The Bust

by Jamie Bennett

  “No, me being a manager here was just a pipe dream. I actually won’t be around long enough to advance in my career at the tavern. I’ll be moving on soon and your dad likes to pretend that he does everything himself, anyway. Uh, how do you think he’s doing?” I asked Dexter cautiously. Even though I’d been pretty mad at Roy for ditching me, I hadn’t stopped watching what was going on around the bar, and my boss just wasn’t himself. He was still nasty to customers and underfilling glasses, sure, but there was something off in how he moved and how he looked. Not that he was admitting anything, and since the parking lot incident, I hadn’t pressed my luck and asked too many questions.

  “How’s my dad doing?” Dexter sounded surprised. “I think well. He says this place is profitable,” he told me, which also told me that Roy hadn’t confided to him either about any health problems.

  “Sure, the till here is always full. It’s probably a very profitable business due to the volume of drunks and with the cheap liquor we serve,” I said, and then Roy himself came back out of the office to bark at me, although in a slightly gentler way with his son as his audience. The F word never even left his lips once.

  I was busy that Thursday night, but I did see Dexter hanging out for a while, sitting by himself on a stool at the bar and then even stepping behind the counter with his dad. I watched as Roy showed him how to pour a glass out of the tap, being much more patient than when he’d shown me how to do things in the tavern. I reached to hit the TV in the special place on the side to make the picture stop wavering, and I’d had to find that spot all by myself my first week, without Roy’s help.

  “Well?” I prompted my boss as I got into his car at the end of the night. It was comfortable, and certainly much better than walking, but I did miss riding with Kayden. Not just because his car was quite a bit quieter and he drove less like he was imitating a springbok, but because I did like talking to him. Roy, not quite as much.

  For example, now, when he snarled, “Well water? Well-fed? Well-known?”

  “Well, how do you think it went with Dexter? Your son?” He’d left an hour or so earlier, which had given me the chance to repour some of the beers he’d gotten for me that were ninety percent foam. I’d felt sorry for the customers.

  “Things went fine, not that it’s your business,” Roy snapped back.

  “Did you talk to him about taking over the bar because you’re not well yourself?” I pressed on.

  “You have a lot of f—”

  It had been a few hours without the F word, but it came back easily to his lips. “Now, now,” I soothed. “I didn’t say anything to Dexter about you, so don’t worry.”

  “Anything about what? There’s nothing to say,” he informed me. “He’s visiting for a week and you can keep quiet about whatever story you’ve dreamed up. Pure imagination.”

  It wasn’t imagination, but I did decide to keep quiet. The angrier he got, the faster he drove. We were nearly at cheetah speed, and in the past when I’d told him to slow down, it generally made him press harder on that pedal instead.

  “My question is, what are you doing with that overgrown, dumb hulk who’s dropping you off every day?” Roy asked. He was using the same technique that I did to avoid questions: switching to offense instead. “What are you doing to get that asshole to cart you around to the bar?”

  “He’s not an asshole, and I’m not doing anything. Kayden and I are friends and it’s a favor.”

  “Every single damn day? What are you performing in return?” he hinted.

  “Not what you’re thinking, dirty old man! I don’t want to hear one word out of your filthy mouth about sexual stuff, because that’s not happening. We’re just talking and hanging out and also, I let him play with my—”

  “Now we’re getting down to it,” Roy said.

  “Play with my dog. My dog, Emma! Lordy, your mind.” I shook my head. “I know why Kayden hates you, because he thinks you almost killed me, but why do you have it in for him so bad?”

  “If you were a football fan, you’d understand. He’s terrible.”

  “That’s stupid,” I answered. “Obviously, he isn’t, or he wouldn’t have been the quarterback of all those teams!”

  Roy blew out a breath and looked toward the roof of the car. “Jesus save me from idiots. Did you ever think about why he played for so many teams, Sherlock? Because he’s no good. He’s a lazy POS. I see you shaking your head and knock it off! He was awful when he started for the Woodsmen when Davis Blake got injured. He almost killed our mascot with one of his throws!”

  “Really?” I asked doubtfully, which only made him madder.

  “Look it up on my computer when you’re in there on your break, trying to steal all of my banking information!” he roared.

  Although it would have been easy enough, I’d never done that. “Roy, come on, now—”

  “None of his other teams after that season with the Woodmen have ever made the playoffs. Do you wonder why?”

  “I guess you’re going to tell me he sucks,” I ventured.

  Roy’s voice dropped to a normal level. “Well, he has an arm, no doubt, but it doesn’t matter because he’s not a leader. He’s a selfish prick.”

  I thought about that for a minute. “But you think he has talent. He’s just not using it.”

  “Sure, and he shows it every once in a while, which is why teams kept signing him. But you can’t depend on him. He’s not playing for the other guys or playing to win. He’s there for the paycheck and the fame.” Roy went on and on about Kayden and his many failures in games he should have won, like throws he should have completed, bad decisions to change plays at the line of scrimmage, fighting with his receivers and offensive linemen until they all hated him. Then he told me about a few more guys in the United Football Confederation whose asses he’d also like to kick for being ungrateful morons, if they ever happened to come into his bar.

  I was still thinking about Kayden though, as Roy amused himself by debrating half the professional league. It kept him in a good mood as we raced along the snowy roads and until he pulled up at my house.

  “Your boyfriend’s still here, spending the night,” he remarked, and pointed at the red Bentley parked in my short driveway. “‘Friends,’ my hairy, white ass.”

  “Thanks for that visual. See you tomorrow,” I told him.

  “Don’t bother. Dexter’s going to help me out.”

  “On a Friday night?” I asked doubtfully. “We’re really busy and he’s new—”

  “Afraid he’s going to take your job, floor manager?” Roy taunted. “He just may.”

  “Good luck to both of you,” I said, and slammed the door hard. I could still hear Roy swearing at me above the noise of his squealing tires as he sped down the block.

  I let myself into my house very quietly. “Kayden? Emma? Hello? Everything ok?”

  Neither of them answered me, but there were two large lumps on the couch and I turned on my phone’s flashlight to examine them. Kayden was asleep with his head tilted back, snoring quietly. Emma was also asleep, stretched out across his lap and snoring a whole lot louder. His arm rested on her back and when she twitched from the light in her eyes, he murmured something.

  Oh, lordy. This was a sweet picture, so I took one, but the flash woke them both up.

  “What?” Kayden asked groggily. “What’s wrong?” He seemed to realize where he was. “I wasn’t breaking in,” he said, his words rushing out. “I’m not high or anything, I just fell asleep, that’s all. That’s it.”

  “I know. Don’t worry,” I assured him. I snapped my fingers to Em, and when she ignored that, I dragged her off the couch. “It’s too late for you to drive home because you need your rest for tomorrow for the second day of tryouts. I’ll bring you a pillow and you can stretch out here.”

  He looked a little disgainious at the thought but nodded. “Ok. Thanks,” he added after a moment, so I went into my bedroom, pulling my dog with me, and took the pillow and blanket from
our bed.

  “Here you go,” I told Kayden. I handed him the pillow and spread the covers over him, just like he must have done for me when he’d brought me to his apartment. In that case, it had been a sheet, several blankets, a pile of bath towels, and some fancy shirts.

  “Thanks,” he said again, but this one was mumbled, because he was almost asleep already. When he did drift off, I let myself watch him and I thought about what Roy had said.

  “I hope that you don’t ruin your chances this time,” I whispered. “I think you’re better than what Roy said, Kayden Matthews. Emma doesn’t make mistakes when she likes someone.”

  I went to bed and used my own towel as a blanket and I thought more about Kayden. Sometime in the night, my dog ditched me to go back and join him on the couch.

  Chapter 7

  Kayden

  I watched the throw wobble, watched the ball tilt in the air, but I turned away before I saw the receiver catch it. It got there, but it was ugly.

  “Duck,” the quarterbacks coach briefly classified my throw. “Poor spiral. Rami, you’re up.”

  Yeah, I’d thrown another duck, a shitty pass that looped instead of tightly spinning and floated instead of whistling into the receiver’s hands. I didn’t know what was wrong with me today, other than my neck hurting slightly from sleeping on Kylie’s moldy couch for the whole night. I’d woken up in the morning with her smelly dog draped over me, along with a blanket that she must have used to tuck me in. I’d sat there for a minute and rubbed its soft edge between my fingers, thinking about that, and then had stood up because my leg was asleep. Emma had been lying on it.

  “Good morning, sunshine!” Kylie had called from the kitchen. “I made you a power breakfast of toast and water. Sorry, I’m out of jam or jelly. Or butter, or milk or eggs, or fruit, or anything else you might want to eat.” I’d stopped along the way to the tryout this morning to get a little more than the two pieces of hard, dry bread she’d put on a plate for me, one of which I’d tried to give to the dog. Emma hadn’t wanted it either.

  But I’d felt ok earlier, even with that toast. So I didn’t understand why now I was throwing ducks and watching my chance of making this team slip away from me. Why my nerves were controlling my arm instead of my brain, but maybe I was too stupid to do this. That’s what my dad had told me, many times. Ben was the smart one, but I had another inch and twenty more pounds of muscle than my brother ever did. “You’ve got the brawn,” my dad had repeated, and then shaken his head. I knew what he meant: it was a waste without the brain to guide it.

  “Nice job, Rami,” the coach complimented him after his turn. They bumped fists. Rami Nour had obviously come to play today, to keep his job as the Junior Woodsmen starting QB. We stood next to each other and watched as the quarterbacks coach jogged downfield to talk to the receivers. Steam rose up from around the neck of my opponent’s practice jersey and out of his helmet.

  “I watched a lot of your game tape last night and you’re not throwing the same today,” he mentioned.

  I stared hard at him. “Yeah, thanks for pointing that out.”

  “It’s your release,” he said. “That’s what’s different.” He mimicked a pass. “Your timing is off, weird. How long has it’s been since you’ve held a ball in your hand?”

  I didn’t want to answer that. Besides some practice with Jamison on the snowy baseball diamond and a few throws in Kylie’s back yard, the last time I’d really played had been my final game in Portland before I was cut. Four interceptions and then benched. Now I went through the motion of my throw, slowly, then again faster, and I felt the difference. “Why would you tell me that?”

  “Huh?” Rami turned, confused.

  “Why would you want to help me?” I asked him.

  He shrugged, but before he could say anything, the quarterbacks coach got back up the field to where we stood. He stumbled over a rut hidden under the snow that had fallen the night before. “We’re running a smoke route next,” he announced when he straightened up, and pointed at my competition. “You go first and show how it’s done.”

  The rest of the tryout went better for me and worse for Rami. I finally started to demonstrate why I’d been a starting quarterback in the big league and he made some mistakes that also showed why he’d never risen to that level himself. I watched him and thought about the mechanics of my throw and I wondered why he’d bothered to tell me what I was doing wrong. It made me remember again the kid quarterback who’d gotten drafted by the Rustlers when I was starting there, how he’d kept on sidling up to me even after I’d decked him. He’d bothered everyone, talking to the other guys until one of them told him to STFU and that rookies shouldn’t ever speak, anyway. What had happened to him? Was he even still in the league? I knew that the receiver who had put him in his place had retired after a bad injury to his ankle and I was out due to being a useless addict. Maybe the dumb rookie QB had outlasted us both.

  As I walked to my car, I saw that there were at least ten texts from Kylie asking me how the tryout had gone and what I thought about my chances. She had also sent several pictures of her dog and asked me what I wanted for dinner, because since she didn’t have to work, she wanted to cook something for us. I grimaced as I remembered the lone, shriveled, “free-range” hot dog in her refrigerator.

  “Matthews. Matthews!” a voice called to me.

  I turned away from my car and saw Rami, the quarterback. No, I was going to be the quarterback, and he was going to be my backup. “Yeah?” I responded.

  “I talked to Coach Márquez and he wants us to get together to go over the offense. How about tomorrow?”

  I stared at him, wondering what this was about. “The coach said that? He wants us to meet?” My voice told him that I thought he was full of shit.

  Rami stared back at me. “You think I’m lying or something? He let me know that unless something goes wrong, like you get back on the bottle, you’re going to be the Junior Woodsmen quarterback this season.”

  “And you’re going to give it up, just like that, and teach me the offense?” Now I laughed.

  “What the fuck ever, man,” he told me, obviously pissed. “Coach sent you my number so you let me know when you figure out that you’ll need my help.” He stalked away.

  Sure, what the fuck ever. I’d be in touch with him when hell froze over like the terrible field we’d just played on. Right, he wanted to teach the offense to the guy taking his job? No one wanted to be pushed out, no matter how awful the team was. As much as I’d hated playing for the Rustlers, when I’d gotten cut and they’d asked for my playbook back, I’d pissed on it in front of them. Literally. Now that I thought back, it wasn’t my finest moment, but I’d been high as a kite from some really good shit.

  I flashed back to the feeling I’d had then, the high, and the memories got stronger until I stopped walking, almost overwhelmed by them. It was like my body wanted it again, needed it again, every single cell of me. I had to get it. I had to have it…

  A horn beeped and I moved myself out of the way. No, no, no. No matter how much my brain was telling me to go and score, no matter how good it would feel…man, it would feel so good. My heart raced, beating harder than when I’d worked out on the field today. Every muscle tensed, getting me ready for it. I needed it.

  I tried to let myself accept and breathe through this feeling, like I’d learned at rehab when I’d been pretending that I wasn’t paying attention. It was going to be all right: I wanted it but it was ok, this craving would go away. My heart would slow down and I’d stop sweating, the itch at the back of my throat would disappear, the tingling in my palms would fade. Jesus, I wanted it.

  Another car rolled next to me and the window came down, revealing Rami behind the tinted glass. “Don’t be a dick, Matthews. Come to my house tomorrow. I don’t want to leave my guys stranded with you.” The window went back up and he drove away as I watched his car.

  And then I had the sudden realization—what if Rami wasn’t s
crewing with me? Did this bullshit about me learning the playbook really mean that I was on the team, definitely back in football? I rubbed my palms against my thighs and wiped my forehead with my sleeve. Was he lying and setting me up for something, or was this actually good news?

  I saw the head coach leaving the field and started toward him. “Coach. Coach Márquez!”

  “Matthews.” He paused but didn’t fully stop. “It’s too damn cold to stand out here. What do you need?”

  “Rami Nour just said he wants to teach me the offense.” I smiled as I said it, to show him what I thought about that. It was a joke, right?

  “Yes, that’s right. He came in when I did a few seasons ago and we built the system around him. You have to learn it and he’ll be the best person to show it to you.”

  “Are you saying I’m going to be the quarterback?” This time when I smiled, I meant it.

  “I’m saying you’re going to make the team, that we’d like to give you a chance to show us what you can do. Who gets the starts this season is going to be up to you. I was excited to see your name on our tryout list but I do know your past history.”

  I felt the smile disappear. “I’m clean,” I said. The craving had eased. I wasn’t going to use again.

  My words hung there in the air for a minute before he nodded slowly at me. “Good. I hope you stay that way. You should know that I reached out to your former coach at the Rustlers.”

  Great. Fucking great. “Yeah? It’s been a while since the two of us have spoken. What did Bill have to say?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Coach Solberg told me that you’re a talented football player, which I already knew. He also informed me that you were a huge pain in his ass from the day they traded for you from the Woodsmen. He said you never lifted one extra finger, you pissed off the other guys, you openly disrespected him. If that kind of malarky goes on here, you’ll be gone before you know it.”