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“Great. I’ll put you on the ticket list.”
My eyes light up. “You guys actually have playoff tickets?”
“Top Dog is a season ticket holder and he likes to take the staff on outings. A team building sort of thing to get away from the campaign.”
“But I just started here. Surely some people who have been here awhile are entitled to them.”
“Most of our people aren’t from this area. Not a whole lot of Giant fans on staff so the ticket is yours. By the way, this isn’t a private box, so you’ll be sitting out in the cold.”
“Fine with me. After Iowa it will feel like the beach. You going?”
“Unfortunately I have to go to a wedding.”
“Who the hell gets married on a Sunday during playoff season?”
“Jets fans. They knew their team would be awful, as always. Anyway, I’m taping the game so don’t you dare call me and tell me how it went. Big Blue all the way.”
***
Sam rolls toward the dining room table on this Saturday night carrying a bunch of dishes like a seasoned waiter along with a bottle of wine in his lap. I lick my lips as he slides a plate of cajun seafood Alfredo in front of me. Ripley already has her fork and spoon at the ready as she adores his cooking. Sam leans over and starts carpet bombing her fettuccine with freshly grated parmesan, as he knows she’s a cheese fanatic. She digs in immediately, twirls a ball of pasta with a shrimp and pops it in her mouth. She closes her eyes as she savors it and licks her lips like a cat. “God, that’s better than sex. Sam, you’ll make someone a great wife.”
“Cute,” he says, as he moves to the head of the table. I’m older but he’s the man of the house, so he sits at the head. I like tradition that way. By the way, Sam has had a major crush on Ripley since he hit puberty and says he would die if she ever knew. Of course it’s so obvious the way he dotes on her that she figured it out long ago, but thankfully he doesn’t know she knows. (Even my brother the genius is a typical man in that when it comes to women he misses the obvious.) I’ve always wondered if there weren’t such an age difference if those two would make a good couple.
“So,” says Sam, grabbing the bottle opener, “how’s the political version of The Bachelor going? Has there been a rose ceremony yet?”
I cock my head at Ripley. “She’s out of the gate like Secretariat,” I say, just before I stuff my face with pasta.
Sam turns toward Ripley as he pops the cork on the wine and beings pouring her a glass. “Ah, do tell.”
“Nothing to tell,” says Ripley, too busy shoveling food in her mouth to bother looking up from her plate.
“Horseshit,” I say. “Becker nearly tripped over his tongue when he saw her in that red dress.”
“The one with the high neck and the cut-out shoulders?” asks Sam. I nod. “She looks great in that. Of course, she looks great in everything.”
Ripley looks up and smiles at him. “You’re sweet,” she says, talking through the pasta, though it comes out, “Yur sreet.”
I point my fork at her. “Becker gave her a personal tour of the office.”
“And that’s all it was,” said Ripley, coming up for air and a sip of wine.
“Oh, come on, I could tell you two had a connection.”
“Maybe so. But all he did was ask about you.”
My fork is suddenly suspended in mid-air inches from my mouth.
“And the plot thickens,” says Sam.
“Continue,” I say. “What did he ask?”
She puts her utensils down and dabs her lips with a napkin. “Let’s see… has Cassidy ever been married? Is she seeing anyone? What does she like to do for fun?”
“You serious?”
Ripley nods. “Yep. Anyway, I didn’t react in a jealous high school manner because I am keeping the pact.”
“You two have a pact?” asks Sam, putting down his utensils and resting his chin on his hands. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear the details of this.”
“We’re both supposed to ignore him,” says Ripley.
Sam furrows his brow. “I don’t understand. I thought this guy was the ultimate catch for you guys. Why would you both ignore him?”
“Men always want what they can’t have,” I say, reaching for a piece of hot Italian bread. “Dating 101.”
“Yeah, you have a point,” says Sam. “But you two aren’t exactly shrinking violets. What constitutes ignoring him? Grabbing his ass only once a day?”
“Hush, little brother.”
“I’d agree to that,” says Ripley, “if you wanna amend the pact.” She goes back to attacking her food. “I almost forgot. After I basically gave him a dossier on the care and feeding of Twitter Girl he did invite me to the football game this weekend.”
I drop my fork. “You’re going to the Giants game? You hate football.”
She shrugs. “Thought I’d give it a shot.”
“Hell, Ripley,” says Sam, “you think a tight end is one of your requirements for a boyfriend.”
“That’s why I got this,” she says, as she leans down, reaches into her purse and pulls out a paperback titled NFLFootball for Dummies. “I’ll be cramming tomorrow morning.”
I roll my eyes. “You can’t become a football fan in a day. Name one of the Giants.”
She searches the heavens for an answer, then looks at me and smiles. “Frank Gifford!”
“He retired in the sixties and he’s eighty years old! You only know him ’cause he’s married to Kathie Lee.”
“You said name one Giant and I named one. So there.”
“Name a current one.”
“I’ll know them all tomorrow.”
“Really. How much is a touchdown worth?”
“Uh… ten thousand dollars?”
Sam shakes his head and laughs. “Man, I’d love to be a fly on the wall when you talk football with Senator Becker.”
“I’ll record it on my cell,” I say. “I can sell it to ESPN for a fortune.”
***
The cold wind slaps us in the face as Ripley and I head down the concourse toward our seats. One look at her face tells me my best friend is not at all wild about dealing with the elements in pursuit of the ultimate catch. (Her idea of camping out is taking a nap on the sun porch in May.)
“Why couldn’t we have gone to a Broadway show?” she asks. “At least there’d be heat.”
“You can go home if you like, I’ll tell him you weren’t feeling well.”
“Hell no, dear friend. I’ll freeze my ass off for a shot at Becker’s.”
“Thought so. We’ll get you some hot chocolate when we get to our seats.”
“I think I’ll need a stronger antifreeze,” she says, pulling her suede coat tighter around her. “Couple of dirty martinis should warm me up.”
I stop and turn to face her. “Oh, would you like some paté to go with it?”
“Great idea—”
“You’re at a friggin’ football game in New Jersey! You can have a hot dog and a beer!”
She face tightens. “Really? There’s no place serving hot hors d’oeurves?”
I roll my eyes and continue toward our section, which is around the forty yard line. I pull the tickets out of my pocket and see we’re both in odd numbered seats. “Hey, we’re not sitting together. We’ve got seats nine and eleven.”
She shoves her hands in her pockets and adjusts her hat. “Let’s just get there.”
We turn into the tunnel and I hand my tickets to an usher who points to our row. We head down the steps and I see the seat between nine and eleven is occupied.
By the Senator.
I stop, grab Ripley’s arm and lean over to whisper in her ear. “Becker’s sitting between us.”
“Really? Hmmm, interesting. You think he planned it or that’s just the tickets we got?”
“Guess we’ll find out.”
“Maybe he wants a three-way with the hottest members of his staff.”
“Yeah, that will get him elected.”
We head down the steps to our row. The Senator spots us as we arrive and stands up. “Hey, you made it. Hope it wasn’t too much of a hassle getting here.”
“Nah, no big deal,” I say, as I slide past him and grab seat number nine as Ripley plops down in number eleven. I turn to face Becker and take in his outfit. Jeans, Giants ski jacket, stocking cap, wire-rimmed glasses. “You dress down really well.”
“I can blend when I have to. If I sat in a private box people would bend my ear for three hours and I’d never get to watch the game.”
“I never would have recognized you,” says Ripley.
“By the way, we’ll have a limo to get you guys home.”
We’re interrupted by two new arrivals, Andrew and another hot guy I haven’t seen. Ripley hasn’t met either one, and when she looks at me I gather by her “tell” (according to my brother) that she’s not at all disappointed by the runner-ups.
The Senator introduces them. The new contestant in hot guy roulette is a political consultant named Vinnie Franco and looks as Italian as his name. Tall with black hair, deep-set dark brown eyes, a rugged face. One of those guys with a heavy beard who always looks like he has a five o’clock shadow. The jury’s out on the rest of him until I see what’s under the goose down parka. Vinnie grabs the seat next to Ripley while Andrew slides by and sits next to me.
This is one helluva hot guy sandwich for two gals from Staten Island.
Ripley no longer looks cold.
***
The Giants are up by ten as we get close to halftime. I don’t think Ripley’s watched one single play (not that I expected her to) as she’s bounced her conversation between Becker and Vinnie. She’s also managed to hide her lack of football knowledge by jumping up and cheering whenever everyone else does. I’ve been talking football with the Senator and Andrew as the game hits the two minute warning.
“Okay,” says Becker, eyes riveted on the field, “if they can just avoid a mistake in the last two minutes.” He’s obviously a true fan as he hasn’t mentioned politics once.
“Wow, the game is going fast,” says Ripley.
“Not too much passing in this wind,” says Vinnie. “Ground game eats up the clock.”
“True,” says Ripley. She looks at me and shrugs.
I give her an eye roll and she shoots back a Cheshire cat grin. She’s actually pulling it off. As we say in television news, if you can fake sincerity you’ve got it made.
“Oh, we’re going out to eat after the game,” says Becker. “A friend of mine has a restaurant with a private back room. Hope you girls like Italian.”
“Who doesn’t?” I say.
“Cassidy, you want a snack during halftime?” asks Andrew.
“Hey, I’m a growing girl. I’ll have whatever you’re having. Long as it’s something hot.”
The Giants are stuck deep in their own territory as the game resumes and decide to run out the clock for the first half with three straight runs. The gun sounds and the crowd cheers as they head into the locker room with a ten point lead.
And then Ripley blows her cover as she jumps up and yells, “Yay, they won!”
The guys start laughing and I’m biting my lip. “Ripley, it’s just halftime,” says Vinnie.
She sits down. “Oh, right. I knew that.”
But the men aren’t buying it.
“Ripley,” says Becker, turning to face her as he tries to hold back a grin. “Look at me.”
She turns to face him and smiles.
“Who are the Giants playing? And don’t look at the scoreboard.” He puts up his hand to block her view.
Her smile slowly fades. “They’re… obviously playing a team that isn’t worth a damn.”
“Who are they playing? Name the team.”
