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"Rice?" Lisa let out a dry laugh when Nolan asked. "That boy has caused trouble for me and his father for years. Thankfully, most of the mess belongs to his father now."
There was no attempt to hide her disappointment.
"You wouldn’t believe some of it. A few days ago, a girl at school turned up pregnant. I heard she and Rice met at Homecoming, and that idiot even hurt her brother."
Nolan had not expected one bad box of condoms to ripple quite that far.
Still, an incident like that could become large or small depending on who touched it.
"Before that, he was hanging around with boys from Moreno," Lisa went on. "One of them ended up in jail."
Moreno.
Nolan knew the name. Katherine had once mentioned a friend who had left BHHS after her grades collapsed and transferred there. Rice had also talked about a friend who got sent away.
There was something to dig up.
Add that to Rice’s father’s unclear relationship with BHHS, and there was enough smoke to force Peter Rice out of sight for a while.
Nolan no longer needed a staged accident.
This could be done quietly.
"How are your grades?" Lisa asked suddenly.
"Good enough."
"Any colleges in mind?"
"Harvard, Stanford, MIT, Yale. Any of those would work."
Lisa raised an eyebrow. "Ambitious."
She speared a piece of steak with her fork, held it just short of her mouth for a second longer than necessary, then ate it slowly.
"But another problem came up recently," Nolan said.
He told her about his family.
"That’s why you’re playing football?" Lisa asked, something in her expression shifting.
"Partly. If there’s nothing left to lean on, I have to stand on my own."
He let pride show through the uncertainty.
"People who refuse to stay down are the only kind of heroes I believe in." Lisa lifted her glass again.
This time, the words sounded sincere.
When a person fell from comfort into disgrace, standing back up took more than vanity.
"You’re stronger than your father was," she said.
Nolan did not answer at once.
"Come by when you need to," Lisa added. "If you need help, ask. Don’t break yourself pretending you don’t."
"I will."
Refusing too hard now would make the performance false.
"Your family really is Irish?" she asked.
"Callahan is not exactly subtle."
"No. Give an Irish family a holiday and they’ll turn it into stories until sunrise. Maybe that’s why half the presidents claim Irish blood."
"And you?"
"Slavic. My family came over in the late nineteenth century and settled in Ohio."
She said it simply, without turning the dinner into a lecture.
As they ate, Lisa watched him more openly. Her mood lightened, and the sharp edges in her face softened.
After dinner, the interview continued. Then Lisa walked him through the house, showing him her collection of modern art.
She had a hidden gallery room, invisible from the hallway unless someone knew where to press.
Inside, glass cases and focused lights displayed paintings, sculptures, and strange objects that looked too expensive to touch. One piece resembled a gold shell holding a heart made from red stones. Under the light, the heart seemed almost alive.
"A replica of Dali’s Royal Heart," Lisa said. "The original is in Spain."
There were Warhol prints too, including a Marilyn, along with enough sculptures and abstract pieces to prove this was not casual decoration.
"You should call home," Lisa said, squeezing his shoulder. "You’ll be late."
"How late?"
"I have a private screening room. We could watch a few movies."
"Why not?"
But when Nolan called the motel and said "Mom," Lisa’s expression changed.
For a moment, she looked away.
Nolan had a mother. A real one. A woman Lisa had met.
What would Mia Callahan think if she knew what Lisa was considering? How furious would she be? How betrayed?
Lisa knew enough about Hollywood to know the difference between affection and the stories people told themselves to make appetite sound gentle.
That was what made it worse.
She liked Nolan more than she should have.
And because she liked him, she hesitated.
They went to the screening room anyway.
The room was black and quiet, built around a huge screen and deep leather seats.
"Star Wars?" Lisa suggested. "Athletes seem to love all that noise."
Nolan did not argue.
The movie had barely begun when he took her hand.
Lisa stiffened at first. Her fingers resisted his for one breath, then another.
"Maybe we shouldn’t," she said.
Nolan stopped.
That mattered.
The silence between them stretched, filled by the hum of the film and the distant sound of blaster fire.
Lisa looked at him, conflicted and fully aware of the choice in front of her. Then she closed her hand around his and pulled him back.
The Death Star filled the screen while the room around it turned into something neither of them watched very carefully.
By the time the credits rolled, Lisa’s hair had come loose, and she looked as if she had run several miles.
"You are dangerous," she said, breathless and half annoyed. "And reckless."
She warned him, more seriously, that recklessness had consequences.
"I know."
"Do you?"
Nolan only smiled.
"Star Wars is a trilogy," he said. "That was just the first movie."
"What?"
Her disbelief broke into a laugh before it could become protest.
Nolan stayed until the trilogy was over. By the time the driver took him home, it was deep night.
"You have my number," Lisa said as he stood near the front door, showered and dressed again. She even adjusted his shirt collar for him. "Call before you come over."
For one strange second, the tenderness felt domestic enough to unsettle them both.
"Do you have time in the next couple of days?" Nolan asked, running a hand through his freshly dried hair.
"Careful," she said. "Keep this up and you won’t be able to hold a football."
Still, the smile betrayed her.
That afternoon had given her something she had not felt in years. Energy. Vanity. Something close to a spark.
"Call first," she said again.
Nolan nodded.
The path had bent, but the goal had been reached. He had gained access, money, and something far more useful than a single favor.
On the ride back, he checked his pocket and found a folded stack of cash Lisa must have slipped inside while he was showering.
Three thousand dollars.
More than many people made in a month.
She had heard about his family, guessed he would be embarrassed to ask, and solved the problem her way.
’Lisa, you’re overthinking this. A gift is a gift,’ Nolan thought as the Beverly Hills lights slid past the window.
At the same time, Lisa was on the phone with an old friend.
"Don’t invite me to that sort of thing again," Lisa said.
"What happened? Are you getting married?"
"Hardly."
"You didn’t deny it fast enough. So you’re in love. Who is he? Studio executive? Actor? Johnny Depp? Sean Connery?"
"I’m not telling you. Stop inventing stories."
Lisa laughed and hung up.
The house phone rang almost immediately.
She picked it up, still smiling.
"Home already? Get some sleep tonight."
After all, the Star Wars trilogy ran nearly six hours, and with breaks it was almost more exhausting than an afternoon of football.
"Who the hell is this?"
The voice on the other end belonged to an angry young woman.
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