Page 6 of Let It Be Me

“Got it. Thanks, Dr. H.”

Dr. Halpert moves for the door but stops and turns back when he realizes I’m not getting off the examining table. “What’s on your mind, son?”

“I’m just thinking beyond this season. I’m hoping for an invite to the Combine in February—for more than that, actually.” “Hope” is downplaying it, though. I need an NFL career. My family needs me to have an NFL career.

He nods, understanding. “There’s no reason to think you won’t make a full recovery. This isn’t a career-ender, believe me. Treat your body right, don’t act stupid, and you can keep on hoping the way you always have.” He squeezes my shoulder, and then he’s out the door.

I follow him, allowing myself to feel a little bit hopeful. I know Dr. Halpert probably spends half his day reassuring athletes who’ve just had their dreams crushed, and maybe he gives the same speech to all of us, no matter how doomed we actually are. But he’s good at his job. I believe him.

Mostly.

THREE

ruby

When I walkinto Lorenzo’s tidy apartment, he’s leaning over the kitchen counter, squeezing a tube of blue icing onto something. There’s a gentle scent of clean laundry in the air, undercut by something earthy and distinctly summery—fresh tomatoes? I slip out of my shoes and set them next to the neat row of sneakers by the front door. Like much of Shafer’s off-campus housing, Lorenzo’s apartment building is ancient, with a beautifully detailed brick exterior but a cheaply finished interior that hasn’t been updated in three decades. Still, Lorenzo keeps it impeccably clean.

“Shit,” he mutters when he sees me. He drops the icing tube and comes around the counter, trying to block my view. “You got here fast.”

“Yeah, you know, two-minute walk.” That’s when I notice the pile of orangey-red tomatoes on the laminate counter and the grocery bags printed withCardini Market, the name of a pricey specialty Italian market in Shafer’s vibrant town center. “Are those for me?” Then I notice the huge piece of cardboard taped to the wall with a numbered list printed in Lorenzo’s handwriting.Top Ten Reasons Why Fish Suckis written acrossthe top in red marker. I look at Lorenzo, who’s watching me closely, an uncertain smile on his face. “What’s that?”

“Surprise!” He takes me by the arm and leads me closer to the sign. There’s a smudge of blue icing on his tanned forearm, smeared right across the tattoo of a pink donut. “Thought you might need a reminder. Check it out.”

He gestures toward the list and I start reading, totally lost as to where this is heading.

“One,” I read. “Can’t cuddle for shit. Two, covered in mucus. Three, won’t even remember your name the next day.” I laugh. “Fish actually have pretty good memories, but we can ignore that. What is this about?”

“Just trying to cheer you up.”

“I’m pretty damn cheery.” I hold up the paper with my work schedule, emblazoned with Shafer’s Red Phantom logo. “Check it out.”

Lorenzo’s smile falters as his eyes go from the folder to me. “Wait, you ... got the job?”

“That’s what this is about?” I throw a playful punch at his broad chest. “You thought I wouldn’t get it!”

“Maybe.” He glances at what I now realize is a cake with blue-icing writing all over it.

“Oh ye of little faith.”

“Sorry, I just assumed because I didn’t hear from you.”

“And because I’m zero for five with job interviews, right?”

“You’re exaggerating. It doesn’t count if you forget to show up to the interviews. So that’s, what, zero for three?”

“Not anymore,” I say proudly. “I start next week.”

“That’s awesome, Ruby! Congrats.” He gives me a hug that envelops me in his clean, familiar scent. “I knew you would.”

“Oh, yeah, right. That’s why you dropped fifty bucks on groceries so I could stress-cook.”

He nods. “Homemade ravioli.”

“Wow, you were really banking on me being depressed tonight.” I love diving into an intricate, complicated recipe when I’m upset. And Lorenzo loves reaping the carb-heavy benefits—just as long as it’s a sensible portion and there’s a salad and lean protein to go along with it. “And let’s see this pity-party cake.”

Lorenzo follows me into the kitchen, and I squint at the barely legible words scrawled across the grocery-store cake. “Stay octo... Huh?”

“Stay octo-mistic!” he says like it’s obvious. “Octopus pun.”

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