Chapter Three

Exactly as Tom figured, Alix Lindstrom got her contract. His agent did squeeze an even million annually out of management for three years. In his opinion she was worth more. Acton “Action” Jackson, the hyperactive head of PR for the Sinners, all but did cartwheels across his office in ecstasy over the promotional possibilities, not that the Sinners’ home games weren’t always sold out anyhow. The man had a slate of interviews set up for Alix that began with her public signing and donning of a Sinners jersey bearing the number one in honor of her grandfather and extended all the way to the start of the season. She’d come back to town for the first event along with her parents and Ancient Andy, all of them put up at the Marriott so close to his place he could see it from his bedroom window.

If a kicker could kick himself, Tom would have done so for not getting her cell phone number during their evening out. He’d held the thing in his hands when he took her picture with the python and never keyed in his own. What’s more, he could barely get near her for all the hoorah over the first female punter in the NFL, the first woman to play as well. Asked how he felt about this development by numerous reporters, he replied that Alix Lindstrom had great potential, and no, he didn’t think her sex would be an issue for anyone on the Sinners team. He might have lied a little about that last one because a few of the guys mumbled under their breath about the sanctity of the locker room, bad enough that female sports correspondents had to be accommodated, and how football in general should be a male preserve.

Others, he suspected, were getting ready to make their move on the attractive new punter. With that thought in mind, Tom crossed the street and tried to contact her first by having the desk ring her room. A gruff male voice, definitely not Alix, answered, “Ja, who is there?”

Judging by the heavy Swedish accent hardly diminished over the years, he was speaking to the iconic kicker, Anders “Andy” Mortenson. Tom’s throat dried up a little. “Um, Tom Billodeaux. I’m trying to reach Alix. I’m down at the front desk.”

“She is out shopping for summer clothes with her mother.”

“Oh well, tell her I called to see how she’s doing.” Tom prepared to hang up but the voice on the other end boomed, “Wait, you will wait a minute. I will come down with her father, and we will have a cold beer in the lounge. When Alix returned to Wisconsin, all we heard was about Tom Billodeaux, nothing else. Time we meet in person.”

“I think we did once when I was very little—before I knew I wanted to be a kicker.”

“Ja, ja, Joe’s redheaded boy. We are on our way.”

Left without a choice, Tom went toward a bank of elevators hoping he’d chosen the right set. His hair would help them pick him out anywhere in the lobby as strongly as if he wore a rose tucked behind his ear. When the two men emerged, he had no doubt they were Alix’s kin. The younger of the two, a robust man of around fifty, had her height and a full head of white hair. Thick white brows sat above piercing blue eyes. He had the tanned, leathery hide of an outdoorsman and shoulders as broad as a bull elk. Nels Lindstrom offered Tom a hardy handshake, but not a smile.

Ancient Andy Mortenson, who had kicked for the Sinners until the age of forty-two, no longer resembled the man whose video clips Tom had studied. The thick head of blond hair had been replaced by a shining bald head and a face lacking eyebrows. Diminishing his height, he stooped forward, and his legs were uncertain enough to require the use of a thick cane that more resembled a cudgel. Still, in the broad cheekbones, wide mouth, and straight nose, Tom saw some of Alix. Andy also shook his hand, but more lightly and with a slight tremor. Even Tom’s, “It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” didn’t cause those Alix-like lips to break into a grin.

Andy Mortenson answered with, “Let’s have that beer.”

They moved to the dark and quiet of the lounge in the late afternoon far from the heat and traffic noises off the street that pushed inside every time the main doors opened. Under the glow of red-shaded lights, the men took seats at the bar with Tom pressed between Alix’s menfolk like a sardine in a thick sandwich. Both frowned when the bar had no Blatz beer available, but they settled for Milwaukee’s Best in a bottle. Tom ordered the same, exerting beer diplomacy. Each took a few sips in silence.

Tom restrained his usual urge to run off at the mouth or say something glib. He waited. Finally, Andy spoke. “You’re a real good kicker. You probably make real good money, more than I ever did.”

“Thank you. That’s a great compliment. As for the money, a good agent and inflation probably accounts for my income.”

Nels Lindstrom elbowed Tom in the side in a not unfriendly way. “You set up my girl with a top-notch agent. He got her a good deal. We appreciate that, don’t we, Pappa Andy?”

Andy nodded and the red lights of the bar traveled across his bald head. “As her fellow kicker, we expect you to keep looking out for her.”

“I plan to do that.”

“Good. Now about this room you offered her in your apartment.” Alix’s father helped himself to a large handful of peanuts from a small dish on the bar and did some seriously intimidating crunching.

“Just trying to help her get settled in the city, sir. I mean she’d have her own suite—bedroom, bath, spare room and use of the kitchen and living room. We’d have the floor to ourselves, and the building has great security.” Tom wet his mouth again with the beer.

Andy nodded his approval. “Ja, we think it is a good deal for Alix so long as those rooms lock. Alix is an innocent girl come to a big city, never lived anywhere larger than Madison. New Orleans can be a wild and dangerous place, I remember.” Still, a faint smile passed over Mortenson’s face as if not all the memories he had were bad. “We would expect you to watch out for her off the field, too.”

“Like a sister,” Nels Lindstrom added.

“Sure. I’d be happy to do that. I know how to look out for girls. We have six in our family.” Tom grinned, imagining his six-foot tall Valkyrie who could punt a football the length of the field and probably send a man’s nuts clear up to his throat if he gave her any trouble as an innocent girl. “My place is just across the street. You want to inspect it?”

“Ja, sure. Her mama will want to see it, too. When they get back.”

The men shared another beer in silence before returning to the lobby. With excellent timing, Alix and her mother, engulfed in enough shopping bags to open their own boutique on Royal Street, struggled up the steps to the echoing main floor. Their men hurried to relieve them of the load, and all rode up in the elevator to dispose of the burdens, including Tom who had somehow acquired a long, zipped bag over one arm and a pink striped Victoria’s Secret sack that exuded a heady scent and promised even more than that. He glimpsed down hopefully at the contents but encountered only black tissue paper.

Mrs. Lindstrom relieved him of his parcels first by hanging up the long garment bag, then whisking away the lingerie. She held up the bag of dainties. “We drove all the way out to Metairie in that rental car for these because Alix noticed a shop on Veteran’s Boulevard on her last trip here—as if we don’t have such places in Wisconsin—not that I could ever get her to go inside one before. Nothing but sports bras and women’s Jockey shorts for her in the past. I tell you, put wings on my baby’s back and dress her in some of these bras and panties, she would look as good as any of those underwear models.

The sisters must resemble their mother whose head was covered in short, golden curls, at her age probably thanks to a good dye job, and whose body, a trifle on the plump side, would fit neatly under her towering husband’s arm. The friendly in the blue eyes, now Alix had that. She also had a deep blush on her cheeks.

“Mom!”

“Only telling the truth, my little tomboy.” Mrs. Lindstrom reached up to ruffle her daughter’s hair. “Always straight as a board, and she’d never let me perm it. Jeans and athletic shorts, tees, and flannel shirts in her closet. Cleats, running shoes, and flats on the floor. But today, we put a dent in that signing bonus with a whole new wardrobe. She doesn’t believe me yet, but she will need those special occasion dresses. And in a city like this, we could find her size even in shoes! That is no small accomplishment.”

Mr. Lindstrom and Ancient Andy had dumped their loads of clothing on a bed and subsided into two chairs on either side of a window that almost had a view of the Mississippi River. A tall black vase full of red roses sat on a table between them. It bore a gold ribbon reading, “Welcome to New Orleans, Alix.” While Tom shifted from foot to foot amid the chaos, the other men waited silent as the north woods in winter for the feminine hustle and bustle to subside. Eventually, it did.

“We’re going on over to Tom’s place to check out those rooms, Britta. It’s not far if you want to come along.” Nels Lindstrom rose up and stretched, then helped Ancient Andy to his feet.

“Of course, I want to go along.” His wife regarded the piles of bags still on the bed. “I don’t know how we’re going to get all this home.”

“If you approve my place, Alix could leave the stuff there,” Tom offered.

“Maybe.” The mother reserved judgment. “Let’s go see what you’ve got to offer.”

Because of Andy’s slow pace, they made it only to the neutral ground on Canal Street and had to wait for another change of the light, but eventually they got to the brownstone condos on the corner. Arturo, the doorman, smiled pleasantly at the herd of Wisconsonites traversing his lobby in Tom’s company to the elevators, though he raised his eyebrows at one of his most interesting tenants. Undoubtedly, he recalled Ilsa, another tall blond, whom Tom had given free rein to come up to his place and lived to regret it.

Relieved that his cleaning lady had just been there in the morning and that he, thanks to his upbringing, was no slob, Tom watched Britta Lindstrom examine not just the suite of rooms offered to her daughter, but his as well. She seemed to pace off the distance between the two sets of rooms as if wondering if it would be sufficient to keep the two roommates comfortably apart. Alix trailed her, shutting doors behind them. Her face seemed to have turned a permanent shade of red. Tom still thought she looked beautiful.

After a cursory glance at the spare bedroom and bath, the men settled themselves on the brown velour couch in front of the large, wall-hung TV and gas fireplace and made themselves at home. “Built-in recliners, nice, eh Pappa Andy? Let me put your feet up.” Nels provided that service for his father-in-law whom the walk across the street seemed to fatigue greatly. He began flicking through channels with the remote.

Meanwhile, his wife inspected the kitchen. “What I wouldn’t give for a refrigerator this size! Though I do have a freezer for all that deer meat and fish the men bring home. Granite counters, very nice, and a dishwasher, but it is good to see someone washes out his own cereal bowl and coffee cup.” She pointed at the strainer where Tom’s early morning dishes dried on a rack. “Nothing sours living with a person more than being messy. I remember that girl you shared an apartment with your sophomore year, baby. She left a peach pit sit on the arm of the couch for a week and just piled dirty dishes and pans still half full of food in the sink expecting you to clean up after her. I don’t think that will be a problem here.”

“I do have a cleaning lady,” Tom admitted.

He received a sharp glance from Britta Lindstrom. “Would you expect my daughter to pay half her wages, or do you think Alix will take over those duties?”

“Neither, ma’am. I’ve been paying Krayola all alone since Dean left. It’s no problem.”

Britta sighed. “Imagine having a cleaning lady. Not that they ever do as good a job as I would.” She patted Tom’s cheek. “Ma’am, I do love these southern manners. Nels, Pappa, have you spoken to Thomas about what we expect of him in the way of behavior?”

“Ja,” came the reply from two throats.

“Good. We’ll take the rooms. Pappa, you just wait here while we go get those new clothes. That walk-in closet is to die for, Alix. Then, maybe dinner. I’m thinking seafood.”

She led the others from the apartment and loaded them up across the street. Arturo’s eyebrows went up even higher when they returned laden with women’s clothing bags. Tom stopped Alix from climbing aboard the elevator. With her arms still draped in shoe bags, he marched her over to the doorman.

“This is Alix Lindstrom. You might have heard of her, the Sinners new punter. She’s going to be rooming with me for a while. Consider her my teammate just like Dean.”

“Yes, sir. Whatever you say.”

“That should take care of any nasty stories,” Tom mumbled as they turned for the elevators again.

“There have been nasty stories?” Alix asked.

“All Dean’s fault. Don’t worry about it.”

He treated them to a glorious seafood dinner and offered to drive them to the airport in the morning. Mrs. Lindstrom demurred. “No, no, you’ve done enough. A limousine service is coming for us, but we’ll be back in two weeks with the rest of her things in time for that whatchacallit.”

“Mini-camp, Mom,” Alix replied, her voice strangled with embarrassment as it had been most of the evening.

“Yes.” Britta held out her hand to Tom. “Now that I’ve met you, I know you will take care of our girl as if she were your own sister. Thank you in advance.”

Her grip was quite firm for a small, older woman. Tom shook and wished dearly that he hadn’t given his word to the entire Lindstrom family.