Reilly where he belonged. In her carryon.
Time to get on with life.
* * * *
Joe Reilly wheeled his rental car out of the parking lot toward San Antonio. Checking his cell phone for traffic alerts, he discovered an accident on Interstate 10 that had traffic at a standstill. He programmed the GPS for an alternate route and headed out.
He could still smell the traces of a soft drink on his slacks. He’d done his best to wipe away the stains but the rental clerk had given him the fisheye, probably thinking he was a real slob. It wasn’t his fault some idiot who couldn’t walk and chew gum, or manage to hold onto her drink on the plane, had dumped its contents over the back of her seat and onto him. Just another indication of how crummy his day was going.
He’d seen this trip as a chance to spend some quality time with Hank Beckham, who, despite geographical differences, was still his best friend. He didn’t get to see as much of him as he’d like to these days. The last time had been three years ago.
Their schedules just hadn’t allowed for any time together since then. Hank was an engineer who was always being sent to some assignment for his company while Joe ran around the country for Fox Sports One and for the Coaches Conference business he’d started. The latter was an important project for him, workshops for high school coaches on how to lead as well as coach. How to teach players personal values as well as diagrams and game plans. He’d seen too many kids come out of high school without understanding that playing was only half the deal. Personal responsibility was a big part of it. His programs were geared to help coaches pass that along.
Unfortunately Hank had texted that morning he was still in Wyoming working on plans to build a bridge, but Joe should make himself at home in the house.
“I’ll try and catch a quick couple of days while you’re there, buddy,” Hank had assured him. “But if not, just make yourself at home.”
He’d also hoped to spend some time with his parents, of course, who were happy in their new adults-only community, except they were away on a trip. Bad timing, but it couldn’t be helped.
So he’d be alone in the house.
Joe shifted in his seat, trying to stretch out his left leg. The ache served as a constant reminder the glory days had come to an abrupt end.
His cell phone rang, interrupting his thoughts. He looked at the readout and swore. Lisa Margolin. No doubt calling for his help with Gina again. God. How had he gotten himself in this pickle anyway? Because his parents raised him to take care of people who couldn’t take care of themselves. That was how. He let the call go to voice mail, not in a mood to deal with it right now.
He was aware the most recent company Gina worked for had gone out of business a few weeks ago. Employees had received a one-month severance package and Joe knew Gina was coming to the end of hers. She didn’t deal well with uncertainty. Her dysfunctional family had set off her battle with the bottle to begin with and he knew the thread of sobriety was always very shaky.
Ten minutes later the ringtone chimed again and he knew without looking who it was. She was nothing if not persistent. Setting his jaw, he pressed Accept.
“What is it this time, Lisa?”
“You know I wouldn’t call you unless it was important, Joe. Really.” She always began the calls that way.
Except it was always important. “Yeah, okay. Just tell me what’s up now.”
“I hope you aren’t mad.”
She was as good at sounding tearful as Gina always had been.
“Lisa, I’m kind of busy. What’s the deal?”
“Well, um…” She paused.
“Look.” He chuffed with impatience. “Just spit it out. How much?” It was always money. Of course.
“She’s got a few job interviews coming up and she could use a couple new outfits.”
Joe squeezed the phone so hard he was amazed he didn’t crush it. “What happened to the money I just sent her?”
Pause. “She got sick.” Lisa’s voice was very quiet. “I mean, really sick. She needed medicine.”
He could only imagine. Medicine that came in bottles of cheap booze.
“She really wants to make a good impression at these interviews,” Lisa added.
A headache began to burrow its way into his temples.
“Fine. Give me an hour and I’ll transfer some money into your account.”
“Can’t you just meet me with a check?” she whined.
“No. I’m busy. It’s the transfer or nothing.”
“Whatever.” Her heavy sigh was clear across the connection. “Sorry. I just want this to happen for her.”
“We’re coming to the end of the road here, Lisa. It’s time Gina took responsibility for her own life.”
“But you’re all she has,” Lisa protested, a familiar refrain. “You can’t let go of her now. I-I’ll make sure she stays clean. Gets a job. Goes to work.”
“Do that. I’ll check back with you to see what’s going on.” He disconnected the call in the middle of her thanks, grinding his teeth.
Gina Rivera. High school bombshell. Wild child who’d captured his virtue. He hadn’t seen her, had even forgotten about her, until his third year in the NFL. She’d shown up at a game, waiting for him at the player’s gate, all masses of blond hair and tight clothes. He’d been high enough on the excitement of the win to succumb to her sexiness and spend the night with her.
He hadn’t thought much of it, not even when she showed up twice more. Then he’d discovered her secret, answered her one plea for help and after that he was trapped, just because he was basically a good guy. Occasional contact turned into regular contact. And when he’d stopped taking her calls, she’d had Lisa contact him with a sob story that plucked at his conscience.
How long was he expected to offer aid to a raging alcoholic who didn’t help herself? He should have told Scott Manchin, his agent, about it from the beginning. By now so much time had passed if word got out, the media wouldn’t look at him as doing something kind for a friend. They’d want to know why he’d kept her hidden all this time. Did they have a child together? All that shit. He’d seen it happen to others and hadn’t been smart enough to protect himself. It would be gossip fodder for weeks and kill all the work he’d done to clean up his act. He really had to cut the cord here.
Okay, enough of that.
Following the GPS directions, he pulled off the interstate and into an attractive neighborhood of larger homes and mature trees. A little farther on and the GPS directed him to turn left into the long driveway of a two-story colonial. Nice digs, Hank, he thought. But the guy was making big bucks. He deserved a good place to come home to.
He parked in front of the garage door. Maybe when he got inside he could grab the opener from Hank’s car and use it while he was here. The key was right
