by Ginger Scott
Not ever playing this game again, though…he’s already changed.
“I’ll be right back,” I announce, leaping from the sofa and grabbing my keys from the counter, marching through the side door to my Tahoe. I climb in and twist the radio up as loud as it will go after I crank the engine. I whip around in a half circle, heading around the curved driveway forward, leaving a trail of dust in my wake as I fly through the line of trees, branches beginning to bare as golden leaves fall to the ground. I have no direction in mind, so I turn left onto the main highway road and press the pedal to the floor, hitting ninety-five to an old Pat Benatar song.
Brush thrashes as I drive down by the two-lane road. Nobody is on the road with me, so I push the gas to go faster, feeling it rattle the boxiness of my SUV. I travel more than ten miles into the desert, beyond the lines of housing projects graded out in the dirt and sand. I pass only a single car—a minivan that forces me to slow down when the woman driving glares at me as I pass. Maybe she didn’t glare. We flew by each other so quickly, it’s impossible for me to really have seen her features. What I probably saw was my own warning to myself, the risk and the fear all at once, forcing me to ease back my pressure on the pedal until I’m finally driving at a crawl and pulling off to the side of the road.
My breath is hard, and my knuckles are white from my grip on the steering wheel. The biker bar ahead is filled with football fans. Sundays are the one day you can’t get a seat, because every landowner, prison worker, biker, and old-timer in Coolidge has come out to drink away their reality and live vicariously through these boys living the dream on one-hundred yards of turf.
Boys.
Reed isn’t a boy anymore. He’s a veteran. This game is for rookies and fools, and he’s no longer prepared to be on the battlefield.
I drive forward slowly, gently making my way back onto the road for the few yards I need to travel to pull into the last open space in the dirt lot. It’s me and a row of Harleys, and I’m sure when I leave the confines of my car and enter the Old Route Draft House, I will be incredibly out of place, yet my legs carry me forward. It’s dark inside, and the buzz of mounted televisions and rowdy customers fills my ears like cotton, almost cutting out the stream of my own worries.
Almost.
I feel them too heavily in my chest, like a shiv digging into the soft center between my middle ribs. The feeling cuts my breath, but somehow, I’m able to say “beer” to the bartender as I take the last stool on the very end of an extremely crowded bar. The entire place smells of motor oil and sweat and a faint hint of whiskey. Every television is showing the same thing—the two announcers from the Sunday night game—except for the one in front of me that’s showing soccer. It makes me chuckle to myself, because if I could just pay attention to this instead, then I’d be all right.
That’s not going to happen though, and I know it. I tried to run and still I found myself in a place where I had to watch. I have to watch because…because it’s him. I have to watch because I’m scared, and because I also believe.
I take my beer and point my finger to the TV, knowing I won’t have to mention it out loud. The bartender laughs and grabs a remote, bringing this screen in sync with all of the others.
“Some guy sitting here earlier wanted soccer. I wonder why he left,” he laughs out, pointing around the room behind me with the remote.
“Yeah, right?” I say, taking my beer with two hands.
“Wanna start a tab?”
I sip the foamy top and consider his offer for a second. A tab…
“Just the one,” I answer. He runs off my receipt and folds it in half, sitting it upside down next to my mug.
I’m not the only woman in the joint, but I’m close. I’m the only one not wearing leather or a shirt with fringe. I’m also the only person not smoking.
What I’m not is the only person who realizes who that quarterback is—the one running from the sidelines into an offense that isn’t the one he molded. This entire room knows what’s happening as drunken celebrations turn into rehashed stories about “that one time he threw for four-hundred yards.”
Our golden boy is giving it one last shot. The town hero is back, even if it’s in someone else’s town. He’s still ours.
He’s still mine.
And there is still nobody better to watch with the ball under the lights.
“Goddamn,” I hum, half in awe and half terrified.
I swallow the bitterness of my beer and feel the frost of the glass on my fingertips as number thirteen steps into the huddle and does what he does best.
He claps a few times, his hand grabbing the shoulder of his receiver then his running back. It’s all for show—meaningless. It’s a stupid trick that works, one he got from his brother of all people. The other team is always watching. They evaluate everything. And if they think you’re comfortable with one guy more than the other, then that’s where they’re going to focus.
Nobody is looking at the tight end. But Reed is.
The first play happens so fast, I nearly miss it by blinking. A ten-yard pass turns into twenty-two thanks to a tight end that Reed has played with before. The same play gets them four more yards, and then Reed scrambles for the first down on the next.
My mouth is sour. I sip at my beer again, sloshing it between my teeth in an attempt to taste anything other than my fear.
My family is watching this without me. Buck is standing—or he was. Peyton is getting to see her father do something he wasn’t supposed to be able to do again. And I ran away to watch this with strangers who have no idea what any of this means to me.
My phone buzzes, and I know it’s Jason. I wonder how many times he’s texted, how many times he tried to call. This is our arrangement, and even getting caught having sex with my best friend wouldn’t keep him from following through. I can’t look now, though. I can’t take my eyes off Reed.
Ten yards after ten yards repeat until he’s carried the team to the fifteen-yard line. A lead of fourteen to seven is set to become twenty-one to seven. All he has to do is show them all that he can do it. But Atlanta is ready. They’ve seen enough to know his weaknesses now, and his first two attempts end up with him running out of bounds for no gain at all. No loss either, and I guess that’s something.
The crowd around me has gotten quiet, rooting for Reed even though his success means nothing for our own team. Reed comes first. The man before the business. He’s one of them—one of us. The called time-out feels like it stretches on for minutes, and I finally set my beer down, too nervous to drink anymore.
I pull my phone into my palm and see four missed calls and a string of texts from Jason. Peyton is asking where I am. I tell her that I have the game on and I’ll be right back. I open Jason’s texts, and they’re nothing but the same thing over and over again.
Are you all right?
I’ll answer him in a few more seconds because by then…I should know. I’m living and dying by every move Reed makes on that field.
They go in without a huddle, wanting to rush the play and get Atlanta off balance. The snap is fast, and Reed takes five or six steps back. I hold my breath and let the smoke burn my eyes rather than blink. His calf is holding steady. His body is shifting just as it’s supposed to. He ducks and jerks right, breaking a tackle and running to his strong side with the impossible touchdown in his sights.
The crowd around me has started to give up. They’re expecting the fail—a last-minute scramble from a man who doesn’t want to get hit.
They don’t know where to look.
He’ll be there. He’ll be there just like Trig would have been there. If he does his job, then Reed will make impossible happen, and everyone in this bar will feel like assholes having doubted him.
I dig my fingers into my thighs, his window closing, the tackle rushing forward. The hit is coming, and I’m glad that the camera moves with the ball rather than forcing me to watch it happen.
His target is a rookie too, just like Duke. His
name is Waken, and his number is eighty-one. I know nothing about him, or where he came from—other than those few details I tucked away from earlier and the ones I see on the screen now as his fingers spread wide and bring the ball in. His toes drag across the corner of the turf, leaving no questions for the replay booth.
Touchdown.
The bar has erupted, and the man next to me punches my shoulder and holds a palm open for me to slap. I do it and plaster on a smile that can’t possibly look real. It won’t be real until they flash back to Reed, until I see him get up.
He’s running toward Waken and my heart kicks back to life. My lips puff out. I suck in a hot breath laced with nicotine. Reed’s chest collides with Waken’s, and he slaps his receiver’s helmet as they both run in for what is the beginning of a long relationship. I’ve seen this before, too. One catch has made him Reed’s go-to. If Miller is out for more than today, Waken is going to see a lot of those passes, and he’s going to be pushed to his limit. Reed won’t expect anything less, because that’s what he gives.
That’s what he crosses.
His limit.
He doesn’t set any.
My phone buzzes and I pick it up on the first ring, pressing it hard to my right ear and shoving my finger in my left.
“I’m okay,” I pant out.
Jason shouts on the other line, asking if I saw that pass.
“Of course I did,” I shout back. “I gotta go, though. I’m at the biker bar.”
Someone shoves into my back, pushing me hard into the bar and spilling a good portion of my beer. The rowdiness of the crowd is growing because this is the kind of place that lives vicariously through the success of one of their own.
“You’re in the Draft House. Ha! I’d like to see that.” Jason says.
“Maybe we can have your wedding here,” I throw back, not thinking hard enough before I speak. “I’m sorry…”
“Nah, it’s okay. I’m glad you’re all right. And we were going to tell you, it’s just…”
“I know,” I cut in, not wanting to have this conversation with my brother-in-law while I huddle for protection in the middle of a biker fight.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again.
I slip out a ten from my purse and leave it for my beer that I abandon to head back out to the mix of coolness and heat in the desert. Everything quiets the moment I push through the doors and head back to my car.
“I got out of there…sorry.” I haven’t really answered him again. I don’t want to, but he asks one more time anyway.
“Nolan…do you need me to stay on the line?”
I breathe out a laugh. This is probably the only time I really do need that. Jason isn’t my favorite person to talk to, just because we don’t really gel. I do love him, though, and he was there for me when I was scared beyond anything that I would lose Reed.
“I’ll be fine. Thanks, Jase.” I sink into the seat of my car and turn the engine on, jumping at the blaring stereo I left behind. I push the power button fast, deciding silence for a dozen miles might do me some good.
“Of course. I’ll have my phone. I’m in the booth, so call or text. I’ll never leave it out of my sight.”
I smile at his offer.
“I’ll be okay,” I say.
“Even still…” he interrupts.
I nod and sit in the silence, hearing the chatter in the background of the phone for a few seconds. In a matter of minutes, that ownership suite went from thinking their season was lost to thinking they won the Cinderella-story lottery.
They did.
Instead of glass slippers, though, their princess wears New Balance with orthopedic inserts for some serious bone spurs.
“It was a really pretty fucking pass,” I sigh out.
Jason chuckles quietly, just for me.
“It was,” he says. “You drive safe, okay?”
“Mmmm, yeah,” I acknowledge, feeling stupid for the way I got here.
I hang up with Jason and toss my phone into the center console, and I start to back out from the parking lot before I stop and stare at my powered-off stereo. Like an addict, I punch the power button again and hit the scan button until I find the sounds of cheering crowds and testosterone-fueled announcers. I find the OKC game on the fourth try, and I stay in that parking lot just like this until Reed throws two more touchdowns and the clock is counting down the final seconds of the fourth quarter.
Chapter Seventeen
Reed
I can’t wait to get through with the damn media room. I’m amped up with this toxic mix of urgency from just getting off the field and needing to call my family.
Nolan. I’m panicked, because fuck…that was amazing! And she’s going to hate how I feel.
My brother’s hovering behind me. I’m glad he’s serving as a human barrier. The questions are coming in shouts. It’s been a while for me to have a circus like this. When someone gets knocked out and rushed to the hospital, they sorta get to do the talking through their publicist. I’m not sure I’m ready for the front line again.
We get to the media room and I file into the long row of chairs behind the table covered in mics. The flashing never stops.
My body hurts.
“All right, we’ve got a lot to get through here, so let’s just settle down and take this a topic at a time. That all right with y’all?”
Our head coach, Lowell Simms, is a lot like me. We were both brought here to send this ship out with some senior leadership behind it. He’s committed for three years, but the man is sixty-four and been around the block a few times with two heart surgeries and a hip replacement. Granted, coaching doesn’t have the same physical risks as playing, but I can’t believe any of this is good on his heart. The man knows how to win, though. And he knows how to work with young quarterbacks. He’s here for Duke, just like I’m here for Duke. And now here we both are…without Duke.
The room quiets down, and the training staff steps up behind Coach to help him answer questions.
“Here’s what we know. Duke is getting care from a great medical staff at Southern Bell Hospital undergoing evaluation. We can’t speculate how bad the injury was and what it means in terms of him being on the field when we play next Sunday in L.A. I can promise you this, though—we aren’t going to put him back on that field until we know he’s ready and can handle it.”
The room lights up with questions. Even though they’re all asking the same thing, they talk over each other and make everything sound jumbled as they jockey to be the one to be plucked out of the audience to ask the question on their own.
“Mark, go ahead,” Coach says, pointing to the man from ESPN. They always pick ESPN.
“Are you going with Johnson under the presumption that Duke Miller will be out next week?”
Coach levels Mark with a serious gaze and wraps his hands around either side of the podium, shifting his weight and sighing.
“Mark, we go way back. What part of what I just said do you think means I can say anything for certain to that question? Use your damned logic, would you? We have three quarterbacks. Reed’s in the two-spot. If Duke’s not ready, then yes…you’ll see Reed. Do I know if Duke will be ready? No. Can I pull a crystal ball out of my ass and rub it to see the future?”
The crowd chuckles at Mark’s expense. Mark grimaces.
It’s a formality, and he was the one to have to endure it. I’m taking the field next week. Duke was in excruciating pain. There is no humanly possible way something in his knee didn’t tear. I saw it bend the wrong way. Preliminary scans and MRIs are already in. The conversation happening right now is between Duke’s agent, the management and ownership offices, and Jason—who has not taken the phone away from his ear. The rehearsed answer is “We’re waiting for them to finish evaluating.” The real answer, though, is “Yes, Reed Johnson is now the starting quarterback. We’re seeing what all of this shit means for everyone’s contract.”
“Jim, go ahead.” Coach takes a huge chug from
the Styrofoam cup next to him that I know is filled with Mountain Dew. It’s his vice. Because he can’t smoke anymore.
Jim, from USA Today, stands next.
“This question is probably more for Reed.”
Coach steps to the side and gestures his hand for me. I sigh as I stand, mostly to mask the groan I want to give because my muscles are so goddamn tight I’m not sure I can stand straight.
“Hey, Jim,” I say, leaning my weight onto the podium and nodding to my old friend. Jim did a great piece on my rehab and comeback story. I have a feeling he’s going to roll that out again with a new ending. I hope it’s not a tragedy.
“Hey, Reed. Long time, huh?” He laughs lightly and I smile.
“Two years, I guess, but that’s a long time in football.”
He nods and holds out his phone to record me.
“Two years is a long time. You didn’t look very rusty out there, though. What was it like stepping into an offense for the first time in…”
“Two years,” I break in, finishing for him. The room laughs hard this time. I wait for it to settle down.
“I don’t know that I really had time to think about it yet, to be honest, Jim. Duke went down, Jenkins smacked the side of my head and shouted to start throwing, and then about a second later I was staring at the Atlanta line.”
“It was a little more than a second,” Jim corrects.
I shrug.
“Yeah, but damn did it feel like a second, man.” I laugh looking back on the last hour. It was a rush—a flash. It was the thrill of my life, and my body has never felt more alive, even if it feels like it’s been beaten in a back alley.
“How do you prepare for situations like this?” Jim continues. A few more reporters stand and hold out phones. Here comes the soundbite they’ll use for the ten-o’clock.
“I think it’s just the job. It’s just like everyone in the organization—we all know our jobs. My job is to be ready and to step in when they call on me. It could have been dozens of situations. It just happened to be this one, today. I’ve worked closely with Duke, and Coach Jenkins makes sure we all know the offense well so we can have seamless transitions. I just wanted to get in there and support the guys and finish the job Duke started.”