Chapter Forty Two

Gazing outside, Jon grimaced at the sight of rain slanting down past the apartment window. Fall was beginning to really bite already, which sucked since it was only the end of September. He turned away from the depressing view, scratching a hand through his hair as he walked toward the bed, a sad smile on his lips at the sight of only one side of the cover rumpled, legacy of his having slept alone once more.

Catching sight of himself in the mirror as he walked toward the bathroom, he scowled, looking at his naked reflection almost angrily.

“Tell me again why you’re here and not on the fuckin’ beach?” He muttered to his reflection.

Unsurprisingly, there was no answer, but he did have to admit to a tiny flutter of satisfaction as he looked at the toned muscles he still had, even at forty six years old. Okay, so he wasn’t honed to the peak of fitness he’d been during the Bounce tour, but he’d lost weight during the last few months, greyhound-lean again, much as he’d been as a young man. Actually, in a lot of ways he was in far better shape than he had been in his twenties. The years had made him wiser, and instead of running himself - and the rest of the guys - into the ground, he paced himself much more now, so his lean appearance was down to fitness, and not to living on stale pretzels and yesterday’s coffee.

Glancing at the clock brought another scowl, and he hastened into the bathroom, showering quickly, thankful now for the shorter hairstyle, since it was quicker to wash and dry. Stepping out of the shower, a towel around his waist to catch the water, he looked at the long mirror over the vanity, debating whether to shave. After a moment, knowing he should make the effort today, he ran water into the deep basin, reaching for shave gel. Sometimes - just sometimes - he wished he was Joe Average, able to get by without shaving for a few days without the world’s press turning it into a story. Especially since he was back here in New York alone, Dorothea still in St Barts, where he’d be returning in a couple of days.

Leaving the bathroom, he roughly blowdried his hair before pulling on black jeans and a black turtleneck, then he grabbed a pair of boots and headed for the kitchen, thankful to find the coffee ready, courtesy of the timer. He had time to pour a travel mug full, snapping on the lid then shrugging into his current favorite jacket - black leather with red wings embroidered across the back. Cellphone in one pocket, Blackberry in the other, his wallet stuffed into the back pocket of his jeans and he was ready to go, sunglasses and coffee in hand as he left the apartment.

Downstairs, he nodded briskly to the concierge, slugging a mouthful of coffee as he headed outside. His car was waiting, but Jon glanced off to the side before raising a hand to the driver, telling him to wait. He walked to the corner, buying a pretzel from the vendor there, then he carried his breakfast back to the car, getting into the backseat.

“Morning, Mr Bon Jovi.” Said his regular driver.

“Hey, Kyle.” Jon nodded, ripping off a piece of pretzel as the car moved away.

By the time they reached Wachovia Center, Jon’s coffee was long finished and he was reading through emails on the Blackberry while talking on his phone. Pulling into the assigned parking spot, Kyle got out of the car and opened Jon’s door, and his boss nodded thanks as he got out, still talking animatedly, talking with his hands even though he was on the phone.

Jon paused at the door, wondering if he had time for a smoke, but glancing at his watch told him no, his nicotine fix would have to wait a bit longer. Swallowing the growl, he headed inside, walking along familiar corridors to the field.

Arriving at the field, he found things already underway, with his sometime-injured player, Mike Brown, watching as critically as Coach Munsey himself. On the field, a squad of would-be rookie players were being put through their paces by Jerry, the assistant head coach. Jon finished his call and closed the phone, making sure it was on silent before jamming it into his jeans pocket. He stood silently watching, unwilling to interrupt Brett’s concentration on the task, only stepping forward when Jerry called a break for the young players on the field.

“Hey Coach. Mike.”

“Hey boss. Glad you could make it.” Replied the head coach, respected and admired by his players and Jon in equal measure.

“Mr…….” Mike stopped as Jon rolled his eyes. “Sorry. Boss. How you doin’?”

“Good, Mike. How’s that leg?” Jon asked. Mike had been plagued by repeated strains of a hamstring for most of the past year, but where many coaches - and team owners - would have given up on him, neither Jon nor the coaching staff had even considered it, mainly because, when he was fit, Mike was one of the best in the League, and the success he’d brought more than outweighed the times he’d been sidelined.

“It’s doing good now.” Mike grinned. He knew how fortunate he’d been that the team had persevered with him. “Doc says I should be fit - for good this time - in a couple more weeks.”

“That’s great!” Jon grinned, high-fiving the player, then turning his attention back to the field as he saw Coach Munsey look across to where the next set of potential players were gathering. “How we doin’, Coach?”

“Not too bad.” He said, consulting his clipboard. “Some of them are kinda young, but there’s one kid there……..uh……number eighty four……has the best arm I’ve seen in years. He’s pretty green, but if he’s this good now, well…..”

“Eighty four?” Jon asked, and when Coach nodded he scanned the field until he picked out the number on the tabard.

Standing back against the boards, Jon watched the young player, seeing what Brett meant about the raw talent the kid had. Trained and honed, the kid could be a serious weapon for the Soul, and Jon grinned across at Munsey as the group of players reached the end of their tryout session, seeing Brett’s responding smile and nod.

“Yeah.” Jon said.

“Yeah.” Coach agreed. “Only slight problem is his age. Kid’s only nineteen, Jon. Not sure he’s mature enough to cope with the game schedule.”

Jon was still watching the young man, seeing his easy camaraderie with the squad of players he’d only just met, something in his easy manner drawing the others to him.

“You’re the coach, Coach…….but I’d say take him.” Jon gave his opinion, knowing well enough that, if Munsey didn’t think the kid could take it, it wouldn’t matter if God sent down the instruction on a stone tablet, the youngster would be gone.

Brett nodded slowly. “We’ll give him his shot. Welcome to the Soul, Jay Kelsall.”


At the end of the tryouts, Jon remained in the background as Munsey thanked all the young men for coming along, and for their interest in playing for the Philadelphia Soul. At the end of his short speech, he told them that, if their number was called, they’d made the grade. Otherwise, well, thanks for coming and goodbye.

Jon watched the faces as the players heard their numbers called, looks of relief from some, looks of pride from others. As Brett called out ‘eighty four’, his eyes flicked to the young player, seeing his grin of absolute joy, and there was something in the kid’s smile that disturbed Jon slightly. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.

When the lucky ones had been called out, the others trooped disconsolately from the field, but in keeping with the philosophy of the team - of the League - there was no bitterness shown. Maybe, from some, just a determination that next time………next time, they’d get it.

The successful ones were lined up by Jerry, and he took their numbered bibs from them, the players changing play shoes for outdoor types. Jon, Brett and Mike walked across to speak to them, and there was a ripple of murmuring through the players as they realised that not only was the head coach coming over, and one of the star players, but also one of the majority owners of the team.

Jon thanked them for wanting to join the Soul ‘family’, keeping it brief and low-key, then as the huddle of people started to break up he made the effort to have a quick word with each of the guys individually, shaking hands as he went, excited as any true fan would be at the prospect of new blood in the team.

When he reached the end of the line, he found himself with the young player who’d caught Coach’s eye earlier. The kid held something in his left hand, looking nervously down at it, and Jon grinned reassuringly as he offered his hand to shake.

“Welcome to the Philadelphia Soul.” He said, and the young player shook hands firmly enough, his eyes still nervously downcast.

“Mr Bon Jovi…..”

“Mostly, the guys just call me ‘boss’.” Jon confided. Hell, he’d have been happy enough for them to call him Jon, but Munsey had always insisted that there needed to be a clear line that said he was in charge, not just ‘one of the guys’, and Jon saw the logic in that.

“Oh. Okay, Boss.” Even the few words betrayed the kid’s out-of-state accent. “I know I shouldn’t do this, but if I don’t do it now I probably never will. My……my mom is a real big fan of yours, and she’d kill me if she knew I’d brought this, but I wondered if you’d sign it for her?”

Jon blinked. That was a first. The kid was holding out what Jon could now see was a photograph, and he took it, holding down his irritation.

“Got a pen?” He asked as he turned the photo around, almost dropping it as he finally looked at it.

Staring up at him from the photograph was his own face, many years earlier, pressed close to a woman he hadn’t seen in almost twenty years. Billie. His secret cowgirl, Billie. The one he’d been thinking of when he wrote ‘Put the Boy Back in Cowboy’. The one he occasionally saw in his dreams, standing on a riverbank, naked but for a black cowboy hat.

“Is this…….” Jon cleared his throat, automatically taking the pen offered to him. “Is this your mom?”

“Yes sir.” Finally, Jay raised his head to look Jon in the eye, shyness evaporating now that he’d plucked up the courage to ask for this small favor.

Jon clenched his fist around the pen, fighting a wave of dizziness that hit him as he looked into the young man’s eyes. He knew those eyes. He should - he looked into them every time he looked in a mirror.



THE END
for now