Free Long May She Reign by Ellen Emerson White

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.”
    â€œWell,” the reporter said, “do you expect to—”
    â€œWhy, look,” Preston interrupted, amiably. “I think the game’s about to start again.”
    â€œSo, 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.
    â€œWant 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.
    â€œPowers, 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.
    â€œHe’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.
    â€œNow, 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.
    â€œHere 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.
    â€œDamage 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.
    â€œExcuse 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