms. Clay turned toward his teammates who were all finishing up grooming themselves for their part in yell night. Usually it didn't matter how they looked—it only mattered how they played. But tonight was different: It was the end of summer, and the beginning of the season, and they were all dressed in suits, ready to march out and take their places in the hearts and minds of their community.

“Y'all ready?” Clay called out to his team.

“Ready!” they shouted back. “Go Bullfrogs!”

Clay's coach nodded, and Clay led his team out of the locker rooms and into the stadium.

Go Bullfrogs! As the team marched onto the field, the crowd went wild.

Clay inhaled the smell of the turf and felt the excitement of the crowd pulsate through the air. He immediately noticed Leigh, sitting in the bleachers not far from where he stood, her long red hair cascading down her back, framing her pale skin, which looked luminescent in the moonlight. She usually wore T-shirts and jeans, but tonight, like all of the students, she'd gotten dressed up. He couldn't remember ever seeing her in a dress, and the light color made her look so . . . pretty?

He didn't know what to make of that.

She waved, and he smiled at her. Suddenly all of his fears settled quietly in his gut and he felt happy, encouraged, and capable.

Go Bullfrogs! The crowd cheered as his team took their positions in a straight line, waving to the crowd.

His girlfriend, Coach's daughter Carolyn, who he'd started dating at the end of last season when he made quarterback, was standing in front of the bleachers with her sorority sisters, all dressed alike in frilly pink dresses as they riled up the crowd with their cheers. He hadn't seen her much over the summer; she'd been vacationing at her beach home on Tybee Island while he was busy practicing for the season. But still, everybody knew they were an item—Carolyn had told them so.

Clay's teammate Austin handed him the football, covered in blue and white paint, the colors of their team.

“What the—” Clay said as he tried not to drop the wet ball while Austin, his hands wet with blue paint, stepped back and chuckled.

“I thought we'd spice things up this year,” Austin said. He slapped Clay on the back.