The Game Player Read Free Page A

a few days, whatever pain the arm would occasionally give me disappeared and I was left with the constant itch the cast caused. I was shifting back and forth, somehow thinking this would relieve the irritation, while reading a particularly exciting passage in a mystery, when I heard our doorbell ring; and shortly after, the sound of Brian’s voice asking if he could see me.
    I quickly put away the mystery (a literary snob even then) and looked around the room hurriedly to see if there were any other embarrassing items. Mom had cleaned it up, luckily, so I tried to look casual. Mom and he appeared at the door. “Hello,” he said.
    â€œI’ll leave you two to your own devices,” my mother said. “Unless you’d like a snack or something.”
    â€œNothing for me, Mrs. Cohen.”
    I nearly forgot to answer my mother because I was so astonished by Brian’s competent refusal of her offer. “I’m okay, Ma.”
    â€œHow’s the arm?” Brian asked.
    I listened for my mother’s steps on the staircase before I answered. “It’s fine except that the cast makes my skin itch.”
    He nodded and slowly walked around the room, looking carefully at the books. “It’s a nice room.”
    I waited respectfully while Brian methodically checked the items in my room, picking up one of the books from my father’s Dickens set, and unselfconsciously reading a page. I was amazed by the concentration he brought to every act; and by his lack of worry about speaking to me. At last he settled on my bed and looked at me pleasantly. “You seem kind of happy to have a cast and be sitting reading.”
    â€œHow did you know I was reading?”
    He laughed. “Don’t tell me you’ve been sitting in that chair doing nothing.”
    â€œNo. But how did you know what I was doing?”
    â€œThe TV is unplugged and tucked away under the bookshelves and there are a lot of books here. I figure that’s what you’d be doing.”
    â€œI was.”
    â€œWere you reading him?” He pointed toward the Dickens set.
    I nodded yes, unable to speak the lie.
    â€œWhich one?”
    â€œGreat Expectations.”
    He smiled and said without any pause, “I’m sorry I broke your arm, but at least you’re getting an education out of it.”
    It wasn’t an apology in any real sense but his tone was appealing and I wasn’t offended. “Not your fault.”
    â€œI didn’t intend it, but it was my fault.” Brian seemed almost annoyed at having to point out the distinction. “Danny said I did it because we were going to lose the game.” He laughed gladly at the thought.
    â€œYou were killing us. If anything, you did us a favor. I’m just sorry, because if I hadn’t dropped that pass we would have made a first down.”
    â€œBullshit. That was Danny’s fault. He doesn’t throw passes to be caught, he throws them to kill people.”
    I had thought to show my maturity by admitting incompetence gracefully but my heart, by its quick jump to greet Brian’s words, belied my resignation. “It was a perfect pass, wasn’t it?” I asked.
    â€œYeah, if you’re throwing to a professional football player against a superb defensive secondary. Danny’s got a hundred-thousand-dollar arm and the brain of a two-year-old. He can throw that pass just as accurately at half the speed.”
    I couldn’t quite absorb his idea and I must have looked it. He leaned forward, his face intent. “Don’t you get it?” he asked. “It doesn’t matter to Danny that no one except me can catch those passes. I think he’d be disappointed if you did. Look, Adam completes more passes than Danny—”
    â€œWho’s Adam?”
    â€œYou know, the kid who quarterbacked my team. Anyway, because Danny throws such good-looking passes, everybody thinks it’s the