Page 57 of The Right Move

Grabbing my phone, I dial her again, which makes it my third call since I left the arena twenty minutes ago.

“You’ve reached Indy!” her voicemail repeats once again. “You can leave a message if you want but I probably won’t call you back. Bye!”

Typically, I’d find her voicemail charming just like her, but tonight it’s frustrating beyond belief.

“Call me back, Ind,” I mutter into the receiver, pacing the length of the living room, continuing to check my phone.

Surely, she’s got to be done driving by now. The game ended two hours ago.

What if she picked up a trip that took her hours out of town? Or what if her car broke down? Fuck, I don’t even know what she drives. Is it safe for a Chicago winter? She’s a Midwest native, so I assume it is, but what if it’s an old car?

I’m self-aware enough to know I’m avoiding the real question. What if something worse happened to her? Fans can be belligerent leaving the arena, I’ve seen it firsthand.

Where the hell is she?

“Stevie?” I ask as soon as my sister answers her phone. “Have you heard from Indy?”

“No. She’s driving tonight. Is everything okay?”

“She’s not home yet. She should be home by now.”

“It’s only eleven thirty. Maybe she’s still working or maybe she met up with friends.”

“What kind of friends?”

She laughs. “Oh my God. Male friends, I’m sure. The kind with lots of money and huge di—”

“Vee.”

“I’m kidding. Friends like girl friends or Rio.”

“Why are you not concerned at all?”

“Because she’s a grown woman who’s working. Will it make you feel better if I text her?”

“Please.”

My sister softens her tone. “Ryan, I’m sure she’s fine. I’ll text as soon as I hear back.”

Another twenty-five minutes goes by. I pace the kitchen. I pour myself a scotch. My collar feels too claustrophobic, so I change out of my gameday suit before wrapping a bag of ice around my shooter’s shoulder.

Stevie is probably right and I’m being over-dramatic, but the idea of Indy being alone in her car with strangers in the middle of the night sends a reaction through me that I haven’t felt in quite a while—concern.

My emotions haven’t taken over in years, including this one. I’ve kept them locked down, controlled, but right now they feel entirely unmanageable thanks to my blonde roommate I can’t stop worrying about.

I know how overwhelming it can be with the public. She’s not me, but what if fans recognize her from the photos of the banquet?

My phone pings, and you’d have to believe I was a professional athlete by how quickly I snatch it off the kitchen counter.

Blue

Sorry, still working! I’ve had nonstop rides tonight. Be home late. Going to keep driving until the bars close.

What the hell? Is she trying to force me into cardiac arrest? As if the fans after a home game weren’t rowdy enough, I can’t imagine how sloppy some of them get when they hit the bars afterward.

Ryan

Can you please come home?

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