Isolation Play (Dev and Lee) by Kyell Gold Page B

was number one?”
    “ Something about the President, I don’t remember. Did he see it?”
    “ No.”
    “ You talked to him?”
    My tail swishes, annoyed that he caught me admitting I talked to Dev. “The President?” He laughs. “I called Dev the other night. Straightened some stuff out.”
    “ He say he was sorry?”
    “ Kind of.” I remember his paws on me, and close my eyes, imagining being a dumped vixen rather than a loved boyfriend. “It was hard.”
    “ Hey. It’s good you can talk.”
    “ I told him about meeting you. He wanted to know if you saw Corcoran’s remarks to ESPN.”
    “ Yeah. Standard stuff.”
    I smile. “Standard and sincere, or...?”
    “ I haven’t talked to him.” He sounds a bit annoyed.
    “ But you know him. Did it sound like him?”
    “ We don’t go out for beers every night.” His voice softens. “But yeah. Sounded like him.”
    “ Who do you go out for beers with?” Part of me wants to know if he talks to anyone else who might be influential. Part of me wants to know how lonely and desperate he really is.
    “ Miss White,” he says, and then stops himself short. “I don’t drink much these days.”
    “ She got the friends in the divorce?”
    “ Who got your friends?” he parries.
    I look across the hall at the team photo, all the guys standing together, shoulder to shoulder. Tigers and foxes, bears and wolves, cheetahs and coyotes. “We didn’t really have much but each other,” I say.
    “ You didn’t,” he points out, and then, immediately, “Sorry.”
    “ Do you try to meet people? Maybe not in bars, but...parties? Mixers?”
    “ Uh-huh.” His tone’s sarcastic. “’Cause I really wanna meet someone desperate and lonely.”
    “ So what are you doing talking to me?”
    I say it lightly, but he takes a moment to respond. “Seems like we could help each other out,” he says, slowly.
    Deliberately, I keep my tone jokey. “I’m not interested in helping you get back at your ex.”
    “ Figured that, since you don’t wanna get back at yours. That’s good. Healthy. No hard feelings.”
    My paw rests near my sheath. “None right now, anyway. It’s all history.”
    “ History repeats. Hey, y’know, I grew up a Dragons fan.”
    The non-sequitur disrupts my train of thought. “In Chevali?”
    “ I grew up in Boliat, but my dad was a Dragons fan. He taught me ’bout all those great teams. Kill and Maim, and the Flying Foxes, and Coach Vine.” His voice softens, with a note of longing. “Made me want to write about sports.”
    I crane my neck, looking down the hall. Further down, the two bears Killiner and Mamelon bookend the 1968 World Champion team. Behind them, Henderson, one of the two Flying Foxes, wears his trademark smirk. The other fox, Banks, joined in 1970. In 1971 they combined for twenty-one touchdowns, a record that stood for thirty years. They’re leaning against each other, grinning, in the 1972 World Champions photo.
    In 1973, Henderson left for Yerba. Neither he nor Banks was ever the same apart. “Great teams. And hey, you’re a real sportswriter. So I know you did that right.”
    He’s quiet. My stomach rumbles. Finally, he says, “Yeah. I guess.” Before I can ask what that means, he says, “Dragons’ll be good again.”
    “ Maybe in our lifetimes.”
    “ Teams go through rough patches. They pull through.” He pauses for what sounds like a drink. “What about you? Did you grow up in Hilltown?”
    My hackles rise. I crane my neck, looking the other way down the hall as if I might spot him there, smirking. Then I remember I called him from my cell phone, and he must have seen the area code. “I’m sorry,” I say. “My lunch is ready.”
    “ Listen,” he says quickly, “If you could get a quote Miski ain’t already used with another paper...”
    “ I’ll do my best,” I say.
    “ And Miss White?” I pause, waiting. “It gets easier,” he says, softly. “That’s what they tell me.”
    I take a second to