Page 15 of The First Gentleman

CHAPTER 11

C ole and Leanne follow their usual route, and when they swing around the Tidal Basin, onlookers start clapping and shouting:

“Looking good, Cole!”

“Strong pace!”

“Nice shoes!”

Soon after Maddy’s inauguration, the media had seized on the brand of shoes he’d been wearing for years: Where were the First Gentleman’s running shoes made?

Were the materials recyclable?

Was the company ecofriendly?

Did it provide humane working conditions?

Did its management support the LGBTQIA+ communities?

“Maybe I should just run barefoot!” he’d joked to Maddy during the controversy.

To calm the waves, his assistant, Jason Rollins, had secured an obscure model that checked all the boxes.

The shoes were comfortable enough, but after three or four runs they’d fallen apart and had to be trashed.

Typical political compromise.

Now Leanne moves between Cole and the crowd.

The people are close enough that Cole can pick out individual faces.

He sees folks holding up Sports Illustrated magazines with him on the cover, photos, even an old poster from his Patriots days.

“Looks like you’ve got a cheering section, sir,” says Leanne.

Cole smiles and nods as the crowd of people edges closer to the path.

There must be twenty of them now.

Within seconds, men in running clothes are behind Cole and on both sides of him.

More agents, out of nowhere.

“Let’s keep moving, sir,” says one.

Right, thinks Cole. Disappear.

Pretend I don’t exist.

Cole does just the opposite.

He slows down, jogs over to the enthusiastic group, and peels off his windbreaker to reveal a Dartmouth sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off.

“Go, Big Green!” someone in the crowd shouts, bringing Cole back to his gridiron glory days.

The faces in front are beaming and excited.

Outstretched hands wave scraps of paper and Cole Wright memorabilia.

He sees Leanne step beside him, her head on a swivel.

The other agents form a protective cordon around him.

Cole pulls a Sharpie out of the pouch of his sweatshirt.

Always good to have one handy.

He steps up to the crowd and starts scribbling his autograph on the various photos and magazine covers held out to him.

“Thank you,” Cole says over and over.

“Great to see you.” He bumps a few fists and poses for a few selfies.

This is nothing compared to the crowds he used to attract outside Gillette Stadium, but still, the recognition feels good.

“Hey, Cole!” shouts a man from the rear of the pack.

“I was at the Bills game!”

Cole flashed back to making the fingertip catch for a TD in the last second of the fourth quarter, sending the Pats into the playoffs.

“Thanks, buddy!” Cole calls out.

“That was a good day!”

A young woman pushes to the front.

She’s holding out a booklet with a glossy photo spread.

“Mr. Wright! Sign this! Please!” She’s pretty.

Big smile.

“My pleasure.” Cole raises the pen as she thrusts the booklet in front of him.

Then he freezes.

He’s looking at an old New England Patriots yearbook, open to a page showing a beaming blond cheerleader.

Suzanne Bonanno.

The air goes out of Cole’s lungs like he’s been punched in the chest. He drops the pen and turns to the Secret Service detail.

“Let’s go.”

As Leanne leads the way, Cole hears the young autograph seeker call out, “Good luck, Mr. Wright! You’re gonna need it!”