Page 102 of Summer Lessons
“Jefferson likes her too,” Skip said mildly.
Mason grunted and went back to adding beer and cilantro to the simmering tenderloin. “That obvious?”
“I’ve just gotten used to that look on your face.”
Fantastic. “It’s comfortable. I’ll keep it.”How was he today? Is he sleeping with that Rudy kid yet? Did he kiss Rudy’s cheek? Did Rudy treasure it like he should have?
“I think Terry misses you, if that’s any consolation.”
“And you would know this how?” Because it might be.
“Well, he came running down the field, that Rudy kid at his heels, and he couldn’t stop looking for you. That look on his face when he realized Dane was in your spot—it’s the same as your look a minute ago when you thought he might like to see Mrs. Bradford at dinner. So that’s something.”
“How’d he play?” Mason asked. He knew they’d lost heinously, but he hadn’t asked for details.
“Like shit. You were real good at feeding him the ball in the midfield—Dane tries, and he’s not bad, you’d be surprised, but you guys had a rhythm, there’s no denying it.”
Mason took a breath and braced himself to ask the hard question, but Skipper jumped on it first.
“And I don’t think he’s sleeping with that Rudy kid either.”
Oh thank God.“What makes you say that?”
“For one thing, Rudy hogs the ball a lot, and Jefferson looks at him like he hates him and can’t shake him every time he does it. I don’t know—I can’t imagine him looking at someone he’s banging that way. But he knowswedon’t like the guy, and that’s important too.”
“How does he know that?” Mason tried very hard to leech the glee out of his voice. Failed. He’d lost his entire social Rolodex when Ira had moved out. God, it was good when someone had your back.
Skipper’s chuckle was damned evil. “Well, for starters, your brother never kicked to him, and he played midfield. Dane would kick to Jefferson or Menendez but never that Rudy kid, who—by the way—screamed, ‘Me, goddammit!’ at least six times.”
“Heh heh heh heh….” He couldn’t help it. Well, he was a petty man. Now Skipper knew.
“And if that didn’t give him the hint, Richie slide-tackled him when he didn’t pass the ball.”
Mason was in the middle of taking a drink of water, and he had to cover his mouth or he would have sputtered into the tenderloin.
“Hewhat?”
“Yeah—I thought it was pretty funny. Rudy was screaming for a yellow card, and the ref looked at me and shrugged. Said he couldn’t yellow card a guy for cleating his own player, which may or may not be horseshit, but Rudy was screaming at him the whole game anyway, so I don’t blame him one bit.”
Mason couldn’t help it. He felt his first real smile in three weeks break over his face. “That’s pretty… uh, that’s a shame. Poor Rudy. Was he bleeding?”
Skipper’s grin went positively demonic. “Yup. I told him to go wash it off in the bathroom. He must have sulked there for the rest of the game, because I sure didn’t play him.”
“Schipperke?”
“Yes, boss?”
“Thanks.”
“Any time. We miss you, though. Come back when you’re ready.”
Mason made eye contact. “I guarantee it.”
THE RESTof the dinner was a success. Mrs. Bradford and her husband arrived at six, as planned, and Richie presented her with the flowers that they used as a centerpiece.
Mrs. Bradford was delighted and promised to have the boys over to her house that summer. The way the two of them melted around her made Mason feel like he’d done a good thing, when the truth was, he’d just been gathering the people who made him happy.
Where Mason had feared things might be awkward, the Bradfords shared stories from the military. Some were bawdy and some were boggling, but they were always entertaining, and Skip and Richie could often return with stories of Richie’s job at the auto parts store or Skip dealing with executives at Tesko.
