Trailing in from the eleventh receptacle.
Kyle led Emily into the subterranean levels of the stadium. His faded brown leather boots clonked as they navigated the deserted hallways. After rounding the fourth corner, a small room appeared. Stuffed with old jerseys, plastic boxes, speakers, and an office desk. Three television monitors, two VCRs, a computer, and a DVD player circa 1990, 1999, 2003, and 2001, respectively, sat atop the desk.
“Mhm,” Emily began. “So these are they.”
Kyle gave her a puzzled look.
“The items you need connected.”
Kyle nodded. He was about to speak when his cell phone belted a burst of “Moonlight Sonata.” He excused himself and stepped out of the room. Emily could still hear him.
“We’ve been over this,” Kyle said firmly.
Between huffs of “oh come on” and “don’t pretend you care” that she heard very clearly, Emily started to inspect the equipment on the desk. Somewhat dusty but all the necessary cords were there. By the time Kyle was done with his phone call, Emily had finished hooking up the vcrs to the TVs. Kyle was momentarily speechless.
“I hope this is what you wanted,” Emily said. “It’s basically the only way these contraptions can be connected.”
“This is great.”
Coach Walter Flint took his wife’s hands and gently kissed the knuckles. He then brought his wife’s hands to his forehead. He was nervous. He was going to play golf with the University Dean the next day.
“You’ll be just fine.”
“I hope so,” Coach Flint remarked. “I just can’t beat him or else I’ll never get the budget I need for my boys.”