Alyssa stood with one cleat on her soccer ball. She was staring at her phone, which was completely dead. The days at school after her father’s sudden fame had been draining in more ways than one.
It was nearly dark, and all her teammates had left the park.
“Alyssa, you got a ride?”
She turned to see Coach Rick walking in from the practice field, a mesh bag full of balls and plastic cones over his shoulder.
“My Dad was supposed to pick me up.”
“He probably got caught in traffic leaving town.” Like everyone on the planet, Rick knew who her father was. “Want to use my phone?” he offered, holding it out.
“Thanks, that’d be great.” She dialed her father’s number but it went straight to voice mail. She ended the call without leaving a message and handed the phone back. “It’s pretty hopeless. His phone had been melting down for the last couple of days. He’s not going to pick up an unknown number. Same with my Mom.”
Rick pocketed his phone. “Tell you what, I remember where you live—I took you home after that game when your mom had car trouble. I’ll drop you.”
“Isn’t it out of your way?”
“Nah, not at all. Hop in.”
Bryce looked pleadingly across the dinner table. “Guys, I’m really sorry. Have I ever been late before?”
“It’s okay,” Alyssa said through a mouth full of fried rice.
Sarah didn’t respond. Bryce had gotten home twenty minutes ago, oblivious to his forgetfulness until he walked in and saw Alyssa wearing her soccer gear.
“Things got crazy and I lost track of time. It won’t happen again.”
“Next time, call me,” Sarah said flatly. “I’ll cover for you.”
“I know, but I feel like I put so much on you already. I’m going to be on the road a lot soon and I want to pull my share while I’m still around.”
Sarah softened slightly. He was saying all the right things. “Okay, forget it. Thankfully, Rick is great. He never leaves the field until everyone’s ride shows up.”
“He’s a nice guy,” Alyssa said, chasing clumps of rice around her plate. “But I wish he knew more about soccer.”
“I thought he was good,” said Sarah.
“He’s okay. But Klaus last year was awesome. He used to play professionally in Germany.”
“For who?” asked Bryce.
“You wouldn’t know the team.”
“Try me.”
“Eintracht Frankfurt.”
“Pretty good—first division.”
An incredulous stare. “You’re a total American football guy.”
“True. But I can take an interest in my daughter’s extracurriculars, can’t I?”
On a spectacular Tuesday in mid-November, under clear skies and a crisp wind, Congressman Bryce Ridgeway announced his intention to seek the Republican presidential nomination. He did so from a temporary stage in West Potomac Park. The site was well-considered, a tiered backdrop with low hills behind the stage for sign-waving supporters. Beyond that, the Washington Monument spired into a sapphire sky.
Just out of sight, although near enough to be pointed out by the candidate, were the hallowed grounds of Arlington National Cemetery where a number of his close comrades had found their final resting place. Arbogast had pushed for a military angle, although his preference leaned more toward the “present tense”—he’d suggested an event at the front gate of Fort Bragg, surrounded by Bryce’s former comrades-in-arms. For reasons the RNC chair couldn’t fathom, Bryce had shot that idea down. Arbogast had seen such willfulness before, candidates testing their new empowerment. In the end, he decided there would be worthier battles ahead.
It hardly mattered.
Bryce’s reception by America, which would be quantified by polls soon after, displayed an undeniable fervor. Or as Jack Mahoney, his new campaign manager, put it, “He could have declared his candidacy from a lift pit at Jiffy Lube.”
Arbogast’s instincts were proving dead-on. Owing to his intervention in the Watergate bombing, the candidate’s name recognition was off the charts. His single-word associations, as noted in subsequent surveys, drew two consensus replies: “relief” and “inspiring.” A certified American hero had arrived to rescue the party from the associations of its other candidates: “tired” and “scandal.” Bryce would inevitably be attacked for his youth and inexperience, but those were the kind of problems Arbogast did not fear—they were predictable, which meant his candidate would be prepared to tamp them down.
All in all, the campaign launch was a model event. The climactic scene on stage was captured from a dozen different angles, and carried live by every media outlet in the country: Bryce Ridgeway smiling broadly, bookended by his attractive wife and daughter, a carnival of confetti and banners whirling around them.
It was an image that resonated around the world.