"Really?" I ask. I'm surprised. I didn't think he would want to jump into the fire that quickly.
Duncan nods. "Really. If we are going to be us, then I guess we need to get it over with sometime or another. As for my father, I don't give a damn if he ever meets you. For now, he's done with my life until he reaches out to me."
After the call, which had none of the rancor that I thought it would, Duncan sits back and smiles. "See, not so bad?"
I nod and give him a kiss. "Nope, I think the most difficult part of moving in with you is going to be the next part."
"Which is?"
"Stopping kissing you long enough to actually get some studying done. We've both got class tomorrow, remember?"
The next day, I go to the student union during lunch, where I meet up with Coach Taylor. "Hey, Carrie. It's good to see you."
"Thanks, Coach. Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice. I know you're busy."
He shakes his head and cracks open a can of coffee flavored pre-mixed protein shake, a disgusting concoction that only a guy like Coach could love. "No problem, Carrie. You're looking good. You keeping up with your work?"
I nod. "The regular gym sucks compared to what the weight room is like, but I can still get something done there. Like you say, if it has a barbell and a squat rack, you can get work done. I'll be truthful, though. I can't wait to get back down in the basement with everyone."
"Yeah, a lot of folks are telling me the same thing. Alicia is about ready to go to the Honor Board and beg them to hurry up. Since you've been suspended, she's rolled her ankles twice."
I sit back and shake my head, chuckling. "You and I both know that it's more due to bad luck than anything. Who was taping her up?"
"Freddie Maxwell. He knows what he's doing. In fact, I'm giving him a letter of recommendation when he graduates. But yeah, Alicia's about ready to kill him." Coach Taylor takes a long drink of his protein shake and grows serious. "By the way, Chelsea quit the program. Bunch of rumors swirling about that one."
"I bet. I can't say I'm upset about that, though. You know, since she lied about what I did . . . let's not go there though. I sent you an email because I'd like your advice."
"Advice is always free for you," Coach says. "At least, monetarily. What's up?"
"Well, let's say, hypothetically, of course, that someone wanted to do some home-based rehabilitation on an injured elbow."
Coach sees right through me. "Like, say, a biceps tendon that is seventy-five percent torn and a nearly fully-torn anterior band?"
"Something like that. Not quite a Tommy John surgery candidate, but certainly someone who needs to go under the knife."
"But who refuses to for another three weeks or so. Well tell me, Carrie. You're pretty smart. What would you have this person do?"
"Mostly range of motion work, lots of contrast treatment, and in their sport, limited contact along with a limited range of motion brace. Once the swelling goes down in the elbow, light work, mostly to retain as much of the overall body muscle as possible without stressing the injured joint."
Coach Taylor nods and sits back. "My prognosis exactly. Now, if you had access to an ultrasound machine, I'd add that in, but most houses don't have that. Even ones in the Vista."
I nod somberly. "Think we can keep this under our hats?"
"Unless someone makes a direct request, sure. What you do with your boyfriend in his apartment is none of my business."
"Our apartment now. I'm moving my stuff this week."
Coach Taylor nods and gives me a smile. "Congrats. I know I warned you about him way back when, but I'm happy to have been wrong in this case. And don’t worry, Duncan will get the best treatment Western can provide."
Chapter 19
Duncan
For most of the guys, being away from home for Christmas week is hell. Some of them have always gone home for Christmas, and until this year, Western's been lucky, getting December 31st or January 1st games, giving everyone at least a chance to eat dinner and open presents with the family. So for a lot of the team, it's strange being in Tampa for a football game. Then again, we're getting a longer Christmas break because of it since our vacation isn't being interrupted by football practice. We just start later than most students.
Personally, though, I don't really mind. Christmas for most of my life has been just another day, perhaps with some presents thrown in, but no real feeling behind them. But when you can buy pretty much anything you want, except the attention of your father, Christmas and those presents are mostly meaningless.
This Christmas is different, however, in that I have Carrie. She went home to spend the holiday itself with her parents, and while I miss her, we can't spend the nights together the way we want anyway. We're in a team hotel, after all.
"Merry Christmas, Duncan!"
"Merry Christmas, beautiful," I say into my computer. I made sure to bring my laptop along with me, and the hotel has a good enough Wi-Fi connection. "How are things?"
"Dad's relaxed some," Carrie says, pointing toward her right, "especially after that back massager you got him for a present."
"Oh, did I put the wrong tag on that? That was supposed to be a, ahem, 'massager' for your mom."
"Duncan Hart!" I hear off-screen, and Carrie leans back, laughing. I join in as Vince sticks his head in the screen. "Tell me you did not just say that!"
"Sorry, Mr. Mittel," I apologize, still laughing. "I couldn't help it. Carrie's laughter was too worth it to worry about you being upset."
"Well, okay then. By the way, we saw you on TV today. Nice interview."
"Thanks. I felt like an idiot the whole time." I did, too. It’s something I've been surprised with, as I've gone through finding the new me. I've gone from being a glory hound camera hog to being a bit shy in interviews. I guess when you can't hide behind talking shit, it's a lot more difficult. "So did I look okay?"
"You looked amazingly handsome," Carrie says, smiling. "I'm looking forward to seeing you play tomorrow. How's the arm?"
"As good as it could be," I answer, flexing it for her approval. "The team docs shot me up with a cortisone injection two hours ago, so it hurts like hell right now, but it'll feel much better tomorrow. At least until the pounding starts."
Carrie nods, and Vince sticks his head in again, taking a seat. "Duncan, are you really sure about this? I mean, Carrie explained to me why you're doing it, but it still seems awfully risky."
"It might be, but it’s what I want to do."
Vince strokes his chin and nods. “Well, I guess it’s your choice. Still, be careful out there. I'd prefer if my daughter's boyfriend spends as little time in the hospital as possible, okay? She's already talked my ear off for three days about all her ideas for your rehab after your surgery."
I laugh, and my stomach rumbles. "Deal. Hey, my stomach is kicking me for missing the team lunch—because of the interview, in fact—so I'm going to have to take off soon to find some grub."
Carrie smiles and nods. "We're going to be sitting down in a couple of hours ourselves. How about we catch up after the game?"
“Sounds like a plan,” I say, and Vince looks at his daughter before giving her a kiss on the cheek.
"Okay, I see you two want to share your goodbyes, and you don't need some old man getting in the way. We'll be watching tomorrow, Duncan. Good night."
Vince leaves the camera, and Carrie and I just look at each other for a little bit. "I've missed you," she finally says, smiling.
"My arms have felt pretty empty too. Have they asked you about it?"
"Mom refuses to acknowledge it. She just asks if my bedroom at the apartment is comfortable or not. Dad . . . he's totally avoided it. You know how it is. There's a part of them that knows, but it's like Schrödinger’s Cat. As long as the question isn't answered, their daughter both is and isn't sleeping with her boyfriend."
"We were raised totally different. Maybe just because I'm a guy. I don't know, but I can guess. Carrie . . . I lo
ve you."
"I love you too. And thank you for the present. I was actually a good girl and waited until Christmas day to open it, too. It's beautiful."
"Are you wearing it now?" I ask, and Carrie nods. "Show me?"
She reaches into her shirt and pulls out the white gold necklace with a gleaming emerald chip in the center. The chain is a simple link chain, and the emerald is small. I didn't want to overwhelm her with a huge stone, and besides, it fits Carrie's personality. "I wear it next to my skin always. All right, I’ll let you go grab something to eat, Duncan. I love you."
“Goodnight, Carrie. Love you.”
She hangs up, and I close my computer and go downstairs. It only took us saying the L word once, and after we did, neither of us can stop. The restaurant for the hotel is open until midnight, and while I'm not looking for anything heavy, a good Caesar salad or something might do the trick until tomorrow's team breakfast.
When I get downstairs, I'm crossing the lobby when I hear someone call my name. "Duncan! Wait up, son!"
I stop, shocked. Turning, I see Dad walking quickly across the lobby, a huge smile on his face. "Duncan! Good to see you!"
"Dad? What are you doing here?" I ask, confused. "Aren't you supposed to be back in Cali?"
"I realized that this is going to be your last game in college, and well, I also realized that I couldn't get another chance to see you play college ball, so I made the trip down. I know it's a bit of a surprise, but I was kind of hoping . . . well, I was kind of hoping you'd be willing to have dinner with me."
“Um, sure . . . I guess. I was just going to get a salad here in the restaurant."
We go to the restaurant, where the wait staff seats us immediately. I'm wearing my Western track suit, which gives us pretty much carte blanche in service, and as we sit down, I notice that Dad's looking at my arm. He's looking thinner than before, showing his middle age for the first time. "How's the elbow? I read about your injury."
"I'll make it. I've already scheduled the surgery for December 30th. That'll give me just over eight weeks to rehab for the Combine, but I'll probably pass on that for a Pro Day at school in March, if I can."
Dad hums and looks over the menu. The waitress comes by, and I order a chicken Caesar while he orders the pork chops with hummus. After the waitress leaves, I take a sip of my water. "So when did you get into town?"
"Just a few hours ago," he replies, giving me a shrug. He sounds different too, it seems. Nervous, or just stressed. I wonder if Tawny's left him. I mean, I didn't even get a chance to meet her yet. "I just closed a deal, but I wanted to make sure that I got here in time. Duncan, I know I haven't been the most attentive father, but I do care about how you're doing. It hurt that you didn't at least give me a call when you got injured. I only found out because of cable sports."
"No offense, but you haven't exactly given a damn about my playing for about the past six years or so. I was talking about it with Carrie the other week, and I realized the last game of mine you ever saw was my freshman year in high school. You didn't even go to the Shrine Game."
Dad nods, then sighs. "I know. It's been tough, that's all. It's why I need your help."
"My help? What the hell type of help could I give you?"
Dad looks around, and leans in closer. "Duncan, I haven't exactly been honest about my finances. After the Cupertino Mafia started really going lawsuit happy, I got hammered in a lot of deals. To finance this most recent one, I had to take out some loans."
"Okay, big deal. You've done that before."
He shakes his head and sighs. "These weren't with a bank, Duncan. The banks won't extend me any more credit. Between maintaining Tawny's lifestyle, my own image, and everything else, I'm tapped to the gills. And this deal, it might not pay off for six months or more. So I went to some men I know in San Francisco. They loaned me the money, on a few conditions."
"What conditions?" I ask, a sense of dread washing over me. If he’s broke, what the hell have I been paying for my lifestyle with for the past year or more? Credit cards that aren't getting paid? Wishes and rainbows? Unicorn piss? What?
"These men, they made a deal with me. They put a very large sum of money on the Sunshine Bowl, and if their bet pays off, then my markers are wiped clean. If not, they collect. Everything."
I sigh, shaking my head. "You're fucking kidding me."
Dad shakes his head now, his eyes intense. "Duncan, I mean it. Everything. The house, the cars, everything that isn't paid in full already. The banks are screaming for my neck, and the San Francisco men are only going to give me the money to get them off my ass if they collect on their bets. So I need you to help me out. Western needs to lose."
"You want me to throw the game?" I ask, horrified. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"
"Son, I'm not saying you need to really throw it . . . just, don't do as well as you might," he says. "You already have a banged up elbow, so just don't go as hard as you might normally. Think about it. An injured performance won't hurt your pro prospects, and you can take it easy, reduce your chance of injury."
I don't know what to say. Seven years of ignoring my football, and now he wants me to throw a game? Never mind that if I do, and it's discovered, I get banned from the game forever. I shake my head, trying to comprehend how I ever called this man my father. "Excuse me. I need to go."
The waitress is approaching the table, so I stop her and ask for my salad to be sent to my room. Dad starts to get up, then stops when I point at him, gesturing down with my finger. I leave the restaurant and go out into the lobby, leaving the hotel and sitting out by the pool. I need someone to talk to. There are so many thoughts whirling in my head. Thankfully, my phone is in my pocket, and I pull it out, dialing from memory.
"Hello? Duncan?"
Carrie's voice is a balm to my mind, and I let out a shuddering breath. "Yeah, it's me. Sorry, I know we just got off, but I had to call."
"Aww, how sweet," Carrie purrs. "What's up? You sound troubled."
"I just ran into Dad," I say, finding a chaise lounge chair and sitting down. The pool is lit right now, the water swirling in patterns of light in the night, casting weird little swirling beams all around. "He says he came to watch the game."
"That's a good thing, isn't it?" Carrie asks. "So why don't you sound happy?"
“He wants me to throw the game. Apparently, he owes a lot of money to some men in San Francisco . . . and not exactly the sort of men who wait to collect their debts."
Carrie hums, then clucks her tongue. "Let me ask you—in your entire life, what has remained pure, unsullied?"
"You," I immediately reply, and Carrie's warm hum helps me relax a little.
"Thank you, but I'm hardly pure, and in the grand scheme of things, you haven’t really known me that long. What else?"
"Football," I answer, seeing what she's trying to say. "It's always been pure."
"Then keep it that way. Duncan, you're a man now that you weren't even six months ago. You're a man that I'm proud to love. Be that man. You know what to do."
I do. I know exactly what to do. "Thank you, Carrie. I . . . I think I should go do that now, and go get some sleep. Thank you."
"Sleep well. I love you."
"I love you too. Good night."
I go upstairs, to the fifth floor of the hotel. There are ten rooms per floor in the hotel, and this one is just for the coaches and university staff. I go to room 503, Coach Bainridge's room, and raise my hand, knocking. "Yes?"
"Coach? It's Duncan Hart. I have to talk to you about something."
My elbow's killing me. I swear, every drive, I'm getting hit in the arm at least once. The defensive ends are even using the elbow against me when I try to block them, pushing my left elbow across my body to torque it, putting more pressure on it. It's not a dirty move. It's the same move I use to get a linebacker or defensive back off me to run routes, but it still hurts all the time.
If there's any saving grace, it's that my biceps tendon isn't get
ting strained. Most of playing tight end is pushing, not pulling, and my triceps and chest are more important than my biceps for that. Still, the biceps is used when I catch, if anything, to pull the catch in and to cradle it against my body.
"How's it feeling?" Tyler asks, sweat dripping off his face. Two minutes left in the second quarter, and it's still a tight game. We're playing Georgia A&M, and they're a tough bunch of Southern boys. To our disadvantage, they are also used to this heat and humidity, and we're not. December, and it's still eighty-two degrees and nearly ninety percent humidity. What the hell? At least it's not trying to play them in August.
"I'll live," I hiss, flexing the arm. I took a punch to the elbow that last play, and I'm aching. “Let’s just play.”
I line up in slot and square myself for the jarring impact I'm going to need to deliver. GAM has been playing me man to man all night, making me use my arm as much as possible.
The ball snaps, and I yank, pulling the cornerback forward with my right arm. He doesn't expect it, and I'm off, running ten yards before crossing with our split end and turning to look for the pass. I've got a step, and Tyler puts it in my hands perfectly. I take off up the field, just inside the sideline, and cut back when I see the GAM safety coming on a pursuit angle. A juke move, and I'm past him, angling across the field for the last ten yards and going in untouched for the touchdown. I toss the ball to the ref and exchange shoulder smacks with my teammates.
"That's what I've been looking for!" Tyler yells. "Damn right, baby!"
"Let's keep it going next half," I respond. "I want the damn record. What's this bowl's record for TD catches?"
"Fuck if I know. But we'll go for it anyway."
Unfortunately for us, GAM isn't as accommodating as we'd like, and after a short three and out drive by us to start the third quarter, GAM starts to eat up the clock by grinding out yardage in short, brutal chunks, three and four yards at a time. Their linemen have that farmer strength, big 'hosses' that can grind it three and four yards at a time over and over and over. They pound it out for a touchdown, and we're behind again, with ten minutes left in the fourth quarter.
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