Gunslinger: A Sports Romance

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  “Are you with the Carson group?” The bartender asks me.

  “Yes, how did you know?” The hotel is a big place.

  “There are three groups that have pretty much locked down all of the rooms in the hotel this weekend, and I don’t think that you belong to the other two.”

  I’m offended by her assumption that I couldn’t be with any other group in this hotel. What is she trying to say? Although I guess that’s what people do. Make assumptions about others based on limited information. I suppose I did the same thing to her.

  “I’m pretty sure your group went to the Galaxy Bar after dinner. That’s the lounge on the seventh floor.”

  Dammit, I’m in the wrong place.

  “Thanks,” I say curtly.

  When I motion to stand up from my stool, I feel loopy. Objects in the room are starting to wave and ripple, and suddenly I wish I was sitting on a chair that was a little lower to the ground and had a back to it.

  I’m going down.

  “Whoa there. Are you all right?”

  Two very tall and wide masses of grinning flesh steady me by the waist, and gratefully I don’t fall and split my head open.

  “Thanks guys,” I offer.

  Both guys start cracking up.

  “It was an easy save, Freshman. No problem.”

  “Why are you calling me that? I’m not in college anymore.”

  “Could have fooled me by the way that you drink.”

  “I just had a couple of drinks, Mr. Need To Mind Your Own Business. That goes for both of you.”

  “You’re cute.”

  “You’re blurry.”

  “Aww, you’re really twisted aren’t you?”

  “Twisted?”

  “Drunk.”

  “I don’t think so. Wouldn’t I be slurring?”

  “You are slurring,” one of them laughs.

  Another blurry mass yells from across the room, “Hey, man. Next round is on you!”

  “You and your friends are like gigantic. Look how they barely fit in the seats. I think they’re going to break the couches over there,” I giggle.

  I can’t stop laughing.

  “You want another drink, Freshman?”

  I may be tipsy, but I’m not stupid.

  “So you can have some sort of ménage with me? Uh, I think not.” I frown.

  That gets me a huge laugh.

  “First of all there’s only one of me standing in front of you right now, and secondly I like my women sober, so they can at least remember my name when they call it out. I just wanted to buy you a drink, because I’m celebrating and evidently I’m also paying for everyone’s third round in here.”

  “Celebrating what?”

  “I just got dumped.”

  I don’t know why anyone would celebrate that. Hell, at this point I’m still trying to figure out why I still see two of him.

  “So you’re sure you’re not a twin?”

  “Damn, you’re cute in your little corporate suit, but this is bad timing. I’ve officially sworn off women.”

  For a moment I feel woozy and when I dip a little to the left on my stool, he quickly places his enormous hands back around my waist and saves me from another near death experience.

  “Did you eat today, Freshman?” he asks with concern.

  I usually eat six little meals a day, but at this point I’m sure I’ve missed at least two of them. I didn’t eat anything at the dinner tonight, so my stomach is probably empty. Maybe I didn’t think this drinking alcohol thing completely through.

  “I may have skipped a meal.”

  The big guy doesn’t sit down but continues to stand behind me, still holding me by the waist, and speaks closely by my ear. If I wasn’t so tipsy, it would be very sexy.

  No wait, it is sexy.

  “These are the basic rules to getting shit-faced, Freshman. You listening?”

  I nod my head silently.

  “Good girl. All right, so you need to eat before you drink. That’s very important. You should drink the same alcohol all night. No mixing vodka with tequila. No red cups ever. Even at an office party. Pace yourself with glasses of water in between drinks. And never drink alone. That only leads to trouble.”

  “I like rules,” I say not even fully processing everything he’s said. “Rules are good.”

  “I see that.” Is what I think he murmurs in response.

  The bartender interrupts us by asking my new bar mate for his order. I find it amusing that when she talks to blurry guy that she seems to crack a smile. At least I think that’s what she’s doing. She’s baring teeth at least.

  “Can I get you something?”

  Oh my God, is she being flirty with them? I mean him.

  “I’ll have another of whatever is on tap and drunky over here will have a nice tall glass of ice water.”

  “Hey!” I protest being called a drunk as well as his choice of drink for me. “I don’t like water.”

  “Drink it anyway. I want to stop holding you on this stool. I’m sick of standing.”

  Humph. “Fine.”

  He sits on the stool next to me, spreads his massive legs apart, and pulls my stool forward in between them while holding my hips to keep me steady.

  “So tell me. What’s got you so upset that you’ve taken to the bottle? It’s obvious to the average idiot that you don’t do this often if ever.”

  Something about the warm tequila flowing through my veins and the vibes that blurry guy gives off, gives me the courage to discuss my dismal love life. I’ll never see this guy again, and there’s a sliver of a chance that he could actually help, so I talk. It’s hard though, because I have to make sure to focus on only one of them.

  “There’s a guy.”

  “Go on.”

  “He’s here.”

  “Where?”

  “In the hotel. We’re on our annual retreat.”

  “Oh so you work with him?”

  “Yes. He’s new.”

  “Okay, and?”

  I take a chug of my ice water. It’s actually refreshing, because the alcohol has me practically sweating like a pig.

  “And he doesn’t know I exist.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “It’s true.”

  “That’s why you’re upset?”

  “We were just in a dinner meeting before I came here. We were all doing team-building exercises. He didn’t want to team up with me. I could tell. I might’ve said a few things to embarrass myself after that. Then I ran out.”

  “Paranoid much?”

  “He either didn’t want to team up with me, or I’m invisible to him.”

  “Are there a lot of other women on the team?”

  “A few.”

  “Young like you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well there you go. There are too many distractions for the poor guy. I know the feeling well. You’re going to have to figure out how to get some one-on-one time with Mr. Clueless.”

  I squint my eyes. “Are you positive you don’t have a twin brother?”

  “No,” he chuckles. “Do you still see two of me?”

  He waves his hand directly in front of my face.

  “Yes,” I say emphatically. “And you both have identical black eyes.”

  “Drink more water. When the good Lord made me, he broke the mold. So I guarantee that you should only be seeing one of me as well as one black eye courtesy of my brother over there.”

  I take another big gulp of my water.

  “Why should I take your dating advice anyway? You just got dumped.”

  “The reason why you should take advice from me is because it works. It’s how my bitch of an ex snagged me. She made sure to get my attention first, and then went in for the kill.”

  “Why did she dump you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You should go after her.”

  “I started to, but then I changed my mind.”

  “If you loved
her, you would have gone after her.”

  “Love shouldn’t take that much work, Freshman.”

  “Maybe you weren’t romantic enough. Women love romance.”

  “Who needs romance when she has this to wake up to every morning.”

  “The two of you think very highly of yourselves.”

  “Still seeing double huh,” he snickers. “I think you better call it a night, Freshman.”

  “I was on my way to the seventh floor. I don’t want to just go to bed without saying something to him. I ran out of the room like a complete moron today.”

  “Can I be honest with you?”

  “You mean you weren’t honest before?”

  “Men are dumb, but we ain’t stupid. Trust me when I say that he knows exactly who you are already, and if he were the least bit interested he’d have his eyes on you right now. He’d be in this bar right now. The fact that he isn’t here tells me that he’s not the guy for you.”

  “He should be chasing me but you shouldn’t be chasing your fiancée?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I think you’re wrong. He’s the perfect guy for me.”

  “There’s no such thing, Freshman. My parents come damn near close to the perfect couple, and they still have their issues. There is no perfect guy. Only the right guy.”

  His words are starting to fade, as I try to keep my eyes open. I am ten seconds away from sprawling out on this floor and catching a nap.

  “I’m soooo sleepy.”

  “What room are you in?”

  “I dunno. 342 or maybe 324.”

  He laughs at my confusion and the next thing I know I’m seven feet in the air.

  “Wait–”

  “Quiet. I’m making sure you get to your room safely. My cousin Ben is starting to give you the hungry eye over there.”

  “The hungry eye?”

  “Yeah, like he wants to eat you for dessert. Literally.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Where’s your key card?”

  “My suit pocket. Just make sure he doesn’t see me like this.”

  “Who, my cousin?”

  “No, Jason, the new guy.” I say drowsily.

  I do my best to keep my eyelids open in case I need to cry for help. I’m breaking all of my personal safety protocols by allowing a complete stranger to carry me in an elevator and up to my room; but I’m no match for the deep sleep that the alcohol is placing me under, although I stay alert just long enough to hear a garbled promise that I hope is kept.

  “Don’t worry, Freshman. I’ve got you.”

  SAINT

  Sweat and salt dripping down my blazing hot back.

  Chunks of the earth underneath my fingernails.

  The gritty taste and texture of fresh turf in-between my teeth.

  Football is what I eat, shit, and breathe.

  I’ve been playing the game my entire life, and I’ve played with sprained ankles, broken ribs, jammed fingers, sore Achilles tendons, and black eyes; but the one thing that I’ve never gotten used to is tossing the ball around in ninety degree heat with a helmet and pads on. I hate that shit. I’d rather play in the snow any day.

  I come from a lineage of professional football players. Football royalty is what they call us. The Stevenson Family. My father played the game. My uncle. My cousin. My older brother currently plays in the league, and so do I. I’m sure if I have any sons, they’ll be expected to play as well. It’s what we love. It’s what we do. It’s who we are.

  Every fall as a kid I played football for my high school, but every summer it was a requirement that my brother Michael and I play in our family’s football camp a.k.a. our summer league for kids with high football IQs and professional potential. It’s called the Stevenson Summer Combine and it’s a big deal. Any kid who doesn’t play football for a highly visible high school program wants to come to our camp to hopefully be noticed by scouts. Our family is well connected, but it’s no picnic. We played all day, everyday, and every summer at that camp whether we wanted to or not. Whether we’d rather be riding bikes or eating water ice because it was so hot. It was our duty as Stevensons to be there.

  Football is our legacy.

  In those days we played on some of the hottest, humid Philadelphia summer mornings straight through to the late afternoons. I remember feeling many times like I was going to keel over and pass out. Luckily my older brother Michael knew when I was about to eat rocks, and made sure to pour a pint of Gatorade down my throat, before I met my maker.

  That’s exactly the same way I feel now. Blazing hot, and a bit nauseous, but I can’t totally blame the heat for it. If I’m going to be totally honest, I haven’t been sticking to my usual clean diet of protein and veggies. I ate crap and drank more beer than I should’ve last night, because I felt like wallowing. Hell, I deserve to wallow. I’m in a miserable situation.

  Last year my team, The New York Nighthawks, finished second to last place in the league. The year before that we were dead last. The year before that? Hell, I don’t even like to think about my rookie year. We sucked balls. And right this very minute, we don’t look any fucking better than we did last season. Which is nuts because …

  I’m the franchise player.

  The star.

  I put butts in the seats and pay the bills around here. So why is my team complete trash? I’ll tell you why. I don’t have any support. I’m getting my ass kicked out here week after week, and nobody in the head office is doing anything about it. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to diagnose what the problem is. I see it. My father sees it. The fans see it too.

  Management needs to concentrate on working the kinks out of my offensive line. Unfortunately to stay well under the team’s salary cap, our penny pinching owner has secured all these wet behind the ear rookies or broken down veterans that the coaching staff seems to be struggling to put in place to protect me out there on the field. It’s even more critical now because we’ve finished the pregame season, and now we’re about to enter into the regular season, and they still don’t have it figured out.

  Unfortunately that’s always been the biggest problem here in New York. Finding the right players at the right price point to protect me every Sunday, because I get sacked more than any other quarterback in the league, and that shit is no fun. When commentators throw out my stats in a broadcast it sounds as if I’m the worst quarterback to have ever played the game, and that I don’t know my ass from my elbow. But that’s far from the truth.

  I’m the shit.

  I was the number one draft pick.

  I won the Heisman Trophy.

  I’ve been raised to dominate and to win. So I definitely know how to avoid my opponents when I’m on the field, but the fact remains that I need time to throw the ball. It’s that simple. Football 101. You can’t blame me if management can’t do their jobs, and pay five good men more money then they’ve ever seen in their lives to protect me and give me time to throw the damn ball.

  “Stevenson!”

  “Yes, coach.”

  “Meet the new guy. We’re putting him in place of Wachowski.”

  That’s just great. Ten minutes ago my tight end got trampled, and the backup is suspended because of a drug violation; so now after halftime, I’m going to be thrown in the middle of the goddamn game with a tight end I’ve never met before.

  I realize that injuries and last minute replacement of players is part of the game, but I still hate that shit. I’m having a hard enough time establishing chemistry with the players that I already know.

  “Pleasure, man,” the new guy says eagerly.

  I reluctantly shake hands with this big ass, grinning, muscle-head who appears to be my new tight end. I don’t feel like meeting this kid right now, because we’re losing and I’m pissed. Plus I don’t feel like making pleasantries, or getting friendly with new players. He may not make the cut. Then I’ve gotten all attached for nothing. I learned that hard lesson my rookie year in the league. Nobody’s job is safe
. Everyone is expendable.

  “What’s up,” is all I mange to say in response.

  I’m not trying to have a full blown conversation with the new kid, when we only have a few minutes to figure out how the hell we’re going to get the ball into the end zone next quarter.

  “Followed you when you played for Capitol City, man. I’m a real fan.”

  “Thanks.”

  I don’t really like talking about my time at my alma mater, Capital City College. Mainly because I was a winner there. A phenom as the papers often described me. And people often compare my performance there to my performance now. Which can be best described as not winning.

  “Cooper’s got the goods,” Coach says with confidence. That’s unusual for him to speak so highly of someone who’s brand spanking new to the team, but I’ve been sold the same bullshit before. So I’m not going to even get my hopes up.

  “Excellent,” I respond with faux enthusiasm. “We need someone on this team besides myself who has the goods.”

  “Looking forward to helping out,” Cooper says then he walks away towards the rest of the team who’s waiting to hear our usual halftime strategy slash pep talk. I say usual because it seems like we’re always losing after the second quarter, and therefore always getting these types of motivational speeches.

  Yet that shit never seems to work.

  I pause for a moment to myself, thinking that I may have come off as a bit of an arrogant asshole to the new guy, but he’ll just have to understand. It’s just my frustration talking. The press has been ripping me a new one over the last two seasons and it’s been taking its toll.

  I feel the weight of each and every season on my back and it’s heavy like a motherfucker. When we lose, and we lose a lot, everyone looks at me as if this shit is not a team sport. As if it’s all on me. They say I don’t protect the ball. That my arm is not as powerful or accurate as it used to be. They say I don’t play like I want to win. As if I don’t want a championship ring when that’s all I want. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. It just seems so far out of my grasp right now. I can’t seem to see a bright light at the end of this loserville tunnel.

  “Stevenson!”