Rochelle let him lead her out of the room, but as soon as they were out of sight of the press, she turned on him again. “You don’t understand. It’s not the violence, it’s the police. The fucking police killed my cousin, and the dude got paid leave. ‘Cuz he was scared. Jonathan was scared too—he was running away.” She reached out with her other hand to hit him again.

“Wait. Wait.” He said. “Just give me a minute. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Too late for that, motherfucker. His grand gesture was a Band-Aid on a spurting artery, a false front on a crumbling building. And he was so confident it would be enough. Maybe it would be—for his PR problems.

He pulled her into a small room, really more like a closet and shut the door. He let go of her and started to pull his uniform shirt off.

“Jack! What the fuck are you doing?”

“Just, just, hold on,” he said through the fabric. Now she could see his stomach. He finally wrenched his shirt all the way off and then started on his shoulder pad thingies. “Help me with this.”

“Jack, why should I help you get your clothes off? How is you getting shirtless going to help things?” Why was she still here? What was it that made her want to trust him? She had all these questions, and she still helped him take his gear off.

“I promise.”

“But I’m so angry at you.”

“I know. I’m going to help.”

“With your dumb foundation? Have you heard of ‘police brutality’? That’s what we need addressed, not some gun violence trauma thing.” She wanted to hit him some more.

He finally got his armor all the way off. He picked up her hands and shaped them into fists. “Okay. Thumb out. Now you can hit me all you want.”

* * *

Jack wasn’t really ready for the way her eyes lit up at the invitation. He tried to keep his muscles relaxed as she approached him but he still involuntarily tensed at her first hit. It wasn’t an NFL hit, but he still felt it in his whole body. She hit him again and again, with two fists, for so long he started to worry about her hands.

“Hey, Ro, let’s take a break. Let me look at your hands. Let’s make sure you aren’t hurting them. Then you can hit me some more.” He could have stood there absorbing the blows, maybe some of her pain, for hours. He was a freaking NFL player. But she wasn’t. He grabbed her arm at the elbow and stopped the next blow headed for his abs. “Rochelle Morris! You have to stop.” She didn’t stop.

Before he realized what he was doing, he had her back to his stomach, her arms crossed, and he had his arms around her, his hands holding her wrists. “Shhh—shhh—shhh. Lemme look at your hands.” They were reddened, and a couple knuckles were close to bleeding.

“Okay, we’re going to have to ice them, okay?” He tried to gentle his voice, to make it calm and soothing, but he could feel the rasp in his throat.

How did he go from just living his life to holding a grief-crazed woman before she hurt herself hitting him? She had quieted when he’d first wrapped his arms around her. Maybe they could get out of here without further damage, and he could rejoin the team and do normal post game stuff. And then she stiffened her whole body and tried to kick him in the balls. “Whoa, whoa. Hey, I need those.”

“Not tonight, you don’t.” She said it like a threat and then suddenly she was facing him, in his arms, her head on his pectoral muscle, and she was shaking.

“Rochelle, you know I’d never! And it will take more than tonight to recover from this run-in with you. Come on. What sort of man do you think my mama raised?”

“Well, one who doesn’t understand systemic racism. But right. You’re okay. I’m just…not. Jack, I’m not okay. I attacked you in front of the press tonight. I’m probably going to lose my job. You can’t teach young minds if you’re attacking NFL players.”

Of course she was a teacher. “What grade do you teach?” Maybe he could distract her.

“Junior high.”

She was wearing a New Orleans jersey, and he traced the number on the back over and over. “Junior high, huh? Did you choose that age?”

“Yeah,” she started to shiver a little. “Because nobody loves them, but they need so much, and I can give some of it to them. But I’ve probably screwed it all up now.”

Her voice wavered as she finished speaking and suddenly she was flat-out bawling in his arms. Her tears and snot ran down his chest, and though he was a big strong NFL player, he shook with the impact of her grief. His belly skin itched as her tears ran down it.

“I just thought,” she pushed out between sobs, “I just thought life would get better. That Black people would be free.” A new, deeper set of sobs made him hold her tighter and closer. “And then they shot Jonathan. You think a foundation can fix this?”

She dissolved into high-pitched keening. He hadn’t seen grief like this since his mom died. But he had been seventeen then and had run away from his dad’s tears. Now the grief was on him, slimy and hot and palpitating.

He sighed and patted her on the back as her grief storm continued to rage. He was too tall to tuck her head under his chin, so he put his hand over the back of her head. He was going to remember the way her head fit into his palm for the rest of his life.

A small squeak drew his eye to the door. It opened just a crack to reveal Cedric, come to check on him. He was showered and dressed. He raised his eyebrows and pointed his chin, a silent you good, man?

Jack wasn’t sure if he was good, if he’d ever be good again—this woman in his arms had asked too much of him, rejected his best effort, potentially sabotaged his career, and was currently making his skin crawl with her tears—but he shrugged a mini-shrug so he didn’t bother Rochelle and waved Cedric on.

She finally started breathing regularly again. He backed them up to the wall and slid them down into a sitting position. The wall pulled on the skin of his naked back. He situated her beside him and reached for his uniform shirt on the floor. It was made to wick away sweat, not soak up tears and snot, but it was better than nothing.

He still needed to get ice on her hands. And to get to the locker room and make sure his stuff was still there.

He didn’t even know what would happen when he walked out of that room. His coach had supported him, but he’d been on the verge of signing a couple big endorsement deals. Had a few already signed. You could be a racist and keep your deals, but being publicly accused of racism was another matter. She might’ve just ruined all his plans. In addition to the way she’d rejected them, too.

He’d spent a lot of time thinking about his home town and Jonathan after she’d blasted into his life that August day. He might not have been planning on an on-field protest—that was for people with a mission—but he’d been planning on doing something to at least help Rochelle’s family. Obviously, they all needed therapy out the wazoo. Justice yeah, but therapy would help too. Unfortunately, he’d only studied PR in college.

He reached out his arm and put it around her and squeezed a little bit. “Rochelle, are you okay now?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so, but that’s normal now. Thank you, though.”

“Thank me? For what?”

“Not charging me with assault? Letting me cry all over you?”

Jack huffed out a breath. He was done with this closet-room, he was done with this frustration. He probably wasn’t done with this woman. She’d managed to poke him in all his closely guarded tender spots, and until the sting wore off, he was going to have to deal with her. “Com’n, let’s get out of here. We need to find some ice.”

He grabbed his jersey and his other crap and that in one hand, other arm around her, turned towards the visiting team’s locker room. Hopefully everything would still be there. He’d lost all track of time.

He wasn’t sure what it looked like, them walking down the hall together. He was shirtless, she was red-eyed, red-knuckled, and clinging to him. The texture of her shirt rubbed on his naked side. The postgame bustle had quieted down to a few equipment managers, looking hassled while they wandered around with clipboards.

“Oh, there you are.” A tall Black man perked up as he caught sight of them. “You just missed the bus to the airport, Jack.”

He strode off to the edge of the room. “I went ahead and packed up all of your stuff.” He grabbed Jack’s full duffle bag and handed it to him.

“Thanks, Zay,” Jack said. “You think I can still grab a shower? And Miss Morris needs ice for her hands.”

Xavier looked at them dubiously, his eyes going from her reddened hands to his bare chest and back. “Yeah, if you hurry, you’ve got time. I’ll see if I can come up with some ice.”

“’Preciate it man.” Jack dumped his duffel to the flour and dug though it for anything that was clean. Suit pants and an undershirt it was.

Xavier brandished a towel in front of him. “Hurry.”

“You’re a god among men, Zay. Take care of Rochelle while I’m in the shower. I’ll be as quick as I can.” In an undertone he added, “Don’t let her get away.”

Xavier’s mouth pulled. “Uh, okay?”

“It’s not like that, I promise.” Jack walked away as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. God, would his motives ever not be questioned anymore? Once safely inside the shower, he let out a half growl, half sigh. He just…he didn’t understand. He wasn’t going to let Rochelle go until he did.

* * *

Rochelle shivered as Xavier pushed the bags of ice onto her hands. All the professional stuff had been packed up, but he’d begged ice and bags from one of the food stands still cleaning up.

“Are you really okay, sis?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I couldn’t tell you, honestly. But I know that I’m safe with Jack.”

“You know your signs went viral, right? They got on Twitter, the president retweeted it—he called it a vile accusation. You’ve really stirred up a hornet’s nest.”

The president? Holy crap! She was more powerful than she realized. Not that she’d meant to create a shit storm. She’d just wanted a tiny bit of revenge. Her pleased smile drooped when Xavier continued, “Some brands put out statements that they’re investigating the allegations. I hope you know what you’re doing, sister, because you may have hurt him and the team.”

“I don’t care about your team. I’m from Louisiana.” The flip answer came almost automatically as she processed this info. This might have gone beyond petty. “Might have” or maybe “definitely.” Shit.

And there he was—clean, dressed (thank God!), his hair tousled, and something in the smile he aimed at her reminded her of Mrs. Dorothy. She dropped the bags of ice and stood up as he approached them.

“Well, I just heard I fucked up your life.” Her voice wavered as she patted him on the bicep. “I was just trying to be petty, I promise. But I guess it got out of control.” She was actually shaking, her stomach hollow. Dread and regret accompanied the bile rising in her throat. She’d been disappointed when it turned out he had no more connections to the dreams of that kid from sophomore year, hurt when he didn’t care, but the memory of that boy with shining eyes wondering how much world they could change by direct collective action…she hadn’t meant to do this to that kid.

His smile was a little twisted. “Just found like a hundred texts from my agent—there’s a lot going on. At least the president is on my side?”

She rolled her eyes so hard it hurt. “Great? So you’ve got all the deplorables defending you?” Not sure how to process that.

He chuckled. “Jersey sales just went up 50%. Of course I’ll have to give those proceeds somewhere meaningful. I’m not exactly sure what’s happening, and I may still lose endorsements—the proceeds which go to the foundation—but she says if I keep my head down and play well for the rest of the season, I’ll probably end up okay, at least career-wise. But I have firm orders to avoid any race stuff in the future.”

“We should all be so lucky,” Rochelle managed to get out.

“She’s a very effective agent for Black and white players—and she wants her cut.”

Jack looked around. Xavier had melted into the distance after Jack had given him back his towel. “It looks like I have both missed my flight and the chance to ride back nine hours with the crew. You got any hotel recommendations?”

“Let me think.” Except she didn’t think about hotels, she made some mental calculations. He’d refused to use his influence to help her. She’d thrown a wrench into his career. He’d let her hit him and cry all over him. All over him. Shit. She didn’t have a choice.

“You can come home with me. It’s the least I can do. Save you some money for the foundation.”

His eyebrows came up. “What?”

“I mean, if you don’t mind walking nine blocks to my car.” She’d really just done that. Could he even fit on her couch? He’d let her cry on his bare chest. She could still feel the warmth on her back where he’d tried to soothe her. It wasn’t his number he’d been tracing but it felt branded on her skin now. She was only offering hospitality, nothing more. She couldn’t see anything more happening, considering all their differences, but she could at least share her couch, for one night only.

* * *

“Wait! Stop!” They’d made quick work of the nine blocks. By unspoken mutual consent, they’d skipped over discussing the events of the past few weeks and stuck with Huss reminisces. He didn’t have too many memories that weren’t football related after his sophomore year, so she filled him on all the non sports-related history. Now they were in the car, almost home, and he was yelling.

Rochelle slammed on the breaks, her heart pounding again. She might not make it through tonight. “What, Jack?”

His shame-faced grin put her in an uncertain place between anger and…something. “I saw a sign for fresh beignets.”

“I almost crashed the car for beignets? Only tourists like beignets.” Although a late-night hit of sugar didn’t sound like a bad idea.

“Fried dough and powdered sugar is exactly what we need, right?” he asked as she turned into the parking lot.

“Yes, I do believe it will cover a multitude of sins.” And weren’t there a multitude to be covered. Omitted ones, committed ones, petty ones.

They got them to go, and he got a new flight out in the morning while they waited for their order.

The bottom of the bag was almost translucent with grease by the time they walked into her apartment. They settled down on to the couch, the beignets on the coffee table in front of them. He grabbed the first one, and then coughed when the powdered sugar rose up in clouds. Took a deep breath and coughed again.

She took a tiny bite of her beignet and waited. She’d been angry, bitter, violent, grieving in the last five hours. She didn’t have space for anything else, right?

Jack pushed his fingers through his hair, getting sugar in it in the process. “Okay—” and his next words came out in a rush. “Why did my foundation make you so angry? I thought I was doing the right thing.”

Rochelle’s fingers tightened around her coffee cup. “Well, it was really good PR, and, I mean, our family does need help—I shouldn’t turn that down. But that doesn’t change the bigger picture, that Black people are shot by police at a higher rate than white people. Or that police can use fear as an excuse for killing and get off. I need my family to get help but more than that we need some sort of systemic change—we need people to care about making systemic change.” She stopped to take a sip of her coffee. Its warmth as she swallowed was a comfort. “It sounds like a spiel, Jack, but I read the comments on the Louisiana media about my cousin’s death. They said things like ‘another life of crime prevented—give the cop a raise.’ It made me sick, their vileness.”

Just thinking about it made her gorge rise, and she concentrated on her breathing to get everything back where it should be.

Jack was ashen-faced across from her. Unless he’d managed to cover his entire face with sugar. She reached out to test her theory. Her finger scraped from the bridge of his nose to the curve of his cheek. No sugar there. He caught her hand in his.

“Rochelle—I’m so sorry. I didn’t read the comments. I didn’t realize… there aren’t any right words, are there?”

He was clenching and unclenching his fists and then he took a deep breath. She found herself swept up in his lap, but his body was rigid, his hands dug tight into his arms on either side of her. “You’re right. My mother would be ashamed of me. I’ll never forget it.” His Adams apple bobbed as he swallowed.

“I know your mom is proud of you. And she’d be very pleased with your foundation.” Her hand moved to his chest and started patting him.

“I think she’d be more proud of you and your passion for justice. And that you are a teacher.” Jack’s hand was on her back, moving in circles over her shirt. Slowly he relaxed under her pats which, God help her, were really like caresses now.

The cotton of his undershirt was so soft under her fingers. She closed her eyes for a second, to savor the softness and the warmth. It was great to be in his arms and not be a human snot machine. She eased off his lap and settled against his side, grabbing his hand to pull his arm tight around her. Tomorrow she would grapple with all the failures and contradictions and consequences. She didn’t have any more words tonight, no room for any more emotions. It was just her and this man and nothing else—no past, no future, no trouble, no funny business.

She patted his stomach. “Maybe so. Goodnight, Jack.” She was gonna wake up, brush her teeth, and give him blankets for the couch in just a little bit, after she just caught a smidge of this peace.

* * *

The next time she opened her eyes, she was stretched out on the couch, and all the beignets were gone—though there was powdered sugar everywhere. Her phone was on the coffee table, charging. She reached for it. There was a message.

Sorry, just second best. You didn’t wake up when my alarm went off, so I wanted you to sleep. Thanks for the couch and the cuddle. Good luck with the kids today. Please send me something more to read to help me understand what I’m missing with my foundation.

Not all of this made sense. She looked again—oh! He’d sent a text from her phone to his to get her number. Sneaky. Above, in blue: Hi, is this Jack Murphy, the best football player in the world?

Oh dear. She would compose an appropriately clever response after she had some coffee. No wait, she knew exactly what she wanted to say: That’s right, because it’s always the Black woman’s job to educate the white people. Google something and get back to me…but thanks for plugging my phone in. She grinned as she shook her head. Of course. But if he knew better, maybe he would do better, like Maya said. Maybe. And maybe she’d forget what his stomach felt like under her fingers.