Page 14 of The First Gentleman

Burton chuckled. “See all these folders on my desk? Every single one represents a congressperson or senator who says they were mistaken in opposing your wife for president. They’re apologizing and making nice because they want jobs in her administration—and jobs for their assorted nieces and nephews. And I’m going to take great pleasure in telling them no.”

“Nicely, of course,” Cole said. “Now back to me.”

Pearce sighed. “You, Cole, already have a full-time job. First Gentleman.”

“That’s not a job,” said Cole.

“Okay, then,” said Burton, “what do you want to do? Every presidential spouse I can think of had some kind of special mission.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Jackie Kennedy was a supporter of the arts. Lady Bird was into highway beautification. Nancy Reagan had ‘Just Say No.’ Laura Bush was all about literacy. Michelle Obama was into nutrition—”

“Right,” said Cole. “Here’s my mission.” He reached into his pocket and tossed a circular cloth patch onto Burton’s desk.

Burton picked it up. “What the hell is this?”

“Read it.”

Burton held the patch up and squinted. “‘President’s Council on Physical Fitness.’” He worked it between his fingers. “This is a relic. From the JFK era.”

“Exactly my point,” said Cole. “A relic. I want to resurrect it. Make it mine, officially. That’s what I want as my mission.”

Burton tossed the patch down. “Why this?”

“Burton, you and I have been on the campaign trail together,” said Cole. “You know that whenever I’m in front of some group, nine times out of ten, they want to talk about my football career. They never ask me about trade balances, voting rights, or foreign affairs. I’ve got a megaphone now and I want to use it to get America off its collective ass.”

Burton passed the old badge back to him. “Doesn’t something like this already exist?”

“In name only,” said Cole. “JFK was smart enough to focus on physical fitness. Over the years, the program got watered down. Special-interest groups changed its name and mission, and now it’s a goddamn mutant—the President’s Council on Sports, Fitness, and Nutrition. And it’s pretty much dormant. Give it to me and I’ll wake it up, bring it back to its roots, and get things done.”

Burton rubbed his temples. “There’s a certain symmetry to this. Vital, attractive president replaces the stodgy old guard. Gets America moving. Happened in 1960…” Burton sat quietly for a few seconds. “Okay, but you run your programs and speeches by me. Clear?”

Cole waved the badge like a talisman. “This will work. Trust me.”

CHAPTER

11

Cole and Leanne follow their usual route, and when they swing around the Tidal Basin, onlookers start clapping and shouting:

“Looking good, Cole!”

“Strong pace!”

“Nice shoes!”

Soon after Maddy’s inauguration, the media had seized on the brand of shoes he’d been wearing for years: Where were the First Gentleman’s running shoes made? Were the materials recyclable? Was the company ecofriendly? Did it provide humane working conditions? Did its management support the LGBTQIA+ communities?

“Maybe I should just run barefoot!” he’d joked to Maddy during the controversy.

To calm the waves, his assistant, Jason Rollins, had secured an obscure model that checked all the boxes. The shoes were comfortable enough, but after three or four runs they’d fallen apart and had to be trashed. Typical political compromise.

Now Leanne moves between Cole and the crowd.

The people are close enough that Cole can pick out individual faces. He sees folks holding upSports Illustratedmagazines with him on the cover, photos, even an old poster from his Patriots days.

“Looks like you’ve got a cheering section, sir,” says Leanne.

Cole smiles and nods as the crowd of people edges closer to the path. There must be twenty of them now. Within seconds, men in running clothes are behind Cole and on both sides of him. More agents, out of nowhere.

“Let’s keep moving, sir,” says one.

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