Genuine Lies

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    Christ, he realized with a laugh. She reminded him of Eve. Perhaps it was because of Brandon, so unlike the boy he had been.
    Eve hadn’t mothered him in the traditional sense, Paul knew. But she had saved him. Even though she had been his father’s wife such a short time, she had changed Paul’s direction. She’d given him the attention he’d so desperately craved, praise he’d stopped expecting, criticism that had mattered. Most of all, she’d given him an uncomplicated love.
    Brandon was being raised that way, so how could he not be an appealing child? Odd, Paul thought, he’d never considered himself a man who particularly enjoyed children. He liked them well enough, found them amusing and often interesting, and certainly necessary for the preservation of the human race.
    But he actually liked being around the kid. He’d felt comfortable the day before, eating pizza and swapping basketball stories. He was really going to have to see about taking the kid to a game. And if the mother came along, so much the better.
    He glanced back at the television long enough to see the underdog was now behind by three going into the fourth quarter. Paul gave a fleeting thought to all the money that would be lost and won over the next fifteen minutes, then went back to work.
    Drake was on the edge of his seat. The rug beneath him was scattered with crumbs from the chips and pretzels he’d been steadily devouring. Fuel to feed that gnawing pit of fear in his gut. He was into his second six-pack of beer, and his eyes were red-rimmed and glazed—like a man’s who was suffering from a hideous hangover. But he didn’t take them off the screen.
    Four minutes and twenty-six seconds to go, and he was upby three. His team had muscled its way to a touchdown, but had blown the extra point.
    They were going to do it. They were going to put him in the black. Drake stuffed a handful of pretzels into his mouth. His Ralph Lauren sport shirt was soaked with sweat and beneath it his heart hammered.
    His breath short and fast, he toasted the gladiators on the screen with a half-empty beer, then bolted up in shock, as if the defensive lineman had kicked him in the groin. The opposing receiver caught a long pass and sailed unmolested into the end zone.
    The ball was spiked. The crowd went wild.
    Three minutes and ten, and his life passed before his eyes.
    They were assholes, he thought, swilling his dry throat with beer. They’d fumbled twice in the last ten minutes. Even he could do better. Pussies. He chugged beer, noshed chips, and prayed.
    Bit by bit, they marched their way down the field. With every yard gained, Drake inched closer to the edge. His eyes were watering when they hit a solid defensive wall on the seventeen.
    “One fucking touchdown!” he shouted, springing up to pace at the two-minute warning. His legs felt like rusty springs.
    Fifty thousand dollars. He walked back and forth, cracking his knuckles as the commercial droned on. He couldn’t bear to think what Delrickio would do if he didn’t come up with the rest of the money. With his hands shaking, he pressed them to his eyes.
    How could he have done it? How could he have taken fifty thousand and bet it on a stinking game when he owed the mob ninety?
    Then the game was back, and so was his desperation. Drake didn’t sit now, but stood in front of the six-foot screen. The quarterback’s eyes seemed to stare into his. Desperation into desperation. There were grunts. The snap. Big, sweaty men scrambled on the screen inches from Drake’s face.
    Three-yard gain. Time out.
    Drake began to bite his nails.
    The teams formed again. It seemed the same to him. What was the difference? he thought desperately. What was the fucking difference?
    Quarterback sack. Six-yard loss.
    He began to blubber now as the time dripped away. A grown man sobbing in a room full of toys. The need to urinate became so intense, he could only dance from foot to foot. With less than a minute to go, the defense held. Forth and two. Run, pass, or punt. After an excruciating time-out where Drake raced to the John to relieve his aching kidneys, they opted to run. Hulking uniforms formed a mountain of grass-stained color.
    He panted as the players pushed and shoved, as refs jumped in to pull hot heads apart. Drake wanted them to tear at each other, to draw blood. More tears welled in his eyes as the measurement was taken.
    “Please, please, please,” he chanted.
    Short, inches short of the