"Okay, you can lift off. Time starts when the bar descends for the first time," Coach Taylor, who's scoring and running this event, says. Carrie gets onto the spotter's platform and helps me set the bar up in my hands, giving me a confident nod as we get the bar into position. I'm locked, and I start.
I've worked the bench a lot over the past few weeks, and I focus on making each rep perfect, lifting and lowering the 225 pounds exactly to form. The burn starts right about rep twelve, the fire spreading up my triceps from my elbows to my shoulders, and then across my chest. I'm trying to use my back even to help squeeze the bar and pin my elbows, trying to keep it as tight as possible, and forget about the count. Carrie's looking into my eyes, her brown gaze letting me set aside the pain for a moment, and I squeeze out three more before the bar pauses, and she catches it, guiding it into the safety catches.
"Thirty-two," Coach Taylor says. "Better than anyone at the Combine!"
I'm gasping for air, but glad. I have fifteen minutes, then the one non-standard event for our Pro Day. At the urging of Coach Taylor, I'm going to do a deadlift demonstration, putting my left arm in the greatest strain I could place it in, just so everyone sees that my elbow is of no concern. The bar is set up, and I see that seven teams have their scouts watching.
The idea is grueling, and straight out of Coach Taylor's strongman days. Starting with 315 pounds, I lift the bar once, then on command, set it down, where Carrie and Coach T put a twenty-five-pound plate on each side. I lift again, set it down, and the process repeats itself.
I work my way up to 465, and I can hear the scouts whispering to themselves. I'm getting into the heavy territory, where a lot of tight ends fail. I'm tall, with long legs. I'm not built for this like Coach T is. It doesn't matter.
Finally, at 615, I have to hitch the bar up, and I set it down, the demonstration finished. My lower back and hands feel like someone just coated them in napalm and set them on fire, but I'm happy with the looks in the scouts’ faces.
"Damn good job, son," one of the scouts says as he leaves. "Hope you saved something to run routes though."
Tyler's also nervous, but we've got five receivers and me running for him. He's got plenty of options, and I've got plenty of rest in between reps. The cuts are sharp, my extension is good, and by the end of our demonstration, including Tyler hitting me with a very nice forty-yard-long heave, I'm happy. We nailed it.
The first thing I do after the last toss is grab Carrie in a hug, lifting her up and swinging her around. She's been just as nervous as I have. I've seen it in her face. She even threw up this morning because she was so nervous, something I'd never expect her to do, but now, she's just as happy as I am. "You did it, Duncan! You were amazing!"
"No. We did it," I tell her, setting her down. “I could’ve never done it without you.”
Before Carrie can say anything, a man coughs politely behind us. "Excuse me, Duncan?"
I turn to see a man in his forties, maybe about two inches shorter than me, one of the scouts from the Pro Day. He's wearing a Jacksonville Wildcats jacket, and I remember him from the deadlift demonstration. He was the one who asked if I still had something left to run routes with. "Yes, how can I help you, sir? I hope I did well enough for the Wildcats to feel I didn't waste your time."
"Waste our time?" the scout asks with a laugh. “That was one of the most impressive Pro Day performances I've seen in eighteen years of doing this gig. By the way, I'm Scott Browning, head of scouting for the Jacksonville Wildcats."
"It's a pleasure, Mr. Browning. This is my girlfriend and trainer, Carrie Mittel."
Carrie shakes hands with Browning, who beams. "You helped him prepare for this? You must be good."
"Thank you, Coach Taylor," Carrie says demurely. "He's the one who taught me so much."
"Duncan, I wanted to come by and congratulate you on a hell of a workout, and I was wondering . . . what would you say to playing in Jacksonville next year?"
I stop, blinking. "The Wildcats? Really?"
Browning nods. "Really. We got ourselves a hell of a deal a while back in a trade with Seattle. You may remember it. We got Troy Wood, and the way it fell out, the Hawks’ first round draft pick in this draft. On the bad side, we had to give up our best wide receiver and a right tackle. Still, it was enough to get us to the Wild Card round of the playoffs, and this year, the coaches are telling me to look for offensive talent. I was thinking, if you're still on the board, that is, on using that number nine draft pick we've got to pick you. What do you say?"
I look at Carrie, who nods.
I laugh and look back to Browning. "I'd say if you do, I'll be happy to sign with the 'Cats."
"Great. Now, that's not formal. I still need to talk to the GM and coaches, but I swing a little weight around there. If you can, keep your schedules clear, and the team will probably want to fly you down to Florida for some interviews, see how you mesh with everyone. Say, Spring Break time?"
I nod, then hold up a finger. "One request, Mr. Browning. Think you can make it two tickets? Carrie trained me, and she should get a chance to go too."
Browning smiles while Carrie looks at me in happy surprise. "I think we can arrange that. I'll be in touch, Duncan. Great work today."
Chapter 22
Carrie
I've been to the campus health clinic before. I mean, almost every girl has. Even after Duncan and I first made love, I still came down here, just to get checked. Duncan knew about that. He did it himself, too, and we both had a laugh over exchanging our test results after they came back. Call it the reality of sex in the twenty-first century.
But now I'm nervous. When my period was late, I hoped that it was because of all the extra workouts I've been doing. I've always been a bit irregular when I work out hard. But for the week since Duncan's Pro Day, I've been relaxing, catching up on my school work, and ramping down my workouts.
At least, my weight room ones. Duncan and I have made love every night the past week, and my body aches pleasantly with everything we've done.
Today, though, I can't wait any longer. I need the peace of mind, or at least an answer. Duncan's in class for the morning, and I've got a kinesiology class in an hour, so this is the perfect time to come get checked out.
The volunteer nurse who takes my information looks bored, like she's done this all before, and most likely, she has. I mean, Western's got about thirty thousand students between all the different programs, more than my entire hometown, and that's a lot of people in the middle of their sexual blossoming.
"Let's just check. You're not worried about an STD test, correct?"
"Yes," I answer. "We've been monogamous for around six months, and we've both been tested in that time."
The nurse shrugs and checks a box on her form. "Okay. Have you taken a pregnancy test before? It's not hard, but if you want help, we can provide it."
"No, I’ll be fine. If I need help, I'll ring."
The nurse shrugs and hands over the white cardboard box, then points. "Bathroom's down the hall on the left. You can work up a little pee, right?"
"Yeah, thanks."
I go down to the bathroom and lock the door behind me, opening the box. Dropping my jeans, I pee on the little tip, then cap it and wait, looking at my new phone's clock to make sure of the minutes. When the :41 quickly changes to :42, then :43, I turn the test over, my fingers going numb as I see the little plus sign in the indicator window.
"Well."
I don't know what to say. I'm alone in a locked bathroom, a pregnancy test in front of me, my boyfriend's finishing up his management classes for the day before going to the Pavilion for a school-hosted Draft Party, and I'm . . . pregnant.
Should I start to panic now?
Why? Because you're a college girl who got pregnant? That doesn't make you all that special. I bet at least a hundred girls got pregnant at Western last year. Maybe more, with the amount of sex that goes on around here, I think to myself.
I chuckle. What do
I do?
Go to class, then go to the party. Later on, maybe you can talk. You have time.
I barely pay attention in class, and when I get to the Draft Party, I see Duncan, Tyler, Joe, and a few of the other guys already there. There's a cameraman from the Football Network, along with a guy from the League, who's there to present 'draft day jerseys' for anyone who gets drafted.
Looking at his table, I notice that there is only one copy of each team's jersey, and they aren't personalized. "What's the deal?"
"Oh, I have the name plates for the three projected prospects. I pin them on in the minute or so it takes to get the call and make the formal announcement. The players get their real draft jersey afterward. I'll sew the name plate on after the day's over."
"What if two guys get drafted by the same team?"
The League rep smiles and points to a box under the table. "I've got another copy of each jersey, so that's no big deal. Besides, this is all for Hart, really. Paulson and Manfredi aren't expected to be picked until tomorrow."
"Hey, you made it!" I hear behind me, and I turn to see Duncan coming over. He's relaxed and smiling, finally able to take a day off after the stress of the past few months. He swallows me in a hug, kissing the top of my head as I let my worries go for a few minutes. "How was class?"
I smile and give Duncan a quick kiss. "I barely paid attention. My mind was somewhere else,” I say honestly. "How about you?"
Duncan shakes his head, and we turn, looking around the room where the party is taking place. We're using the athlete lounge, a luxurious room that's shared by all the different teams, although in theory, it's supposed to be only used by athletes in season at the time. I've never been in here before, and I'll be honest, I'm a bit jealous. If the difference between the student athletic center and Coach Taylor's weight room is a measuring stick, the difference between the general student union and this lounge is astronomical. Seriously, what sort of student lounge has leather sofas? And . . . three PlayStations? When do they ever study?
"Chill, Carrie, you're going hormonal," I admonish myself, and Duncan looks over, confused.
"What's that?"
"Nothing, just feeling a bit of jealousy. I didn't know how nice this room was before. Come on, let's grab a seat and watch. So you're really not nervous?"
Duncan shakes his head again. "Nah. You guys got me as ready for the draft as I could have ever dreamed of. Especially you. So whatever happens today, I’m ready for it. And if Jacksonville doesn't bite, someone will. I know it."
We take a seat, and Joe Manfredi comes over with a bowl of popcorn. "Hey, Carrie. How are you doing?"
"Good, Joe. You?"
"I won't get nervous until tonight, maybe tomorrow. This first round, I'm just chillin' until your man here gets the call. Draft analysts are saying J-ville. Nice deal, wish I got to go there."
"We'll see," Duncan says, and the draft starts. It's as boring as it is nerve-racking, the first round. With up to fifteen minutes between picks, there's a lot of waiting around, but at the same time, nervousness fills me each time the League commissioner comes up to the front of the draft room on the television and makes any announcements.
The first player taken is a left tackle from Alabama, not unexpected, considering the state of the first couple of teams. Next are a couple of quarterbacks, linebackers, and an offensive tackle to round out the top six.
"You'll be hitting the board soon," Coach Thibs says, patting Duncan on the shoulder. He's actually relaxed. His talk earlier wasn't any sort of false confidence, and he's been talking with everyone about what he thinks about each pick as they come around. Pick number seven . . . eight . . .
"Jacksonville's up next," Coach Bainridge says, who joined us almost as if by magic. I hadn't even seen him come in, but then again, I've spent the past ten minutes chewing my fingernails and barely breathing, Duncan's arm around me and a bemused look on his face as he sees my nervousness.
Suddenly, two phones ring almost simultaneously, one by the League's shirt guy, and another on the conference call phone that's been set up on the table in front of our sofa. Everyone in the room stops, except for Coach Taylor, who hits the mute button on the TV before turning his eyes along with everyone else to Duncan.
"Well? Are you going to answer it?"
Duncan grins and nods, reaching out and hitting the pickup button. "Hello?"
"Hello. Is this Duncan Hart?"
"Yes, who's calling?"
I can't help it. I laugh at Duncan's casualness. He sounds like a little kid answering his home phone, not someone who's about to be drafted to a multimillion-dollar contract. Duncan gives me a smile and takes my hand, kissing the knuckles before going back to the phone.
"Hi, Duncan, I'm Gerry Lippincourt, General Manager of the Jacksonville Wildcats. Are you watching the draft?"
"Yes I am, sir. You guys are on the clock. Hope you use your pick wisely."
"We plan on it. I wanted to give you a heads up, and a last-minute chance to voice your opinion. We'd like to select you with our choice, if that's okay with you?"
"I'd be honored, sir."
"Do you have an agent, Duncan?"
"No, but if you have any paperwork you want to send over, fax it to the football team here at Western. I'll find an agent soon enough."
"Okay. We'll send over some documents in a minute. In the meantime, let's do the announcement."
The phone hangs up, and we watch as a Jacksonville representative walks up to the stage, handing a slip of paper to the Commissioner. He reads it, smiles, and turns to the microphones again. "And with the ninth pick, Jacksonville selects . . . Duncan Hart, of Western University."
Two days later, Duncan and I are in Jacksonville, where a member of the team's front office picks us up from the airport. Technically, Duncan has to still sign his contract, but he's already told everyone he's happy with Jacksonville's initial offer, and he's not going to worry about negotiations. "An extra half-million on the signing bonus isn't worth worrying about," he told me as we got on the plane. "I'd rather just focus on being a good player."
We get to Wildcats Stadium, although it's got some corporate sponsor name on it that makes no sense, and get out to go into the Wildcats offices. Duncan meets with the owner, the general manager, and the head coach, a rather laid-back, excited guy who sounds as much like a California surfer dude as a football coach.
"Duncan, we know there's a lot to wrap your head around, so since this visit's a couple of days, we were thinking that you'd like to meet some of your teammates. How about dinner with one of the ones who lives here in Jacksonville?" the coach says. "You and I can have our get together tomorrow, and you can meet your new offensive coordinator."
Duncan looks at me, and I nod. I'm feeling a bit of jet lag, and I don't know if the churning in my stomach is morning sickness or just the hectic pace of the day so far combined with the time zone change. "I'd like that. A little normalcy, you know?"
Duncan nods and takes my hand, his fingers giving me the strength I need. I still haven't told him, after the craziness of the past few days, and I don't know when I am going to find the time. I need to do it soon, that's for sure. Duncan deserves to know the truth.
"You know, Coach, that sounds great. Who have you got in mind?"
"The man who's responsible for us getting the number nine pick," the coach says, grinning. "In fact, I think you two know each other already."
A player comes out, and while he's a bit shorter than Duncan, about six-two, he's just as big, but perhaps a bit thicker through the chest and back, with blond hair and blue eyes. He's ripped, and I wonder how this Nordic-looking Superman knows my Duncan.
"Well, we've run into each other a time or two," the man says, extending his hand. "Four years ago, Western versus Clement? It's nice to meet you again, Troy Wood."
It makes sense now. The guy who got traded to the Wildcats along with the draft pick that Jacksonville used for Duncan. Duncan, on his part, is beaming. "Yeah, I remember
that beating. Glad to be working with you instead of against you."
"At least until next year's Western-Clement game, right?" Troy says with a laugh. "Come on, I'd like to show you my home. My wife is excited—she's spent the past two days trying to figure out how to entertain you. When we heard you were bringing a lady with you, well, she and my daughter are ecstatic. You must be Carrie Mittel. Sorry for the slow greeting. Our scout told me some of the stories he heard about what you did to help Duncan rehab that elbow. If even half of them are true, I think some of the team's going to be coming to you for help this summer."
"I've still got a year of school left," I counter, but his kind words help me feel good. "So Troy, you've got a daughter?"
"A daughter and a son, actually. You can meet them both at the house. Come on, and I hope you don't mind riding in a regular car. I heard you like motorcycles, Duncan?"
"I did. I guess I do, but I was thinking I should give that up,” Duncan says. "It's a lot better for taking Carrie out on dates."
Troy nods and holds the door open like a gentleman for us both. "And better for your career."
For a superstar linebacker, Troy Wood's house is remarkably understated, even if it is bigger than what I'd grown up in. A four-bedroom house, it's been done tastefully if rather . . . normally, I guess is the best way to put it. If you upgraded the size of my parents’ house, you'd have Troy Wood's.
Whitney Wood, on the other hand, is anything but normal, with long brown hair and a great smile that immediately puts me at ease. "It's good to meet you," she says while the guys go off wandering into the back yard. Troy's taken his daughter, Laurie, with him, and she's already been hanging on Duncan, begging him for a horsey ride. Duncan sweeps Laurie off her feet and deposits the nearly seven-year-old on his shoulders, much to the girl's delight, while Whitney and I have a seat on the screened in porch. On the floor between us is Travis, Whitney and Troy's infant son.
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