Distant Shores by Kristin Hannah Page B

a straightforward question—something like “Are today’s athletes good role models, Jack? Should they be?”
    Jack had rehearsed his answer to that a dozen times. He’d known exactly what to say, but then, when he’d opened his mouth, he’d spoken from his heart instead.
    â€œYou know, Larry,” he’d said, “I’m angry. We’ve taken nineteen-year-old kids and turned them into multimillion-dollar celebrities. We’ve absolved them of responsibility for everything except performing well in the arena. They drive drunk, we slap their wrist. They rape women, we say the women should have known better. They bite off their opponents’ body parts, for God’s sake, and a few years later, they’re back in the ring, earning millions. When I was in the NFL, the world opened up for me. All I had to do was play well. I was unfaithful to my wife and unavailable to my kids. And you know what? No one blamed me for any of it. Everyone talked about the pressures of being a star quarterback. But life is tough for everyone. It took me fifteen hard years, but I finally learned that I was nothing special. I could throw a ball. Big deal. We have to quit letting our celebrities and our athletes live by their own standard. We need to become a nation of good sports again.”
    â€œThere are a lot of people who are going to like that answer,” Larry had said. “And more than a few who won’t.”
    That was when Jack knew. He hadn’t ruined his career by being honest; he’d made it. Bad-boy athletes and team owners would hate him. Fans and parents would love him.
    And nothing caused a media sensation like controversy.
    By tomorrow, sound bites from his impassioned speech would be replayed from one end of the country to another.
    After the show, he’d gone straight to his hotel to call Birdie. There had been no answer. Then he called his daughters. There, too, no answer.
    Disappointed, he’d wandered down to the lobby bar and ordered a drink. A double Dewar’s on the rocks.
    Now, an hour later, he was on his second round.
    He drank it down, then stared at the empty glass. Weak light created myriad colors in the melting ice. He’d never been good at being alone, and it was worse at a moment like this. “You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
    Jack looked up. Sally stood beside him, wearing a clingy blue dress that was held in place by two impossibly skinny shoulder straps. A glittery dark butterfly clip anchored the hair away from her face. Her cleavage was milky white.
    She smiled, and it took his breath away.
    â€œAre you going to invite me to sit down?”
    â€œOf course.” His voice was thick and raspy. He cleared his throat. “I thought you were off to your aunt’s house tonight.”
    She laughed and sidled into the booth. “A few hours in suburbia is plenty for me. One more anecdote about little Charlie’s first tooth would have sent me screaming into a busy street. I mean it’s a
tooth
, for God’s sake. Everyone gets them. It’s not like he wrote a piano concerto.”
    Jack felt her leg against his. The heat of her body felt so good. He tried to remember the last time Elizabeth had looked at him as if she truly desired him; that memory would form his armor. But he couldn’t find it. Elizabeth hadn’t reached for him in bed in years. It was easy now to forget how hot their sex used to be. Some fires just went out and left you icy cold.
    The waitress came by. Jack looked at Sally. “Margarita on the rocks, no salt, right?”
    â€œYou remembered.”
    He downed his own drink and ordered another. He could practically
hear
the steel girders of his marriage vows weakening. It made a low, grinding noise that sounded like a man’s despair.
    â€œYou were phenomenal today,” she said when they were alone again.
    â€œThanks.”
    The waitress came, delivered the drinks and