Page 63 of Daring You

All my attention dives into Locke. “Say what?”

“Some honcho, I don’t know. But she called me, asked me to stay on the phone with her as she drove to court, to make sure she wasn’t being followed.”

My chest is swelling in ways it only does when I’m running for a touchdown during a live game, but I try for lightness instead of breakneck speed. “Is that why you missed twenty minutes of training? To have a chat with your sis? She’s okay though, right?”

Locke claps me on the back as we walk forward. I’m glad he doesn’t feel how tense it is. “Astor’s been on high profile cases before. I’m not worried, otherwise I’d be there in a hot second. But she’s…different. Looks tired. More stressed. I think I might swing by, anyway—”

“I’ll do it.”

Locke stops at the gym’s exit out onto the street. “Yeah?”

I nod. “You’ve got to get home to Lily and Carter. Like you said, this isn’t a big deal—it’s not even a trial. I’ll go, make sure she’s okay, then fill you in.”

Locke, same height as me, keeps my stare dead-on. “I appreciate that, man.”

“You got it.”

We part ways outside, the frigid air doing quick work on my exposed, overheated skin. But I enjoy the freeze on my arms, the frost forming on my legs. It gives a centering gravity to what is quickly becoming an explosive ball ready to be lobbed in my chest.

Someone cornered Astor.

I hail a cab, because fuck the subway.

When I get in, I check my phone, despite the reality that Astor would rather cut off her own fingers than text me. But the closer she gets to the truth, the more risk I’m putting her in by not giving her my real name.

And I’m wondering how much longer I can choose preserving my identity over her.

* * *

Sometimes,I don’t know my own fame. More often than not, it makes itself very much a part of my life, especially when I drive face-first into a honey badger’s nest of reporters. And I say honey badgers because they are the most vicious, insane, feral skunk-like fuckers you’ve ever come across. Don’t believe me? Look them up.

This is exactly what I’ve done as my bright yellow, NYC trademark taxi pulls to a stop in front of the mammoth gray courthouse building in Staten Island.

No tinted windows here, my friends. Nor do I possess a baseball cap, hoodie, or any other basic paparazzi-repellant.

I’m in a muscle shirt and sports shorts, with a duffel bag full of sweat-soaked clothes and sneakers. I really haven’t planned this right, but that’s what fear does, doesn’t it?

Makes human evolution obsolete.

Lightbulbs flash as soon as the cabbie brakes, and one by one, like the calculated badgers they are, heads turn and possible recognition ignites.

They’re here for the ruling on bail, and any unexpected visitor would get detailed scrutiny.

“Fuck, keep driving!” I yell to the cabbie. “Just…go around the corner or something. Anything.”

“Yessir.” The whites of his eyes flash in the rearview. “Shit, didn’t realize who you were.”

“No biggie,” I say automatically. “Just get me out of here.”

I’m not worried about anyone making the Ryan-Ben link, since that’s essentially impossible for the public to do. I’m more concerned about connecting any further attention to this case, whether it be my NFL status and my “friendship” with Astor, or the reasons why a star receiver wants anything to do with a twenty-year-old murder. My murdered parents don’t need any more media attention.

I just want them to rest in peace. I want Ryan underground with them.

The cabbie, who must be familiar with the area, finds a deserted, narrow, side-street to drop me off at.

“You got charges laid on you or something?” the cabbie asks.

“Nah. Just here supporting a friend.”

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