Read Online Monday Night Jihad by Steve Jason & Yohn Elam - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Steve Jason & Yohn Elam
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spinach supreme from the family-style dish. “I guess that makes sense. You see someone who has a problem, you give them what they need, and, bam! you’re one step closer to heaven.”
“Not quite, Sal. I don’t need to get any steps closer to heaven because of my belief in Jesus Christ. Doing all the good things only—”
Ricci’s cell phone interrupted the conversation. He looked at the caller ID, flushed, and then hurriedly said, “Sorry, I have to take this.”
Riley watched Ricci walk out of the room. He wondered what could have thrown him off like that. Sal probably received a few dozen phone calls every day. What was it about this one that had made him bolt from the table? Sal’s moods were often a little unpredictable, but Riley had always written that off to his friend’s being European. Probably just something going on at home.
His thoughts were interrupted by a frightening, high-pitched version of Travis Marshall’s voice carrying across the room.
“Oh, we will fight, fight, fight for the Indians
When the Big Green team appears. . . .”
Ricci slid back into the booth. He seemed a little more composed, but Riley noticed beads of sweat on his forehead.
“That was quick. Everything okay with Megan and Alessandra?”
“What? Oh, Meg? Yeah, no big deal. Alessandra hit her head on the corner of our coffee table. I think Meg just wanted someone to tell her she’s not a bad mother.”
Riley eyed his friend. The Italian’s mind was clearly a thousand miles away.
When Marshall finally finished his fight song and escaped back to Riley’s booth, Gorkowski made his way up on top of the linemen’s table, his left foot planted squarely in the middle of a mound of potatoes au gratin. “Can I have your attention, dear friends and teammates,” he slurred. “In honor of our beloved dozen rookies who are paying for this feast, I would like to propose a toast. I hold in my hand a bottle of Macallan 1964 single malt scotch, which I would like to pass around. It is a most exquisite beverage, as it should be for $2,500 a bottle. I would like to thank you boys for—whoops!”
A collective gasp sounded around the room as the bottle “accidentally” dropped to the table and shattered. “Oh my,” the All-Pro center teased. “Me and my butterfingers. Well, you know us linemen—we’re not supposed to hold anything.”
Everyone burst into laughter—everyone except the rookies. They were too busy doing mental mathematical gymnastics with the numbers 12 and 2,500. The conversation kicked up again as the dessert cart was brought around and each table ordered one of everything. Ricci remained subdued, so Riley and Marshall did most of the talking.
“You know, where I grew up they called this pudding,” the rookie offensive lineman said, looking down at the crème brûlée. “Here, they burn it, give it a French name, and charge $8.95 a pop.”
Riley laughed. “Well, when I was growing up, most of our cuisine came from the kitchen of a world-renowned culinary master—the great Chef Boyardee.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Anna, the waitress, trying to get his attention. She was holding up a large bag. Riley made an attempt at a meaningful look and a nod toward Marshall.
“Hey, what’s that all about, Riley?” Marshall asked, turning to look back. “You siccing Gorkowski on me again?”
“Way to blow the surprise,” Riley said to Marshall. He signaled for Anna to come to the table.
She presented the bag to the shocked lineman. Marshall rifled through the sack, opening everything up and devouring the smells. “I don’t believe this. Who does this kind of stuff, Pach?”
“Hey, anything to keep you out of my kitchen.”
Mercifully, the night was coming to an end. As everyone piled out of the restaurant, Riley caught up with Garrett Widnall. Together they worked out a deal for him to cover Widnall’s portion of the night’s expenses with payback coming out of the anticipated
“Not quite, Sal. I don’t need to get any steps closer to heaven because of my belief in Jesus Christ. Doing all the good things only—”
Ricci’s cell phone interrupted the conversation. He looked at the caller ID, flushed, and then hurriedly said, “Sorry, I have to take this.”
Riley watched Ricci walk out of the room. He wondered what could have thrown him off like that. Sal probably received a few dozen phone calls every day. What was it about this one that had made him bolt from the table? Sal’s moods were often a little unpredictable, but Riley had always written that off to his friend’s being European. Probably just something going on at home.
His thoughts were interrupted by a frightening, high-pitched version of Travis Marshall’s voice carrying across the room.
“Oh, we will fight, fight, fight for the Indians
When the Big Green team appears. . . .”
Ricci slid back into the booth. He seemed a little more composed, but Riley noticed beads of sweat on his forehead.
“That was quick. Everything okay with Megan and Alessandra?”
“What? Oh, Meg? Yeah, no big deal. Alessandra hit her head on the corner of our coffee table. I think Meg just wanted someone to tell her she’s not a bad mother.”
Riley eyed his friend. The Italian’s mind was clearly a thousand miles away.
When Marshall finally finished his fight song and escaped back to Riley’s booth, Gorkowski made his way up on top of the linemen’s table, his left foot planted squarely in the middle of a mound of potatoes au gratin. “Can I have your attention, dear friends and teammates,” he slurred. “In honor of our beloved dozen rookies who are paying for this feast, I would like to propose a toast. I hold in my hand a bottle of Macallan 1964 single malt scotch, which I would like to pass around. It is a most exquisite beverage, as it should be for $2,500 a bottle. I would like to thank you boys for—whoops!”
A collective gasp sounded around the room as the bottle “accidentally” dropped to the table and shattered. “Oh my,” the All-Pro center teased. “Me and my butterfingers. Well, you know us linemen—we’re not supposed to hold anything.”
Everyone burst into laughter—everyone except the rookies. They were too busy doing mental mathematical gymnastics with the numbers 12 and 2,500. The conversation kicked up again as the dessert cart was brought around and each table ordered one of everything. Ricci remained subdued, so Riley and Marshall did most of the talking.
“You know, where I grew up they called this pudding,” the rookie offensive lineman said, looking down at the crème brûlée. “Here, they burn it, give it a French name, and charge $8.95 a pop.”
Riley laughed. “Well, when I was growing up, most of our cuisine came from the kitchen of a world-renowned culinary master—the great Chef Boyardee.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Anna, the waitress, trying to get his attention. She was holding up a large bag. Riley made an attempt at a meaningful look and a nod toward Marshall.
“Hey, what’s that all about, Riley?” Marshall asked, turning to look back. “You siccing Gorkowski on me again?”
“Way to blow the surprise,” Riley said to Marshall. He signaled for Anna to come to the table.
She presented the bag to the shocked lineman. Marshall rifled through the sack, opening everything up and devouring the smells. “I don’t believe this. Who does this kind of stuff, Pach?”
“Hey, anything to keep you out of my kitchen.”
Mercifully, the night was coming to an end. As everyone piled out of the restaurant, Riley caught up with Garrett Widnall. Together they worked out a deal for him to cover Widnall’s portion of the night’s expenses with payback coming out of the anticipated
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