BENCHED by Abigail Graham Page A

says, going through the snacks.
    “I find cheese curls are the best thing for a joint injury.”
    She glares at me.
    “She needs it, trust me.”
    I pop open the bag and offer her one.
    “So do you. Here.”
    Phoebe looks at the cheese curl like it’s been handed to her by a leper, but eventually snatches it and tucks it between her teeth. We stand crunching for a few minutes.
    “Go sit with her. I’ll make dinner and bring it out to you. Nothing huge.”
    Phoebe gives me a silent nod, and walks out of the room. Her shoulders slump and she looks so tired . The urge to reach out and put my hands on her is overwhelming, but I hang back and stay in the kitchen.
    Pork chops are quick enough. I plate them up with some kid food, mashed potatoes and boxed macaroni and cheese that I grudgingly allowed Phoebe to keep in her kitchen, and carry it all out.
    I don’t want to crowd them on the couch, so I sit on the floor and eat, silently watching cartoons with Phoebe and her little girl.
    After eating ice cream and dinner and a second round of ice cream, Carrie is getting droopy.
    “I’ll get her,” I volunteer, as Phoebe moves to carry her upstairs.
    We both take her to her bedroom. I step out after I lay her on the bed and let her mom set up the pillows propping up her leg and tuck her into bed.
    “Mom?” Carrie yawns.
    I leave them alone. Downstairs, I turn down the television and sit on the couch, listening to Phoebe’s voice. It’s too soft to hear what she’s saying, but from the cadence of her words, she’s reading her daughter a story.
    By the time Phoebe comes down the stairs, I’m a little sleepy myself.
    She flops on the couch and doesn’t say anything for a good long while.
    I glance at her but don’t break the silence. She’s still visibly upset.
    “Tough kid. She’ll be fine.”
    Nothing. Phoebe is still quiet. Then she says, “What’s up with the car?”
    “What?”
    “I want to talk about something else.”
    “Oh. It was my mom’s.”
    “You still drive it.”
    “Yeah. The Ferrari is just for joy rides. Wish I’d never bought the thing. You know what an oil change costs?”
    “A lot,” she says, dryly.
    “Yeah. Oldsmobile’s more reliable anyway.”
    “Weird to see a guy with all your money driving a car like that.”
    “Yeah,” I shrug. “Guess you figured I’d have a Bentley or whatever, right? Something flashy and trashy.”
    “Is a Bentley trashy?”
    “Trashier than a Rolls. I don’t think any of that shit makes you look like anything but an asshole with more money than brains. Obey the speed limit and a $500,000 car and a $5,000 car get you there at the same time.”
    “If you obey the speed limit,” she says, a droll touch to her voice.
    “I like to drive fast.”
    She chews on that for a while, then says, “Why?”
    “I’m not sure.” I shrug.
    “There must be a reason. What else do you do?”
    “Exercise. Eat. Sleep. Football.”
    “What about all your girlfriends?”
    “They’re not my girlfriends.”
    “Oh, so you just sleep with famous women.”
    “Not usually. Most of them aren’t interested. I just pick up some bimbo because Lou told me to take her to dinner, then drop her off and don’t bother with her again.”
    “Who’s Lou?”
    “My agent. You saw him in court.”
    “Yeah. Him,” she says coldly.
    “You have a problem with him?”
    She looks at me and scowls. “He threatened me. My career, my kid.”
    I sit up. “What?”
    “He said if I like giving out tickets so much, he’ll make sure I never do anything else. He also said he wonders how I take care of a little girl with no one else around to help me with her. He said child services might wonder, too.”
    I straighten in my seat and she flinches. Rage pounds in my chest, burns in my lungs, and through my veins. My hands clench into boulders and my shoulders knot up. I’m on my feet already.
    “He said that?”
    “Yeah, why?”
    “He and I are going to have words.” I reach in my