Page 47 of Devil in Disguise
“Too bad I’m not Indian,” Dyma said.
“You cannot imagine how true that is. Is your hair color real?”
“What?” Dyma squinted at her. “Why does that matter?”
“Because you might not be a nice girl.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“Well, then,” Dyma said, “yes. It’s real. I guess I could show them, uh, little-kid pictures? Proving that my hair has always been devoid of pigment, seeing as I’m practically albino?”
“And is the virgin thing real, too?”
“Geez, what are they going to do, ask for a purity test? Am I auditioning to be the next Queen of England or something?”
Pavani laughed. “Worse. Trust me. Worse.”
21
Recovery Day
By the timeOwen got home from Tampa Bay that Sunday, it was midnight, and the six-hour flight hadn’t done the deep bruise on his calf any favors. He parked the truck in the garage, limped into the house, which smelled faintly stale after ten days away despite the cleaners having been in at some point, dropped his gear in the bedroom and stripped off his clothes, headed into the kitchen to make a smoothie, then went down to the basement, pulled on a pair of swim trunks, and stepped into the ice bath. And sat, because that was what you did.
Around him, the house ticked and hummed, beams contracting, appliances running. Otherwise, there was silence.
He didn’t normally play music when he was alone. He needed the freedom of his thoughts, because that was part of recovery, too. People thought pro football was all about training and pushing yourself, but they were only half right. The other half was about recovery, and allowing yourself to be still and absorb what was around you was part of that. Substitute for being on the ranch, probably, under the wide-open sky.
Even so, he wished he’d turned on some music. Maybe he didn’t exactly love his thoughts right now. The bruises always hurt worse after a loss, and so did coming home to an empty house.
The water was incredibly cold. It was always cold, though. That was the point. After ten minutes, he climbed out, pulled on some sweatpants, finished his smoothie on the walk upstairs, cleaned up the kitchen, and headed to bed, setting the alarm for six.
In the morning, after a chilly, gray day had dawned like there was no cheer in the world, there was the kind of massage that felt more like “ripping your muscles out by the roots,” more ice on the calf, a lifting session, and three hours of meetings and film review before the team headed out to the field in shorts and shells to run through where they’d messed up and how they should’ve done it differently. Some more conditioning work after that, where your body wanted to drag but you stepped up your game instead, because the rookies didn’t need to see that, and you sure as hell didn’t need anybody thinking you were vulnerable. Football was a team sport. It was also a shark tank.
Done by three-thirty, and ready to get started on his recovery day, involving eating, resting, some more time in the ice bath and the hot tub, calling Dyma once she was done with her evening shift at the dining hall, and heading to the rehab center for more extensive treatment in the morning. He pulled into the garage again, headed into the kitchen to get some beef and barley stew out of the freezer, stuck it in the microwave, dug out a bag of greens, some sweet potato gnocchi, and a few other items that would satisfy his caloric requirements, and stood, his hands gripping the edge of the kitchen sink, looking out at the shifting mass of low cloud.
There’d be some red in those clouds tonight, and maybe a pretty good sunset. He remembered how pink the light had been on the mountains on the night that Dyma had graduated from high school, when he’d danced with her on the dock.
He’d start his recovery day with a text.
* * *
Dyma said, “Hey,”to Fletcher and Avery, then kept on wiping tables and sweeping up spilled food. Almost seven-thirty, and the crowd in the dining hall was thinning. She was going to get out of here as soon as her shift ended, because she needed to find a spot to call Owen. The Devils had lost to the Bucs yesterday, and he hated to lose. Not that he’d talk to her about it. She’d already figured out, less than halfway into the season, that he didn’t want to hear much more from her than, “You looked great out there.” Not that he’d told her so. Just that when she’d said anything more, even something like, “That was an awesome block in the second quarter. What did the coach say? I mean, I thought you …” he’d look at her for a second, say something noncommittal, and move on.
He had enough pressure, she guessed. At least, she thought that was it. It was hard to tell when you only talked to somebody a few times a week, and only via Skype. She didn’t actually know if it was the I-don’t-want-your-critique thing, or more I-don’t-want-to-discuss-my-life. Or even, possibly, this-is-too-hard.
No. It couldn’t be this-is-too-hard, and itdefinitelycouldn’t be I-don’t-want-to-do-this-anymore. Because he was sending her a present. She knew that because he’d sent her a text this afternoon saying,Got you something back in Houston. Having it delivered to you now. Hope you like it.You didn’t send somebody a present if you weren’t thinking about them. Something you’d bought weeks ago and hadn’t sent yet, but now you couldn’t wait anymore. Sending her a present had to be good, right?
Ithadto be good, because her Thermodynamics midterm hadn’t gone too well today. Or you could say that it had gone disastrously. And she still had two more midterms this week.
She’d never taken a test where she didn’t know how to do the problems, where she was guessing. She wasgoodat school! It was her thing! So she hadn’t done all the homework. She’d taken twelve AP classes in high school.Twelve.And she’d done great. How was she supposed to know you had to do all the homework, or how fast-paced the classes would be?
She was going to get that test back on Friday. She wasn’t looking forward to Friday. Her stomach felt queasy, like the world was tipping out from under her.
In all those dreams about college, she’d always had friends. She’d played Ultimate Frisbee on something called “The Quad” and video games in dorm rooms, and had had long talks over late-night pizza. In other words, she’d imagined it being a lot like high school, except with the freedom to do whatever you wanted.
Which, apparently, included the freedom to flunk out. And have people hate her.
