Wide Open

by Tracey Ward

  He takes the hint.

  “Well,” he announces loudly, standing from his chair. “I’ll go see if I can scrounge some up.”

  “See if you can find some sandwiches while you’re at it,” Coach Allen tells him from deep under his yellow ball cap. “Snag some from the party if you have to.”

  “Why? We all ate.”

  “We did.” He points to me, Travis, and Les standing across the room. “They didn’t.”

  I grin at him mildly, gratefully. “We’re fine. Thank you, though.”

  The Coach grunts faintly, tugging his hat down farther.

  We wait and watch as they continue to sit around. As the clock keeps ticking.

  Finally I can’t take it.

  “Can I ask what you’re doing?” I question Coach Allen.

  He’s looking at me from under that bill, something I can feel more than see. I watch his chest rise sharply before he sits forward in his seat. “We’re killing time.”

  “Why?”

  “Just in case.”

  I frown, glancing around the room. No one is doing anything. The phones are silent; computers have all gone to screen savers. Someone is playing Frogger on their phone. It makes no sense.

  “Well, Doug, the thing about this Kodiak offense is that it looks solid but looks can be deceiving,” an announcer pontificates on the television.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean Trey Domata came into the league with a questionable hand injury. Colt Avery sustained a knee injury in college, one that came back to haunt him last season. And the most obvious, the most worrying, is Tyus Anthony. He was out twice last season with concussions. He’s a small player. Fast but small and when he gets caught it gets ugly. It’s only a matter of time before he takes a hit that injures him for a season, and then what happens? Who’s there to step up and fill his shoes?”

  “You’re thinking they’ll take another wide receiver.”

  “I think Coach Allen is smart enough to know he needs another slot receiver. He has spare wide receivers, but what he needs is a backup Tyus Anthony.”

  “You’re talking about Josh Ramsey.”

  “He’s a natural fit for the Kodiaks. He’s fast, he’s dynamic.”

  “He’s loud,” the older announcer reminds him. “He’s unapologetic. He’s another Duncan Walker, a player that we all know butted heads with Coach Allen more often than not.”

  “You put up with a little flare to get a player like Ramsey. He’s exactly what they need.”

  The TV falls silent. The men continue talking, their mouths moving excitedly as the debate heats up, but I can’t make out their words. I look back at Coach Allen to see him lowering the remote control. He sits back in his seat slowly, crossing his arms over his chest. He’s looking at me again.

  “They’re wrong,” he tells me quietly.

  “About what?”

  “About Ramsey.”

  “He’s not as loud as they say?”

  “No, he is. He’s an egotistical little shit. What they’re wrong about is putting up with him to get his talent. Duncan Walker was a one-man-show. He wasn’t a team player and it only takes one man like that to throw off an entire program. They’re an infection that breeds dissension. In baseball they call it a clubhouse cancer.”

  “And you’re not interested in catching it,” I finish for him.

  His responding laugh is dry, raspy, but it’s also strong. “I already beat it once. I’m too old to fight it again.”

  Coach Allen leans back in his chair to check the clock. Four minutes, thirty-two seconds.

  “No one is calling, Pete,” he announces. “Make the call.”

  Pete grabs a phone decisively, dialing a number with rehearsed speed.

  “Who were you waiting for a call from?” I ask Coach Allen.

  He stands, snatching his suit jacket off the back of his chair. He puts it on with a decisive shrug, gives one last glance to the television, and shakes his head.

  “Anyone.”

  I’m surprised when he leaves before the announcement is made.

  Someone turns the sound back up just as the commissioner makes his way to the podium again. Boos immediately fill the room.

  “He was waiting for a call from any of the other teams,” Travis whispers to me. “He waited to see if anyone would offer him a trade.”

  “A trade for what?”

  “Anything. A better player, a better option. Really, anything.”

  “He doesn’t want Ramsey, does he?”

  “No. But he might not have a choice.”

  “And what happens to Tyus Anthony if they pick up Josh Ramsey?”

  Travis gives me a look, one I know very well. One I remember from a terrifying night in Colombia when we heard trucks approaching in the dark. Footfalls on the muddy road. A look that told me exactly what would happen to us if they found us.

  Nothing good.

  “With the twenty-eighth pick in the NFL Draft, the Los Angeles Kodiaks select…”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  KURTIS

  “…Josh Ramsey. Wide receiver. University of Iowa.”

  The room erupts in applause. People whistle and cheer. Music starts pumping excitedly through the speakers as we watch Josh Ramsey strut out of the green room to the commissioner. He shakes his hand. He smiles as he takes his Kodiak jersey. His name isn’t on the back, though. Not yet. It’s a little thing that says a lot. It says he wasn’t the coach’s first choice. It says he was a last minute decision, and a reluctant one at that. And Ramsey knows it.

  I remember my Draft day. I was dead calm. Not because I’m like Domata, ice in my veins in any situation, but because I was cocky like Colt. I thought I was infallible. I thought I’d go first round, sign on with a team for millions of dollars, and start my unstoppable career that would skyrocket the rest of my life. I was all ego, but that night I still managed to be right just as much as I was wrong.

  I went first round.

  I signed on with the Kodiaks for seven million dollars.

  Everything else was bullshit.

  Most of my teammates are sitting around the room at tables with their families; eating, laughing, drinking. Hollis is here. He’s at a table with Trey and Colt, both of them flanked by their girlfriends. Trey is with Sloane - Colt’s agent, Hollis’ closest friend, and a bombshell of a blond beauty with a sailor’s mouth and balls bigger than mine. Next to Colt is Lilly – a sweet looking brunette with a whole lot of bite. She runs a bakery in town with her best friend, Rona, a girl I had a fling with last year. Lilly likes me as far as I can tell, but she’s never really let the Rona thing go. Her name is always hiding just on the tip of Lilly’s tongue whenever I talk to her. That’s why I do it as little as possible.

  There’s a seat next to her saved for me, one that has sat empty most of the night. It’s the only one at the table that’s been vacant all evening.

  Until now.

  Living your life on the fringe, you learn a thing or two about how to appear and disappear seamlessly, staying out of the way. You also learn how not to do it. You do not drunkenly sprint down the side of the room straight past the cameras. You do not trip over a chair, shout curses, and nearly knock down someone’s teenaged daughter sneaking a beer. And you sure as shit don’t wear a messy mask of rage and intent, leaving no secret as to where you’re going or what you’re doing. And yet despite all these mistakes, Tyus Anthony is able to slip from the room undetected by anyone but me.

  “Dammit,” I curse, hurrying after him.

  He’s running and he’s fast, but he’s drunk. He’s being sloppy. Once I’m out of the main room and clear of anyone’s eye line I’m able to kick it into high gear. My dress shoes slap against the carpet, slipping slightly with every step, and I think how convenient it would be for me if Tyus would just trip and eat shit. He’d be a lot easier to catch.

  I get a glimpse of him as he rounds a corner ahead of me, oblivious to the fact that he’s being followed. He’d pr
obably be running faster if he was, and still I contemplate shouting his name to let him know I’m here. The guy is easily four inches shorter than me, probably fifty pounds lighter, but he’s a brawler with a full head of steam. I’m not about to surprise him. I’m not looking to get punched tonight.

  I turn the corner leading down to the war room just as the door opens. Tyus is halfway there, well out of my reach, and someone is about to give him an open invitation to humiliation, penalties, fines, and possibly the end of whatever hope he has for salvaging his career.

  It’s a woman coming out of the room. Tall and curvaceous, her skin and hair a lustrous black, shockingly dark against her cream tank top and light gray slacks. My heart knows it before my head, slamming fervently in my chest at the sight of her.

  It’s Harper.

  A flood is unleashed inside me when I see her. It’s confused, conflicted. Hot and cold, angry and excited. I feel a million things but I don’t have a clue what to do with any of them so I stow them with the rest of my shit. With everything else about me that makes no damn sense.

  Harper hesitates with her hand on the door, her eyes going wide when she sees us running toward her. She blinks hard when she realizes it’s me. I don’t know if that’s good or bad. I need her to stop Tyus from getting inside the war room, and I don’t have a lot of hope she’ll help me. Still, I have to try.

  “Close the door!” I shout. “Don’t let him through!”

  Tyus looks over his shoulder in surprise. He’s shocked to find me behind him, which goes to show how wasted he is. He couldn’t even hear my feet running behind him. His shock turns to rage, then to surprise as he stumbles. He’s tripped himself up, but his reflexes are tight even if his reasoning has taken a nap.

  He rights himself, shouting at Harper, “Get out of my way!”

  I expect her to back away. To flatten herself against the wall, excusing herself from our situation. Two men are barreling down on her, yelling at her; the smart thing to do would be to distance herself.

  Instead she looks between Tyus and I one last time, her eyes holding mine for a brief moment before her mouth forms a determined line. She reaches inside the door, trips the lock, and slams it solidly shut.

  Tyus skids to a halt in front of her. “Open the fucking door.”

  “No.”

  “Now!”

  “Stop shouting,” she tells him evenly, unafraid.

  I slow when I reach them, circling Tyus patiently until I’m standing on his right, his weak side. He glances at me with a sneer on his lips before turning back to Harper.

  “Open the door,” he repeats.

  She holds her ground. “I won’t.”

  “Open it!”

  “Not even if I had a key.”

  “I’ll pound on that motherfucker until they let me in.”

  He makes a move toward the door. Toward Harper.

  I slide between them, blocking his path to her.

  “Watch yourself, man,” I warn him quietly. “Do you know who she is?”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  “You should. She’s the director of the documentary. And she’s listening to every word you say.”

  Tyus glares over my shoulder at her, murder in his drunken eyes.

  “Thanks for that,” Harper mumbles behind me.

  I turn my head toward her. “What do you want me to do? Lie? You’re the enemy here. He deserves to know that.”

  “’Enemy’ seems a little strong, don’t you think?”

  “You and your cameras could ruin his career right now,” I remind her bitingly. “As far as I’m concerned, ‘enemy’ is being polite.”

  “I wanna talk to Allen,” Tyus tells me, still staring at Harper.

  I shake my head at him. “Think it through, man. What are you gonna do when you get in there? Shout at Coach Allen? Make a scene? Make demands? That’s gonna land you in a worse position than you’re in now. That kid, Ramsey, he’s a hothead. Allen will hate that shit, same way he hated Walker. If you go in there acting like them, you may as well pack your bags tonight ‘cause you’re out.”

  Tyus breathes in roughly through is nose, his nostrils flaring angrily. “They brought in that son of a bitch to replace me.”

  “We have other wide receivers. You don’t know he’s your replacement.”

  “He’s a slot receiver. He’s fast. Almost as fast as me.” He releases a thick breath, running his hand over his face, removing a thin sheen of sweat from his skin. “He’s me five years ago.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re better than him and you’re gonna prove it. But first you’re gonna sober up and calm down.”

  “Not until I talk to Coach.”

  “Coach Allen isn’t in there,” Harper tells him, her voice smooth as silk. Calm and convincing. “He left before they made the call.”

  Tyus shifts on his feet, pointing at her viciously. “I ain’t talkin’ to you. Shut your mouth.”

  “Oh, okay,” she says sarcastically.

  I glance back at Harper. “Was Coach Allen angry when he left? Was he disappointed?”

  “Am I allowed to speak?”

  “Jesus Christ, answer the question. Was he upset?”

  “Yes,” she snaps back. “He waited for a call, for anything else to happen. Then he gave up and left.”

  “You hear that, Tyus? He was looking for an out. He didn’t want Ramsey. You know who probably did?”

  “Fucking Wilton.”

  I nod slowly in agreement.

  He glares up at me. “Then I’ll find Wilton.”

  “You’re not gonna go hunting down the General Manager. Not tonight. Not with all of these cameras here and not with your breath stinking of whiskey. Go home. Sober up. Talk to Allen tomorrow. Then, if you still want to, the two of you can go talk to Wilton together. But not like this, because this is suicide.”

  Tyus swallows hard. His shoulders loosen, his hands unclenching. He’s sweating again but his breathing evens out. Calms. He lowers his head, mumbling, “I gotta get the hell outta here.”

  “I’ll drive you home.”

  “Nah, man, I’ve got my—“

  “I’ll drive you home,” I repeat, making it clear I’m not asking. “Give me a second to do some damage control here, alright?”

  Tyus turns his back to me but he doesn’t fight me. His hands run over his smooth, shaved head. They lace together tightly around his neck as he walks slowly down the hall away from me. Away from us.

  I turn to look at Harper. She’s watching Tyus, her brow pinched in concern.

  “Thanks.”

  She looks up at me in surprise, like she’s shocked by the sentiment.

  That makes two of us.

  “For what?”

  “For listening to me about the door.”

  Her responding smile is so honest, so luscious, it nearly knocks me back a step. “Thanks for not making me regret it.”

  “Is he going to regret tonight?”

  “Probably. Judging by the smell of him, he’s going to regret tonight in the next hour or so.”

  “I don’t mean the alcohol.”

  Her smile fades, her face falling serious. “You mean the documentary.”

  “It’s why you’re here, right? To gather all the dirt you can get your hands on?”

  She doesn’t flinch against my criticism. She’s tougher than that. Smarter. It makes me like her even more, and that pisses me right the hell off.

  “You’re doing it again,” she warns me quietly. “You’re looking for allies in your war.”

  “So which is it? Are you my ally or my enemy?”

  “Did I lock the door or did I let him in with the cameras?” she shoots back.

  I shut my mouth because she’s shut me down. Fast and easy.

  She watches me like she’s waiting for something. When I don’t give it to her, she sighs. “Look, I know you don’t trust me, but I’m here to do a job and my job is to look for the truth. I’m not a monster. I’m not
from some rag searching for something salacious to print every week. The cameras didn’t catch this and while part of me regrets that because it’s real life and it’s honest, I’m not going to cry about it. I’ll ask Anthony about his reaction to the Draft selection when we have him in the chair, same as the rest of you, but otherwise I consider it off the record because I’m off the clock.”

  I stare down at her, surprised and unsure. “You’re here. How are you off the clock?”

  “Because I really have to pee,” she tells me bluntly, crossing her arms under her chest. Her full breasts strain the low neckline of her tank top, sending my blood flow hard south. “Monsters take bathroom breaks too, you know.”

  “You look pretty human for a monster.”

  “I’m hiding my horns in my hair.”

  “That’s a hell of a trick. Maybe you’re more devious than I thought.”

  She chuckles. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Then that’s how I’ll leave it.” I take a step back from her. “It was good to see you again, Harper.”

  “Was it, though?”

  I steal one last look at her. At her body and her beauty. Her eyes that hold me in place even as I try to turn away.

  “I’m not really sure.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  HARPER

  May 1st

  Gillette Stadium

  Foxborough, MA

  I lean back in my seat, idly tapping away at the laptop in front of me. It’s streaming Derrick’s footage of the Draft onto the white board across the darkened room, the sound turned off. It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing to hear.

  “Derrick is making me wait,” I complain into my phone.

  Travis grunts distractedly on the other end of the line. “It’s a power play. Ignore it.”

  “It’s a pain in the ass is what it is. I’ve been waiting for over thirty minutes.”

  “Did anyone offer you anything?”

  “Yeah, a chance to waste my Saturday in a dark cell.”

  Travis is suddenly on the alert when he demands, “He locked you in?”

  “It’s an expression.”

  “It’s not funny. Not where he’s concerned.”