Pocket Piece Cameo

By Robert Costelloe

Raised in a small Pennsylvania town, Jill and Blake seem the unlikeliest match of all. He is a star athlete, but as a football lineman, he is self-conscious about his size. She's a thrill-seeking acrobat and gymnast, a tomboy who prefers computers to boys. Allison, on the other hand, seems to have it all: beauty, brains, talent, and ambition. But epileptic seizures scramble her life and her outlook.

All three are upended by a treachery breathtaking in its audacity and shattering in its impact. Can any love withstand a betrayal perfectly fashioned to destroy it?

Pocket Piece Cameo is a coming of age story that tests the limits of love's resilience, of loyalty to a promise, of the distance love can travel, and the worst it can endure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Costelloe
• Release date: Jan 4, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301120758

Robert Costelloe

Rob Costelloe’s one-of-a-kind love stories explore the height that love can reach. These are characters certain they must have romance that soars higher than what others will settle for. Something deeper, something richer, something worth holding out for. And something that will last through time. These aspirations invariably give plot directions a unique twist. Rob designs his own covers, and they give a glimpse of the plot tension within. Rob and his wife live near Houston, Texas.

Book preview

Chapter One

1997

Allison’s first attack would always be etched in her memory, not just because of the physical symptoms. But also because of the serenity that came before. The setting was so tranquil, her mind so unguarded. She felt it keenly, knew she would remember it for its crystalline stillness. She was ten years old and had been sitting on the floor, playing distractedly with her dolls. She didn’t do that often, usually preferring books or comics as a pastime. Her mother sat nearby, working in the den, sorting correspondence, then turning to type on her laptop. Allison looked from her mother to the cone of sunlight streaming through the den window. She smiled, distracted by the dust motes floating in the sunbeam. Then, oddly, she saw a ribbon of color, garish, cartoonish, like a caramel film electric with a smear of metallic pigments. She had seen the tape-like apparition before, but never this distinctly. It wavered, hovering, like a wainscoting that banded the far wall, suspended, but not touching it. And something else: a coppery taste in her mouth.

Suddenly a feeling of weightlessness, knowing belatedly that she must be falling backward. She resisted, trying to raise her head, but then her body contacted the carpeted floor. She felt the impact as a compression of air from her lungs, rather than as pain, and she could sense rather than feel her limbs stiffening. As her head rolled with the impact of the fall, she saw the ceiling tilt into view, dizzying her. Then a strange hissing blotted out her consciousness.

She awoke disoriented, remembering the backward fall, but feeling as though she had arrived in a different, hand-me-down body. Her limbs ached with fatigue when she tried to move, and she felt out of sorts, her stomach on the edge of nausea. She noticed a wetness below that had already turned cold. Shifting her hips, she realized she had both wet and fouled herself. In bewildered panic, she began to cry. Over her, knelt her mother, her eyes wide with shock and alarm. Allison reached upward and her mother clasped her tightly.

Mother, what happened to me?

I don’t know, honey, you…you had some kind of seizure. We’ll have to get you to Doctor Harbison right away. How do you feel?

Awful. I’m so scared. What can this be?

*     *     *

Allison.

She turned from her sideline view of the football field, from watching the team captains attend the official coin toss. It was Jake Millar, the sports editor, and more or less majordomo for this adventure that had her here at Franklin Stadium, home of the University of Pennsylvania Quakers. She smiled, glad to see him before things got serious with the game start.

Looks like Kenny got you set up okay. He had the kind of voice that easily boomed above crowd noise.

Yes, she replied, I think I’m set to go. She lifted one of her cameras. We’ll be able to use the new digital single lens reflex as the workhorse for tonight’s game. I should be able to shoot plenty of stills, everything we need, with the new camera.

Are you going to use the old Nikon digital as backup, then?

We decided not to bring it. Kenny says it’s never been able to stop action under stadium lighting conditions. But I do have a film SLR as a backup. And she touched another camera hanging from a strap around her neck. I have it loaded with thirty-six shots, and I have more film in my bag. She glanced down at the nylon tennis bag containing her auxiliary gear.

Good. Just remember to take enough shots with the backup camera. Just in case.

I will. Kenny briefed me on all the techniques and precautions.

Oh, and Allison, will you try to get me shots of two players? Let’s see…Bryan Knightly, he’s a sophomore halfback, and the other player is a lineman. What’s his name? Blake something…Lehrer, Blake Lehrer. I’m thinking of doing a human interest story on them, especially if they do well in tonight’s game.

Human interest? Is this something you’d want to farm out to the weekly magazine? She referred to her own section of Penn’s student newspaper, The Daily Pennsylvanian.

I don’t know. Too early to tell. Coach Adamski tells me these guys come from the same town in south central Pennsy. They’ve played together since they were grade-schoolers, made All-State in high school, and then they end up coming to Penn together. On top of that, they surprise everybody by making varsity as sophomores. Coach says he may make some offensive adjustments to see if they add pizzazz. Whatever that means. You know how he talks his own jargon sometimes.

Do you know their numbers?

They have complementary numbers. I think Bryan’s is twenty-eight, so Lehrer would be eighty-two.

I’ll look for them.

I really appreciate your filling in like this on short notice.

Oh, I’m thrilled. I’ve never done any sports photography. This is a super opportunity to learn firsthand and have fun too, seeing the game from the sidelines.

Good. Did you remember to bring your cell?

Yes, and I have your number programmed into it, per Kenny’s instructions, just in case I need to reach you during the game.

Great. I’ll be in the broadcast booth. Kenny will be upstairs on video.

Sounds like we’re all set.

Yes, except that as always, I’m running late, and I’ll probably miss the opening kickoff.

He rushed off, and she saw to her final preparations. As the game started, she found the cameras more awkward to handle than anticipated. Each was equipped with a telephoto lens that was long and added weight, making it hard to steady. She remembered the telescoping monopod she had in her bag and reached to get it.

The other frustration was that football action shots were more difficult than expected. She got only about one decent shot in maybe eight or nine as they approached the end of the first quarter. And there were so many delays: time outs and penalties where she was standing around, waiting for the action to restart. She realized she didn’t understand the game’s finer points, so some of the delays puzzled her. At least she got good shots of Knightly and Lehrer. Villanova scored early and Knightly took the ensuing kickoff, following a wall of blockers that included Lehrer. Then it was just Lehrer leading Knightly and that’s when she got good shots of them playing in tandem. Lehrer made an open field block that startled with its powerful precision, the opposing player exploding away from the impact. Then Knightly was past him, running almost to the fifty yard line before being tackled by the last defenders.

She checked the pictures in the camera’s digital viewer. She saw good sports action shots, the best she had taken so far. She frowned at the images, wondering why she felt antipathy. Was it the fast moving violence they embodied? No, the frozen motion had its own poetry, a heroic yearning against odds of reaching the distant goal line. Then she realized the players’ helmets and face guards dehumanized them so she couldn’t relate to them as fellow human beings. That link was missing. Oh well, she thought, brushing the feeling aside, at least this part of tonight’s assignment was done. And she wouldn’t need to worry further about these two, whoever they might be as people.

Her mixed mood persisted and she became pensive. She brushed her fingers along her neck to her hair, styled in a braid/ponytail combination. Normally she would have worn her strawberry blond locks up, her standard approach for work assignments, but on impulse she had decided to wear it down for this special adventure. She wore a long sleeved blouse and slacks, affording maximum mobility, and warm enough for the night’s descending chill.

Now her mood skirted boredom, waiting for an injury timeout to wind down. Not that she didn’t have sympathy for the injured player. The Villanova medical trainers attended him on the field. She switched lenses to her max magnification telephoto and trained it on the opponents’ bench across the field. She scanned the line of players, then stopped at one who stood, staring tensely across the field at his fallen teammate, his countenance poignant with distress. She snapped the shot, knowing she had a good one, knowing she had a portrait of personal concern and worry. This went beyond sympathy for a teammate; this was the pluck of friendship, vibrating its frequency of sorrow, the price we gladly pay as the cost of caring. She realized she was getting too deeply into her subject matter again, so she shifted her line of sight to the distant crowd. Again she became absorbed by what she found. Her viewfinder came across lovers huddled together and so distracted with each other beneath the canopy of noise and sports hoopla that she wondered why they chose to come. She captured the mutual adoration of their stares, the intimacy of their needy closeness, the inhaling of each other’s breath, probably flavored by the sodas they had in a carton beside them. What would it be like to experience the rapture she saw on the girl’s face? Would she want it, even if she didn’t have medical disqualifications to rule it out for her? How did she get on this train of thought, anyway?

Play resumed, but that only made the crowd a more interesting collection of subjects, so she stayed with them, ignoring the game for now, deciding she had time to get back to it later.

*     *     *

Blake Lehrer waited to disentangle from the pile of players. He was not uncomfortable, despite the weight of other players pressing him into the artificial turf. And he could use the short rest. From his offensive guard position, he and his center had played a cross blocking play, intended to disrupt the rhythm of the defensive rush, which thus far had been capable and troublesome to deal with. The play had been effective, but in the process he had been hit from behind, technically a foul, and the blow knocked him to the left, against the collision of the ballcarrier and his tacklers, then to the turf, and then the entire play collapsed on top of him. When he heard the late whistle, he hoped for a penalty flag against the clip. But when he got up, he saw that an injury timeout was the reason for stopping play.

The timeout allowed him to recover to full energy. The offensive players tended to cluster as a group, even when play was halted. Blake stood on the group’s periphery, still thinking about how to counter Villanova’s defensive rush, and it was probably the hair color that drew his eye. The reddish blond hue made him think of Denise. Yes, it was her, the recognition struck home, and he started toward her, a smile forming. But what could she be doing on the sideline, aiming a stick-mounted camera across the field, beyond and above him? Her face came from behind the camera, she capped the lens, preparatory to switching it for another, and that’s when he saw that it was not Denise, but rather a girl who could nearly pass as her twin. He stopped, staring at her, fascinated by the resemblance, but also by her beauty, for she was quite striking. And that said something, because she wore no makeup he could detect. Her eyebrows and lashes were hardly visible. On the other hand, her long hair was gorgeous, and it seemed to shine in this light. It startled him that she affected him in such a profound way. Was it the resemblance to a girl he’d been attracted to throughout his childhood? Or was it something about her manner, perhaps the way she seemed precise about what she was doing? What was it about her? The referee’s whistle punctured his absorption, signaling resumption of play.

He joined the huddle, struggling to get refocused on football. Lee Atnauer, their quarterback, called a pass play, and that did nothing for his scattered concentration. Pass protection was Blake’s weakest skill as a blocker. The best pass blockers tended to be the largest players. At 6’1" and 267 pounds, Blake was considered small for his position. On running plays, he compensated for his lack of bulk with exceptional speed, practiced technique, and superior strength, all powered by adrenaline that gave him stamina well into the final quarter of play. But those qualities didn’t help as much on the less dynamic pass blocking assignments, and he struggled to do well, to fulfill his share of the team effort. If he didn’t succeed, he would be rotated out for such plays, a prospect he dreaded.

When Blake assumed his three point stance, he knew that mentally he was in trouble. He didn’t have the girl in his thoughts directly, but the surprise joy of seeing her had knocked the edge off his concentration. On the snap, the defensive tackle went to the left, and Blake just couldn’t control him. In mere seconds, he blew by him, and Blake lay on the ground, cringing with embarrassment. Bryan, their halfback, blocked in reserve, and only by splashing himself against the charging tackle did he prevent Lee from being sacked. A pass interference penalty stopped play and gave the Penn Quakers a first down.

What happened to you? Bryan demanded, his laugh sardonic as he slapped Blake’s shoulder pad for emphasis. It was a measure of their friendship that Bryan could thus reprimand a player who was two inches and seventy pounds his senior. You haven’t missed an assignment that bad since middle school. Are you all right?

But Blake’s only response was to blush scarlet.

What is it? You look spooked.

You wouldn’t believe it.

Wouldn’t believe what? Bryan asked, laughing easier now.

Blake looked over at the knot of officials. The Villanova coach protested the penalty with some animation, and that held up play. Blake took Bryan by his shirt sleeve and walked them out a few yards from their cluster of teammates.

Are you ready for this? Blake asked, his smile a tease that was a trademark between them.

Sure, for anything, Bryan said. He had taken off his helmet and his hazel eyes came alive to the stadium lighting as he smiled.

Blake looked at him a few more seconds to build suspense, took off his helmet, then he turned ninety degrees and nodded at the girl photographer on the sidelines. Bryan followed Blake’s gaze, then frowned. Like Blake before him, he took a few steps closer to be sure.

The resemblance is uncanny, Bryan said.

Isn’t it?

Her hair’s a dead ringer. She’s taller and, of course, she’s not as pretty as Denise. What does this mean, you getting hung up over a girl who looks like Denise?

I’m not hung up. I just think she’s pretty. There’s a freshness about her: the girl next door on a photoshoot. I’m not sure Denise has much to do with it—other than the resemblance making me notice her.

I wonder what she’ll say when I tell her.

Blake’s countenance fell.

I’m only kidding, Bryan countered. Your secret is safe with me.

Blake sighed, then smiled.

What are you going to do about this? Bryan asked.

Do? What—

Yoa, Bryan interjected, C’mon, play’s restarting; we need to get back to the huddle. They re-donned their helmets as they ran.

Hey, Lee, Bryan said as they joined the huddle, let’s spring the end-around on them, the full sweep on the right side with both guards pulling.

Why? The game plan is to save it till the second half.

Best reason in the world, Bryan answered. Blake here has a girl on the home sideline he wants to impress. And nothing cuts a picture like Blake running a full sweep.

You’re out of your head, right, Bryan?

Come on, Lee. We’re going to run it anyway. We’ve been diving inside all quarter and getting didley yardage. But at least it’s got their defense all bunched up in the center. A wide sweep now will leave them flatfooted. And Blake here gets a chance to shine.

Blake, is this for real? Lee asked.

Bryan’s just putting a bulls-eye on me because I admired a cute photographer, Blake said, feeling himself blush.

A photographer? Lee said, unable to suppress a droll smile, then taking a second to glance at the Villanova defense, In that case, we’ll definitely run the sweep, the forty-nine right.

As they approached the line, Blake felt high anticipation. This was the play Bryan and he ran best, the one that had made them a dynamic duo, the one that had put them on the All-State team as high school seniors. As he assumed his three point stance, his skin tightened with a chilly exhilaration. His mind came together in sharp focus, the girl on the sidelines stashed away as a motivating icon, rather than a scattering distraction.

As Blake came off the snap, he knew he had the start he needed. As the off guard—the one coming from the other side of the center from where the running backs were headed—he was key to the play because he had farthest to sprint to get down the line, around it in advance of the ballcarrier, and then block upfield. This was the one play that utilized his exceptional, 4.7 second, forty yard dash speed to full advantage. Bryan could sprint faster, but not by much. You and Bryan are pretty damn fast for a couple of white boys, Dmitry, their black fullback had remarked jovially during summer camp. And now it was Dmitry, running ahead of both guards, who slammed into the right side defensive end, taking him out of the play and allowing the guards to make the turn around the line and into the backfield. The middle linebacker showed up and Blake aimed for him, smiling openly. There’s no target a 267 pound rampaging guard likes better than a 220 pound linebacker who’s late to the side of action and who knows he’s about to get creamed. As Blake delivered the block, he saw Bryan shoot past him. Now only the safeties remained to stop him. They did so, but they paid for it, taking bruising hits from the heavier halfback that would slow them down in the fourth quarter.

Sixteen yards and a first down, and all for naught, Bryan said as Blake trotted up to him.

Why? I didn’t see a penalty flag, Blake said.

The girl, Bryan said, laughing mock distress. And he nodded to her on the sidelines. The girl missed the whole freakin play. She didn’t see a thing. She’s been looking at something in the far stands the whole time.

Blake turned and confirmed the truth of it. The girl had her camera and fancy lens aimed up into the opposite stands. Now she disengaged and started changing cameras again as he’d seen her do before. She simply went on, ignoring the game. Why was she even here? It struck him as humorous, and suddenly his earlier reaction to her seemed maudlin and whimsical.

Forget her, Blake said. I don’t know what came over me. And we have a game to play, and win.

Despite the first down situation, Lee called a long pass play, ostensibly to catch the defense off guard again, only in a different way. But the play went awry when a Villanova defensive back intercepted the ball. The return play came up the right side, and Blake started running from his left side blocking position to see if he could help out with the tackle. At first it didn’t faze him that the opposing ball carrier tried to maximize return yardage by slanting toward the sideline. Then he saw that ball carrier and tacklers would meet exactly where the girl stood, still oblivious to game action as she pointed her camera at some far off target. Blake accelerated to top speed, determined to knock the ball carrier out-of-bounds before he reached where the girl stood. But in the next instant, he knew he could not get there in time.

Fortunately the girl looked up in time to see the blow coming. The knot of players ran into her at full speed. But at least she got her hands up to protect herself. The collision knocked her off her feet, straight back, the hit high enough that she landed on her back and cartwheeled over, coming to rest on her side. Blake could see pain on her face and realized she must have landed on one of her cameras, for she immediately twisted onto her back, her chest heaving with relief as she got the offending camera out from under her.

Blake let his sprint carry him to her.

Are you all right? he asked, kneeling down beside her and taking off his helmet.

I…really don’t know, she answered, her gaze adrift and confused.

Can you move your arm?

Yes, she said, doing so.

Can you sit up?

Yes, she said, starting to do so, but then she lay back, saying, but I don’t want to. Not yet.

Does anything hurt? And he began removing the cameras still strapped around her neck.

Yes, my br—er, chest…hurts…bruised, some. And I think one of my cameras hit me on the forehead when I landed.

Yes, you have a gash that’s bleeding, he said. Which means…you might have a concussion. The realization activated him and, without another word, he scooped her up in his arms and started for the bench that served as a first aid station. Once there, the medical technicians took over. They had little to do during most games and leaped at a chance to practice their skills. Despite the girl’s protest, they soon had her strapped to a gurney. She had no choice about all this treatment, Blake thought, looking to recover his helmet. The gash on her forehead bled profusely, making the injury look worse than it probably was. He hoped the gash would not need stitches and hence produce a scar. It would be a shame to mar such beauty. She looked dazed as he carried her, then bewildered as the medics thrust questions and treatment at her in rapid succession. He watched them wheel her off, probably to the ambulance they kept on standby, thence to the university hospital.

He returned to the Penn bench and noticed his place in the game had understandably been taken by a substitute. But when Head Coach Adamski studiously ignored him, he knew he was in hot water. He sat down on the bench and looked out at his offensive teammates, knowing he’d probably not see action for the rest of that game half.

Chapter Two

As a child, Blake could not recall a time he did not love Denise. And he professed it early on. At age six, they were at a wedding reception attended by both families. As they often did since toddlers, they held hands as they walked toward the refreshment bar. They almost reached it when the power failed, plunging the large, windowless room into total darkness. She clung to him in terror and he responded, holding her protectively for the minute or so the lights remained out. Suddenly he knew he must tell her of his feelings.

You smell good, she commented, disengaging when the lights came back on.

What?

Oh, nothing, she said, smiling and shaking her head.

I…I love you, he said, taking her hand and looking into her eyes.

You mean, like to kiss, like Mommy and Daddy do?

He nodded.

But we’re too little, she answered. And you could never be my boyfriend. The giggle she emitted had a brassy, condescending snap to it. It’s melody took for granted that of course he admired her, of course she was irresistible, but that he was far from worthy.

Why? he asked, crestfallen. After all, it had taken effort to discover that this thing he felt for her, this longing to be with her, was called love. At least that’s what his parents and the TV called it.

We’re not good types for each other, she said, mimicking something that sounded suitable she had heard on her mother’s favorite television program. And you’re too big, and fat.

The truth of it shamed him, her logic sweeping the scene and instantly settling the matter, triggering a resigned sadness. As a six year old, he weighed seventy pounds and stood forty-seven inches tall, the largest boy in their first grade class. His father enrolled him in the Pop Warner football, 5-7 year, Tiny-Mite division, and he quickly became a starter as an offensive lineman.

Blake couldn’t see that Denise’s rejection derived from a towering sense of class superiority encouraged by her mother, Kimberly. As second cousins, the children’s mothers shared great grandparents and the same Livingston name, one of some renown in their hometown of Hanover, Pennsylvania. Of identical age, and growing up in adjacent houses, they had been as close as sisters