Page 25 of Good Guy Gabe

“I feel like I should have done team color make-up now. And not this skirt.” I gesture to my frumpy, floor-dusting patchwork skirt, which seemed easy and casual this morning but looks crazy against the sea of jeans and leggings. “Whose did you get?” I ask, nodding to the bag she’s still holding.

“Okay, so I didn’t want to get Sinclair because everyone’s wearing Sinclair, and I thought it’d be weird if I also got Shaunessy. Like, people are going to think we’re having three-ways or something.”

I blanch, wishing the jersey was Gabe’s size so I could bury myself inside it. People heard that. Two nearby fans in unnamed jerseys and beer hats look right at us, and one nods his stupid hat at me as the other waggles his eyebrow.

“I ended up getting a Briggs jersey.”

“He was your kill,” I remind her. She said she’d bang Blaise and kill Merrick. “And rightfully so. I told you how disgusting his girlfriend is, right?”

“Yeah, but he was Tilly’s bang. I can give it to her. I’m in Tokyo in December. You’ll need someone to go to games with you. And Tilly could use some action.”

I do my best not to recoil, but good grief. Last time Tilly got some action, she ended up pregnant. She’s not even going to fit into that jersey much longer. There’s a baby bump incoming.

Not that baby bumps aren’t welcome here, of course. Lin Huang’s wife, Wren, looked about ready to give birth at the gala, and I’ve already seen her a couple times since we got here. She’s been in a group of women who all look vaguely familiar, so I’m guessing that’s the wives and girlfriends gang. She’s hard to miss with her dancer’s build, miles of silky black hair, warm olive skin, and long, visually striking face, but all the women are stunning.

And I am broken. I’ve stitched myself back together, but it’s like a ripped shirt. Patch it up all you want, but the tear is still there, and it’s only ever going to be weak, no matter how well it’s patched.

I give up and put the jersey on, and that’s when I hear, from behind me, “Oh my goodness, itisher!”

That kind of excitement I hear out of the feminine voice, the sort of soft, awed reverence, can’t be for me. Cora’s got a fan base who goes nuts for her. She’s iconic in her corner of the world.

But then I hear, “Fuck yeah, it’s her. Stop pussy-footing and give it to her already.”

I look over my shoulder and see a dozen women, all roughly my age, the youngest college aged while the oldest might be in her 40s. They’re all wearing Gabe’s jersey, and they all have halos on their heads and angel wings in the team’s colors drawn on their cheeks. Two hold bags of cookies; one has an extra halo in her hand. It’s secured to a headband. Next to her is Tara, Blaise’s date from the gala.

She’s not wearing a halo. She’s wearing deely-bobbers, one of those headbands that have little trinkets attached to them by springs so they dance around like antennae, and on her cheek, under her winged eyeliner, is a small, expertly-drawn flame. Because she’s one of Blaise’s Firebugs. The other women must be Gabriel’s Angels.

She gives the Angel with the extra halo a gentle shove forward along with a small wave, a wiggle of the fingers like no one can know she’s waving at me. I don’t wave back, for fear of breaking some unspoken rule, but I grin at her and take a mental note to have her mom pass my number on to her. I’m thinking I made need some help from her to navigate this new world.

The Angel, a petite brunette in her thirties with a nervous smile and giant eyes, thrusts the halo at me. “I’m Rachel,” she blurts out. “You’re one of us now. Whether you like it or not.”

The squeak she makes after announcing that tells me she probably didn’t mean to say it in such a threatening way, so I take the halo from her and ask, “Because of the jersey?” It seems like a low bar for a fan club, although maybe not in VIP and with Gabe’s jersey. Again, there aren’t a lot of us sporting 72.

She shakes her head and, with another glance back at the other girls, who mostly seem to be having a good laugh at this one’s torment but still give her supportive thumbs-ups, leans close. “What was it like kissing Gabe? Is he soft and squishy? It looked like the sweetest kiss ever! What did you say to him that made him kiss you like that? Are you two for-real dating now?”

The questions fly out of her mouth before I get a chance to process them all, then it’s my turn to look thoroughly terrorized. There was media coverage from the Kick-Off Gala. The ladies in my Tuesday night paper-piecing class told me about it. I made an announcement that yes, I was seeing one of the Juggernauts, but that wouldn’t affect my classes, and that stopped the conversation. I have no idea what the picture was that this girl saw, but it was no doubt some trauma — since the Gala was a total disaster — so I lie with,“Oh, I told him I’d make him a quilt so he’d stop bidding on the one that was being auctioned.”

“That’s so much better than cookies,” one Angel grumbles, while another looks at her bag of cookies and pouts.

“Did you make those for him?” I ask her.

The girl, one of the youngest ones, still in braces and with a blemished face although she’s got a hard seltzer in her hand, nods sullenly.

“I can make sure he gets them after the game if you want. What’s your name?”

She lights up like I told her I’m going to bring her whole body to him. “Really? Tell him those are from Desi. Tell him they’re his special recipe! I added extra pecans because I know how much he likes them in his chocolate chip cookies.”

“He does?” I look around at the other haloed women, and they’re all nodding. Most of them are happy I’m talking with them, but I can tell a few are miffed at me and would rather I not exist. Gabe made it sound like the Angels were a bunch of sweet old ladies who randomly chose him as the guy to root for, but I’m thinking that’s not the case after all, and they’d be every bit as excited to go on a date — and more — with him as Tara and the Firebugs are for Blaise.

“He’s new to me,” I confide in Desi. “I really like him, but I don’t know much about him. Maybe you and the other Angels can help me with that?” Can’t bake to save my life so I’m not sure how far I’ll get on cookie advice, but I’ll take what I can get.

“His favorite color is pink, and he always tells the other players they did a good job when he helps them up, even if they’re on the other team,” Desi rattles off as she takes the halo out of my hands to plop it on my head.

Tara slips around me to link arms with Cora and pass her a set of deely-boppers. “I know you’re rocking the Menace jersey, but let me tell you about the Firebugs. Trust when I say you’re gonna wanna gag over the fluffy bunny nonsense coming from the Angels.”

“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go! Fucking run, bitch!” Cora screams at the top of her lungs.

I glance back at Mel Cohen with an apologetic grimace. When Cora agreed to come to the game with me, I wasn’t expecting her to get so worked up. I didn’t even know until wegot here that she’s a football fan. I guess it’s her family’s secret shame, that although they say they’re all about cricket and field hockey — “proper Indian sports,” her brother even told me once — they all watch football when no one is around.

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