Twitter Girl. Nic Tatano

asks Sam, putting down his utensils and resting his chin on his hands. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear the details of this.”

      “We’re both supposed to ignore him,” says Ripley.

      Sam furrows his brow. “I don’t understand. I thought this guy was the ultimate catch for you guys. Why would you both ignore him?”

      “Men always want what they can’t have,” I say, reaching for a piece of hot Italian bread. “Dating 101.”

      “Yeah, you have a point,” says Sam. “But you two aren’t exactly shrinking violets. What constitutes ignoring him? Grabbing his ass only once a day?”

      “Hush, little brother.”

      “I’d agree to that,” says Ripley, “if you wanna amend the pact.” She goes back to attacking her food. “I almost forgot. After I basically gave him a dossier on the care and feeding of Twitter Girl he did invite me to the football game this weekend.”

      I drop my fork. “You’re going to the Giants game? You hate football.”

      She shrugs. “Thought I’d give it a shot.”

      “Hell, Ripley,” says Sam, “you think a tight end is one of your requirements for a boyfriend.”

      “That’s why I got this,” she says, as she leans down, reaches into her purse and pulls out a paperback titled NFL Football for Dummies. “I’ll be cramming tomorrow morning.”

      I roll my eyes. “You can’t become a football fan in a day. Name one of the Giants.”

      She searches the heavens for an answer, then looks at me and smiles. “Frank Gifford!”

      “He retired in the sixties and he’s eighty years old! You only know him ’cause he’s married to Kathie Lee.”

      “You said name one Giant and I named one. So there.”

      “Name a current one.”

      “I’ll know them all tomorrow.”

      “Really. How much is a touchdown worth?”

      “Uh… ten thousand dollars?”

      Sam shakes his head and laughs. “Man, I’d love to be a fly on the wall when you talk football with Senator Becker.”

      “I’ll record it on my cell,” I say. “I can sell it to ESPN for a fortune.”

      ***

      The cold wind slaps us in the face as Ripley and I head down the concourse toward our seats. One look at her face tells me my best friend is not at all wild about dealing with the elements in pursuit of the ultimate catch. (Her idea of camping out is taking a nap on the sun porch in May.)

      “Why couldn’t we have gone to a Broadway show?” she asks. “At least there’d be heat.”

      “You can go home if you like, I’ll tell him you weren’t feeling well.”

      “Hell no, dear friend. I’ll freeze my ass off for a shot at Becker’s.”

      “Thought so. We’ll get you some hot chocolate when we get to our seats.”

      “I think I’ll need a stronger antifreeze,” she says, pulling her suede coat tighter around her. “Couple of dirty martinis should warm me up.”

      I stop and turn to face her. “Oh, would you like some paté to go with it?”

      “Great idea—”

      “You’re at a friggin’ football game in New Jersey! You can have a hot dog and a beer!”

      She face tightens. “Really? There’s no place serving hot hors d’oeurves?”

      I roll my eyes and continue toward our section, which is around the forty yard line. I pull the tickets out of my pocket and see we’re both in odd numbered seats. “Hey, we’re not sitting together. We’ve got seats nine and eleven.”

      She shoves her hands in her pockets and adjusts her hat. “Let’s just get there.”

      We turn into the tunnel and I hand my tickets to an usher who points to our row. We head down the steps and I see the seat between nine and eleven is occupied.

      By the Senator.

      I stop, grab Ripley’s arm and lean over to whisper in her ear. “Becker’s sitting between us.”

      “Really? Hmmm, interesting. You think he planned it or that’s just the tickets we got?”

      “Guess we’ll find out.”

      “Maybe he wants a three-way with the hottest members of his staff.”

      “Yeah, that will get him elected.”

      We head down the steps to our row. The Senator spots us as we arrive and stands up. “Hey, you made it. Hope it wasn’t too much of a hassle getting here.”

      “Nah, no big deal,” I say, as I slide past him and grab seat number nine as Ripley plops down in number eleven. I turn to face Becker and take in his outfit. Jeans, Giants ski jacket, stocking cap, wire-rimmed glasses. “You dress down really well.”

      “I can blend when I have to. If I sat in a private box people would bend my ear for three hours and I’d never get to watch the game.”

      “I never would have recognized you,” says Ripley.

      “By the way, we’ll have a limo to get you guys home.”

      We’re interrupted by two new arrivals, Andrew and another hot guy I haven’t seen. Ripley hasn’t met either one, and when she looks at me I gather by her “tell” (according to my brother) that she’s not at all disappointed by the runner-ups.

      The Senator introduces them. The new contestant in hot guy roulette is a political consultant named Vinnie Franco and looks as Italian as his name. Tall with black hair, deep-set dark brown eyes, a rugged face. One of those guys with a heavy beard who always looks like he has a five o’clock shadow. The jury’s out on the rest of him until I see what’s under the goose down parka. Vinnie grabs the seat next to Ripley while Andrew slides by and sits next to me.

      This is one helluva hot guy sandwich for two gals from Staten Island.

      Ripley no longer looks cold.

      ***

      The Giants are up by ten as we get close to halftime. I don’t think Ripley’s watched one single play (not that I expected her to) as she’s bounced her conversation between Becker and Vinnie. She’s also managed to hide her lack of football knowledge by jumping up and cheering whenever everyone else does. I’ve been talking football with the Senator and Andrew as the game hits the two minute warning.

      “Okay,” says Becker, eyes riveted on the field, “if they can just avoid a mistake in the last two minutes.” He’s obviously a true fan as he hasn’t mentioned politics once.

      “Wow, the game is going fast,” says Ripley.

      “Not too much passing in this wind,” says Vinnie. “Ground game eats up the clock.”

      “True,” says Ripley. She looks at me and shrugs.

      I give her an eye roll and she shoots back a Cheshire cat grin. She’s actually pulling it off. As we say in television news, if you can fake sincerity you’ve got it made.

      “Oh, we’re going out to eat after the game,” says Becker. “A friend of mine has a restaurant with a private back room. Hope you girls like Italian.”

      “Who doesn’t?” I say.

      “Cassidy, you want a snack during halftime?” asks Andrew.

      “Hey, I’m a growing girl. I’ll have whatever you’re having. Long as it’s something hot.”

      The