Al Trunk Mahoney, Defensive Line

by Jean C. Joachim

  “Why is it perfect?’

  “It’s small, stone, real old. Like a couple hundred years. It’s beautiful. And it’s got fifty acres, and a barn. And there’s a chicken coop too. So, will you?”

  She grinned at him. Big Al the defensive machine was gone, replaced by eight year old Al with a new toy. “Sure. When?”

  “Can you go now?”

  He looked so eager. Carla had plenty to do, but she couldn’t bear to turn him down. “Okay, but we’ve got to be back in an hour, all right?”

  “Okay.” He held out his hand.

  As she gripped his fingers, she popped her head in the kitchen for a moment. “I’ve got to run out for an hour, Doodles. Hold the fort, okay? If someone wants food or drink, can you take care of it?”

  In answer to her questions, the cook saluted and smiled.

  Al blasted the heat as he let the car warm for a few minutes. He was talking so fast, he was babbling, telling her all about the house one minute and reciting some little kid poem the next. She’d never seen him so happy, and it touched her heart. Surely, there must be some magic in the place he’d fallen in love with?

  They pulled into the driveway. It was four, and night was creeping in. Al took her hand and escorted her to the front steps. “Carla, meet The Little Stone House.”

  She did a little curtsy as her gaze roamed over the structure. Al had been right—the house was old and beautiful, quaint and charming. It seemed a tad small for a man of his size, but if he didn’t mind that then who was she to complain?

  “Let’s go inside. It’s freezing out here.”

  Al opened the door and let her in first. It was beginning to get dark and hard to see all the details of the place, but what she saw, she liked. They sat on the huge sofa and faced the fireplace.

  “Picture sitting here, after dinner, with a brandy or a glass of wine. You and me.”

  The image warmed her. She pushed aside thoughts reminding her she had no intention of trying to make their relationship permanent. She leaned back against the cushion and rested her head on his shoulder. Al slipped his arm around her.

  “You and me, baby. And this house. I’ll be home every night.”

  She didn’t dare to think it, but her mouth opened and words came out anyway. “You want me to live here with you?”

  “That would be a dream come true.”

  For me too, big guy. She smiled and snuggled closer against the chill in the house.

  “We’re going to contract next week. I can move in soon.”

  “That’s kinda fast, isn’t it?”

  “They’re already living someplace else. They only left a couple of things here to help sell the house. I opened the cabinets in the kitchen, and they’re empty.”

  “Great. You don’t have long to wait.” Her heart sank.

  “Nope. I want you to spend the first night here with me. There’s a fireplace in the bedroom too. Come on. Let me show you. We can make love in front of it.”

  Like a little kid in a candy store with twenty bucks burning a hole in his pocket, he got more enthusiastic with every room. She had to admit the place was enchanting. She could easily picture a serene, happy life there with Al, except for the fact there would be no kids.

  That would make it perfect for her. Carla was the second oldest. Her older brother left home at eighteen to join the military. She had helped her mother raise the other seven kids in her family. By age sixteen, Carla had changed more diapers than most moms. She had been tied down with motherly duties almost as much as her mother.

  At twenty-one, she left home, got a job waitressing, and saved her money. By age thirty, she was able to buy The Beast. There was no way she intended to go back to being a slave to little kids. She’d had enough. Enough of cooking for ten night after night, enough taking kids to doctor appointments, basketball practice, girl scouts, school, and picking them up.

  Her family had never had two sawbucks to rub together—it costs a ton of money to feed and clothe a brood that size. That hadn’t been the only thing. Carla had gotten first crack at the girl clothes. She’d worn them before handing them down to her sister. But she’d had to be careful. Any time she’d gotten a stain, her mother ran to wash it out, afraid the item wouldn’t be good enough to pass along. Carla had seemed old by the time she’d been twenty.

  After she left home, she’d rented a room and tried to have the happy-go-lucky life of people her age. But she’d had a dream and was driven to succeed. She’d worked longer and harder than any of the other waitresses at The Beast. She’d learned the business from Roddy, the owner. He had been happy to teach her, and she had been a willing pupil. He’d promoted her to assistant manager. More money for her to save.

  Carla had played during her twenties, but never for keeps. She’d dated around, never staying with one guy long enough to get a broken heart. Life had kicked Carla around plenty, she didn’t need it from a lover too. Looking the way she did, she never had trouble replacing any man who became too much trouble, too possessive, or too brutal. She had never tolerated violence in a man, and swore she never would.

  Carla had been saving for so long, she didn’t know how to spend. Like her mother, she ran to the sink with every stain, eager to make her clothes last as long as possible. When diabetes had hit Roddy hard, he’d sold the business to Carla. Since then, she had been working fifteen hour days and saving every penny. But she was independent. No one owned her.

  The house was Trunk’s dream, and she’d be damned if she’d step on it. It would be so easy to make it hers too. If she dared.

  The place was beautiful, with mahogany paneling in the den and trim in the halls. Wide plank floors and pine doors added charm. The little stone house called to her, offering a different life, a quiet, happy life with the man she loved. She chewed on her lip.

  “We’d better go. It’s almost dark. I told Doodles I’d be back in an hour.”

  “Okay. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s the most beautiful house ever and with a little TLC and a whole lotta money, it could be a small palace. I think you love it to pieces.”

  “I do.”

  They closed and locked the place. Al opened the car door for her then slid behind the wheel. She leaned back against the leather. Staring at the stars, sprinkling pinpoints of light into the darkening sky, Carla let the allure of the stone house drain out of her blood. Seeing what could be, but never would, brought her life into sharp focus. Pain stabbed at her heart. She wanted that, wanted it badly, but not badly enough to chain herself to a lifetime of childcare. It wasn’t for her, and neither was the dream. She gave a shuddering sigh, not unnoticed by Al.

  “You okay? It’s gonna be mine. Make no mistake on that. And we’ll be there together…if you want it.”

  “I wish,” she muttered, under her breath, raising her gaze to the stars.

  * * * *

  Monday morning, Al woke up thankful to be alive. He hit the gym with new vigor. He ran the track, pumped iron, and conferred with the defensive coordinator. At the team meeting, he smiled, working to keep his focus on what the coach was saying and not allow it to wander to visions of the stone house.

  While he ran and worked out, the rural place was foremost in his mind. He started a mental list of things that needed to be fixed, corrected, changed, or rearranged. The list was growing, swallowing up the hundred grand he’d saved getting the price reduced. He didn’t care. It’s time I had a great place to live.

  After the meeting, Coach Bass slung an arm around Trunk’s shoulders. “I noticed your stats are good. Much improved. Whatever you’re doing, buddy, keep it up. I want you and Tuffer to get your ducks in a row. We expect some serious sacks tonight. Their offensive line is weak. Flatten ’em, Trunk.”

  “You got it, Coach.”

  The team met on the field to work out some plays and get in sync. Trunk seesawed between trying to get to the quarterback and blocking for Drake when he stole the ball.

  At one, everyone
went home.

  Trunk stopped at the bar. “You need anything? I got a few hours to kill.”

  “I’m good. Lunch?” Carla asked.

  “Only if you let me pay.”

  “Okay. Got some corned beef in from Terry. It was a special. Let’s try it.”

  “Sounds good. Deli comes to The Beast?”

  She laughed. Trunk followed her into the kitchen. Together, they made sandwiches. Trunk had a glass of milk, while Carla washed hers down with beer. He helped her wipe down the table tops, set up chairs, put away clean glasses, and sort silverware. At three, he headed for his room and a serious nap.

  He descended the stairs at five. When they had night games, Lyle Barker ordered an elaborate spread for the team. The buffet opened at five thirty. Trunk wanted to eat early to allow the food to get into his system. Game time was eight thirty. He kissed Carla goodbye.

  “Good luck,” she said.

  “We’re gonna win it. I feel it.”

  “I hope so, babe. You deserve a win.”

  He picked her up and twirled her around. Happiness flooded through him. His life was perfect—playing football, the best girl, and a one-of-a-kind place to call home. He was high without drugs or alcohol. After a second kiss, he headed for the stadium.

  Al was a big protein man. He had lean roast beef and a baked potato, carbs for energy. He rounded out his plate with Brussels sprouts and green beans. Orange juice was his favorite quick energy drink.

  Taking a seat between Devon Drake and Tuffer Demson, Trunk considered their part of the dinner table the defensive end. Lawson Breaker plopped down next to Tuffer.

  “Don’t eat too much before the game. You’ll get bloated, and it’ll slow you down.”

  “Okay. Thanks,” the young offensive lineman said.

  “And no fruit. It’ll give you the shits,” Tuffer put in.

  The men suited up and sat for some last minute words of wisdom from Coach Bass.

  “If we sack the fucker, it’ll be an easier game. It’s not too cold out there. Holding at forty. Still, that takes a lot out of you. So, let’s play smarter so we don’t have to play harder. Trunk? You and Demson are key players today. Keep hitting their offensive line. It’s their biggest weakness. Their monster guy got injured last game. Lucky break for us. So, get in there and take them down. Offense? Do what you do best—catch and run. Buddy, Caleb, Harley—you guys are the lynchpins. Run your asses off.”

  There were a few questions.

  “I know you can do it. It’s you guys who have to know you can. Go out there and score. Take us to the Super Bowl.”

  The men put their hands in for the team cheer, then loped out onto the field. Wind drove the temperature down. It bit through their facemasks and their jerseys. Trunk wanted to run around to keep warm.

  Griff lost the toss, making Trunk edgy.

  Tuffer put his hand on his teammate’s arm. “We lost the toss last time and still won.”

  “I know. I know.”

  The Kings special receiving team hit the gridiron. Buddy Carruthers caught the kickoff and downed it on the eighteen yard line. Trunk nodded at Bullhorn Brodsky and Lawson Breaker as they took the field. Energy pumped through the offense as Bull and Breaker blocked, creating openings for Harley Brennan to run the ball for two first downs.

  The offensive line formed a solid front, keeping Griff Montgomery safe long enough to connect a pass with Carruthers, who ran for a touchdown.

  “Catch and run,” Trunk repeated under his breath.

  Robbie Anthony kicked for the extra point. Now, it was Mahoney’s turn. Finally! He and Demson ran out and lined up. Air came from his nose, like a bull snorting, pawing the ground in anticipation of destroying the matador. Trunk’s gaze zeroed in on the Gator’s quarterback. When the ball was snapped, Al took a deep breath, and charged.

  With his shoulder up, Trunk bashed into an offensive lineman, sending him flying. Mahoney pushed past another defender in time to dive at the quarterback and take him down as he let the pigskin go. It popped up. Demson launched himself, arms outstretched, and grabbed the ball. He landed with a thud, but still holding onto the prize. An interception was called, and the Kings cheered. Coach Bass did his little dance.

  Trunk bumped helmets with Tuffer.

  “Great teamwork, guys,” Coach said, slapping their backs.

  Demson was grinning. “Never did that before.”

  “Way to go, Tuff. Way to go.”

  Trunk’s gaze scanned the spectators. His eyes stopped when they spied a little, dark-haired woman wearing a coat pulled up over half her face.

  “Carla?” What about the bar? Did she close it to come to the game? Her gaze connected with his. He smiled and waved. She returned the greeting. Energy coursed through his veins at a hundred miles an hour. Trunk swore he could lift a car, he was so pumped.

  Kings were intercepted. Trunk ran back out on the field with Demson. This time, Demson went for the sack while Trunk kept an eye on Devon Drake. The Gator’s quarterback got a pass off, heading toward the receiver, shadowed by the Kings’ cornerback. Devon launched himself a split second before the receiver and snatched the ball from the air.

  He landed, untouched by a Gators player, jumped up, and ran toward the opposition’s goal line. Trunk changed direction, his legs working faster than ever before. His new speed paid off, and he came up a couple of yards behind Drake, just in time to take out a Gator attempting a tackle. Trunk went down with the linebacker, rolling over once, but unhurt.

  As he rose from the grass, he heard someone call out “Al!” He grinned. Carla. She shouldn’t watch. She’ll think I get hurt every play. He raised his arm to indicate he was okay, and the crowd cheered.

  Mary had never come to a game. She had thought football too violent and had said she worried too much about him getting hurt to watch. He didn’t believe it. The exhilaration of having someone in the stands rooting for you, someone you loved, grabbed his guts.

  Without that Gator to stop him, the speedier-than-light Devon Drake made it into the end zone a second before a beefy opponent took him down. Trunk stood and waited, watching. When Devon was slow to get up, the stands quieted. Trunk ambled over and put out his hand. The cornerback took it and rose to his feet. The crowd applauded as he walked slowly off the field.

  “You okay?”

  “Fucker knocked the wind out of me.”

  “Been there.” Trunk slapped his teammate on the back as they made their way to the bench. The Gators took the ball downfield, but were stopped short. They kicked for a field goal, and the score was fourteen to three.

  Trunk gulped orange juice at halftime, while he listened to the coach’s pep talk. The air had turned colder, and the men were tiring, fighting the temperature drop and the opposition.

  “We’ve got a great lead. If the defense can hold ’em, we can win, even if we don’t score again. I know it’s tough, especially in the cold, but give it everything you’ve got.”

  Al and Tuffer returned to the field with their teammates. The brief rest and liquids refreshed the men. Digging inside to find every ounce of strength they had left would be key to winning. The Gators were going to go the extra mile. This game was make it or break it for both teams. Winner goes on to the Super Bowl, loser goes home. Trunk vowed there was no way he was going home.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Trunk eased his aching, bruised body into the tub of hot water. He hissed as it hit the cut he’d received defending against the Gators. Hank Montgomery had patched him up on the field and sent him back in.

  The warmth soothed his aching muscles. As Trunk leaned back against the porcelain, he heard the door open. Carla entered, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs.

  She put the drinks down on a small table then retrieved something from the medicine cabinet. She pulled up a stool, took a washcloth, and sat down. “Okay, give it to me,” she said.

  “What?” He cocked an eyebrow at her.

  “That leg. The one with the cut
. Put it right here.” She tapped her hand on the rim. Trunk complied. She ripped off the old bandage quickly, taking some leg hair with it. He howled.

  “Don’t be a baby. Sit still.” She dunked the cloth in the water and soaped it up. Gently, she washed the large gash, rinsed it, and washed it one more time. She plucked a towel off the rack and dried the skin. Then, she applied an antibiotic ointment, gauze and taped the protection down. “That ought to do it.”

  “Thank you.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Thanks for coming. What did you do with The Beast?”

  “I closed it. I never get to see you play in person. I had to be there.”

  He kissed her hand again.

  “You were awesome. Like a man on fire. I was impressed.”

  He glanced down then met her gaze. She handed him a mug, his leg still resting on the tub edge to keep it dry. He shot her a questioning look.

  “Hot, mulled cider. This’ll warm your insides.”

  They sipped in comfortable silence. Carla washed his back then helped him get up, keeping the bandage dry. He wrapped a robe around himself and tied the sash. Together, they padded to the bedroom. The room was chilly. Al yanked a T-shirt on, and Carla did the same then they got into bed and pulled up the covers.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can give you any action tonight, baby.”

  She laughed. “I doubt you have an ounce of strength left. No worries.” She scooted down, pulling the blankets to her chin and cuddled up next to him. He rested an arm around her waist and closed his eyes. Peace flowed through him. The last thing he remembered before falling asleep was Carla saying, “Good night, my love. Next stop, the Super Bowl.”

  Trunk slept in the next morning. When he awoke at ten, the bed was empty. He hated waking up alone. It reminded him of Mary. His body ached, further souring his mood. He was like a bull, pawing the ground, looking for a fight.

  He snatched sweats from the chair and lumbered down the hall to the bathroom. The hot shower spray soothed his aching muscles. The sting from water hitting his cut jolted Al out of his sleepy haze. He peeled back the bandage and let the water cleanse the injury more, even though it hurt like hell.