Long May She Reign (8 page)

Look for the knobby-kneed little boy, more accurately. It was funny to watch them play, all energetic and uncoordinated, their hands and feet seeming to have grown much faster than the rest of their bodies. Sort of like German shepherds.

At half-time, Steven's team was down twenty-eight to nineteen. And not happy about it, as their coaches herded them off to the locker room, for strategy and pep talks, she assumed.

“It's an
ex
-cellent game,” Ahmed said.

Neal nodded. “Way more excellent than usual.”

“You guys always come?” Meg asked. Which she was probably supposed to know.

They both nodded vigorously.

The cheerleaders were—prematurely—doing a “victory, victory, that's our cry!” cheer, finishing with what had to be unintentionally staggered jumps. One girl managed a split, though, which was reasonably impressive.

“Did you ever do the cheering?” Ahmed asked.

Neal almost fell off the bleachers laughing, and when Meg checked Preston's expression, he was laughing, too.

“No,” Meg said. “I never did.”

“Victory, victory, our god-damn cry,” Preston said, just under his breath.

Meg grinned at him. “What, you don't think I'd be a good cheerleader?”

“No comment,” he said.

Which was aptly timed, because a print reporter—Meg was pretty sure she worked for one of the national weeklies, or maybe
The Washington Post
—was coming over. The various photographers had been shooting away throughout the game, taking far too many pictures of
her
, but Meg had been doing her best to ignore them.

“Enjoying the game?” the woman asked.

Meg nodded. “Yes. Thank you.”

Neal and Ahmed were watching the cheerleaders and giggling—in all likelihood, it was the beginning of the end of the old latency period.

The reporter gestured towards her leg. “How's the knee coming along?”

“Very well, thank you,” Meg said. Just in case this was for attribution.

“Are you enjoying the game, Hannah?” Preston asked.

“Yes,” the reporter said, although her smile looked less than genuine. “A great deal.” She looked back at Meg. “Will you be staying on at GW next semester?”

If she had to have a death-watch, it would be nice if they didn't
speak
. “I haven't made a decision at this time,” Meg said, relieved to see Steven's team hustling—with a vengeance—out of the locker room. “It goes without saying that I have numerous options under consideration.”

“Well,” the reporter said, “do you expect to—”

“Why, look,” Preston interrupted, amiably. “I think the game's about to start again.”

“So, it is,” the reporter said, and nodded at Meg. “It's good to see you looking so well.”

Meg nodded back. “Likewise.”

Once she was out of hearing, Preston shook his head. “Well, no one will ever accuse you of not being a pro.”

Meg shrugged. Not exactly a skill that made her proud.

“Want a LifeSaver?” he asked.

She wanted one very much.

Steven's team started off well in the third quarter, going on a seven-point run that Steven capped off with a driving lay-up, getting fouled on the play.

“Powers, Powers, he's our man! If he can't do it, nobody can!” the cheerleaders chanted, and two girls turned cartwheels.

Steven missed the foul shot, and did not look pleased. Especially when, despite throwing a couple of elbows, he missed the rebound, too.

“He's mad,” Neal said.

Meg nodded. And Steven mad was rarely a pretty sight.

There was a time-out, and Meg watched Steven's coach scribbling wildly on a small chalkboard, drawing a comprehensive series of plays. Steven and his teammates watched with ferocious concentration, but most of them looked puzzled. Baffled, even.

“Now, go
do
it!” their coach ordered, as the scorer's horn sounded to resume play.

The game continued. Sloppily. And the other team was still winning. There was a loose ball, and Steven and one of the Potomac players went scrambling out-of-bounds for it, ending up tangled together, in the second row of the bleachers. The referee blew the play dead and went to fetch the ball.

Getting up, Steven and the other player exchanged words—and then, shoves. As both benches cleared, and the referee and coaches waded in to break it up, Preston sighed.

“Here we go,” he said.

Steven had always been one to get in fights, to the degree that it was barely newsworthy anymore. However, he probably shouldn't have chosen a day when her death-watch was there, to capture it on film.

Indeed, the press had moved in, en masse, and Preston sighed again.

“Damage control,” he said, and went down to join the melee.

Neal shook his head. “Dad'll be really upset.”

Meg nodded. “I think I'm skipping dinner tonight.” Despite the fact—or more likely,
because
of the fact—that her father had been known to throw a punch or two himself when he was younger. At least, so Meg had heard. She had only
seen
once, when her mother broke her leg, and he did not react well when he confronted the drunk guy who had skied in front of her.

The two boys had, by now, been hauled apart, and Meg could hear Steven protesting to his coach, “Did you hear what he said to me?
No
body gets away with saying that to me!” His fellow pugilist was complaining just as vociferously, on the other side of the court.

Upon which, Meg saw the reporter who'd come over during half-time heading in her direction. Her agents must have noticed, too, because Kyle—yet another beefy ex-jock type, and easily the most belligerent and quick-tempered guy on her entire detail—moved to block her path.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I'm afraid that seat's taken.”

But, no point in having word get out that she was too scared to face people, no matter how accurate it might be. And, what the hell, maybe it would be a good test. Coping and all. “It's okay,” Meg said. “He'll be right back. Thanks, though.”

Kyle nodded, but posted himself only a few feet away.

In her straight skirt and high heels, the reporter wasn't really dressed for a JV basketball game. But since she was only about twenty-six, she was probably trying to look older.

And not succeeding very well.

“A little excitement,” the woman—Hannah?—said, motioning towards the court as she sat down.

Her mother had always told her to count to three before she answered questions from the press. Just long enough to plan an answer; not long enough to look daft. End quote. “They play hard,” Meg said. “Nothing wrong with that.”

The reporter had a small notebook and pen in her right hand, but didn't appear likely to use them. Unless, of course, Meg said something
really
stupid. “Your brother gets very angry, though, doesn't he.”

Oh, please. It wasn't like he was going to grow up and be a Hollywood bad boy. “He plays with intensity, that's all,” Meg said.

The reporter nodded, then abruptly switched topics. “How is the investigation going?”

Bringing her captors to justice and so forth. Tracking them to the ends of the earth. As if they were ever going to find them. Especially the one guy. The
smart
one. Not bloody likely. “I'm sure it's coming along very well,” Meg said, “but I really don't give it much thought.”

The reporter nodded. Hannah Goldman. That was her name.
Newsweek
, maybe?
The Times
? No, it was
The Post
. Meg was almost sure it was
The Post
. Not that it mattered, really. “Are you disappointed by their progress so far?” she asked.

No, she was overjoyed that the guy, and his fellow thugs, were still running around loose six months later. Maybe even, if she was
really
unlucky, stalking her. Getting ready for Round Two. “I have complete confidence that the investigation will be brought to a successful conclusion,” Meg said.

The longer she lived in the White House, the more she sounded like an official spokesperson. An unnamed top-ranking official in the Administration.

The game had started again—Steven's coach put him on the bench to cool off—and Meg could see Preston deep in conversation with one of the photographers. A wire service guy.

“Is the President—” Ms. Goldman began.

“I'm sorry,” Meg said, cutting her off. Automatically. “You'd have to ask the President.”

Ms. Goldman nodded, and glanced down at her notebook. “The way your public and private lives have intersected must be very difficult for you.”

Christ almighty. Talk about tenacity. Which was probably a good quality in a reporter, but still. “I'm not sure I understand what you mean,” Meg said. Lied.

Ms. Goldman wasn't fooled, but kept up her end of the charade. “I just imagine that all of this has put a strain on your relationship with your mother.”

“No, that hasn't been my experience,” Meg said. There was a grain of truth to that—most of the strains in her relationship with her mother were of many years' duration, had—more or less—been dealt with, and now just lingered below the surface, rarely mentioned or acknowledged.

Of course, the thing about reporters was that, especially when it came to personal matters, it was easy enough to flat-out lie to them, and unless they had incontrovertible evidence to the contrary, there wasn't a damned thing they could do about it.

“Well,” Ms. Goldman said, and glanced over at Neal, Meg glaring at
her
. “Well,” she said again, apparently thinking better of including him in any of this. “Who do you think will win the game here?”

Good. A softball. Meg shrugged. “Winning is secondary.” Which was
such
a whopper, that she half-expected lightning to come searing through the gymnasium roof. “I just like to see both teams enjoy themselves.” And, in addition, red, white and blue were her favorite colors.

Ms. Goldman nodded, clearly not buying a word of it. “Right.” She stood up. “It was nice talking with you, Miss Powers.”

Unh-hunh. “Yes, you, too,” Meg said.

When the reporter was gone, tentatively making her way down the bleachers on her high heels, Meg looked at Kyle, who had a wide smile on his face.

“If you don't mind my saying so,” he said, “you can sling it with the best of them.”

Meg laughed. “Thanks. I think.”

While Steven was on the bench, his team fell ten points behind again, and by the time he got back in, the game was pretty well lost. The final score was forty-three to thirty-eight, the Hoppers losing, and the two teams lined up to exchange handshakes. Or, anyway, hand
slaps
.

Preston stood up, stretching. “Well,
that
was relaxing,” he said.

Meg looked over at the reporters, who were gathering their coats and other paraphernalia. “Think you stepped on it in time?”

He shook his head.

Oh.

Steven bounded up the bleachers, his face flushed, his hair damp and rumpled.

“Stupid game, hunh?” he said, and gave Neal and Ahmed smacks on the head. “Hey, you little twits.”

Neal hit him back; Ahmed adjusted his glasses and punched Neal, who pushed him, and then, all three of them laughed.

Little boys. Christ. Meg reached for her Kevlar jacket, and then put on her sunglasses to prepare to go outside. Face the world again.

Steven shook his head. “Yo, Meg, it's dark out there.” Then, he looked at Preston, slightly quelled. “You know, he started it, not me.”

“Well, you could do some work on the old temper, maybe,” Preston said. Pointedly.

Steven shrugged. “I always fight with that guy. It wasn't any big deal.”

“Well, someday it might be,” Preston said.

“I hear ya, I hear ya.” He grinned at Meg. “Glad you came, ugly.” He smacked Neal on the head again, then jumped down the bleachers to join his team. “Later!” he called back, then grabbed one of his teammates, and they went scuffling to the floor.

Meg laughed. “What a jerk.”

Preston was smiling, too. “That's for sure.”

Once they were in the car—Neal and his agents were giving Ahmed a ride home, and Steven was “hanging out to mess around with the guys”—Meg was so exhausted that she wasn't sure if she was going to be able to stay awake. And her knee hurt. Her hand hurt even more.

The most logical route home would go right past her old high school—but her agents didn't drive in that direction, and they hadn't on the way over, either.

Thank God.

“Enjoy your sojourn with Ms. Goldman?” Preston asked, after taking and making several brief calls on his cell phone.

Meg opened her eyes. “She was really fishing.”

“Just doing her job,” Preston said. “Any problems with her?”

Meg shook her head. Unless lying was a problem.

“Good.” Preston pulled some papers out of his briefcase to study, squinting in the very dim light. “I always forget how much you like reporters.”

Meg frowned at him. “I hate reporters.”

“You hate the concept,” Preston said, glancing at the top sheet. “But you've always seemed to enjoy dealing with them in person.”

Meg took her sunglasses off. “What, is that bad?”

He fumbled inside the briefcase for a penlight and his reading glasses. “Makes
my
life easier.”

Meg kept frowning, still not sure if she should be flattered or insulted.

“It was just nice to see you having fun,” he said.

Okay. She
guessed
. Then she leaned over to see what he was reading. “That's
policy
, Preston.” Not East Wing stuff at all.

He turned off the penlight, looking a little embarrassed.