by Tim Green
Clay pretended to read the inspection certificate on the elevator wall to avoid eye contact with the girls. He didn't want to talk with anyone but Katie, not even small talk. When the elevator reached the fourth floor, Clay got off quickly and made his way to Katie's room at the end of the hall. On the door was a message board, and Clay couldn't help but look for any messages left by another guy who might have tried to move in while he was apparently out of the picture. He was relieved to see nothing but foolish and insignificant memos about study groups and laundry. Gathering himself again for the purpose that had brought him there, Clay knocked.
"Yes," came Katie's muffled voice from behind the door, "who is it?"
Clay froze for an instant, saying nothing. What if she told him to go away? What would he do? Wait? Keep banging until she answered or until security dragged him away? The thought of the alternatives made him blush. He cringed, praying she would let him in. He didn't want a scene, standing here as he was like some abandoned soul in the hall of the dormitory.
"Katie?" Clay said hesitantly, "it's me."
There was a moment of silence that turned his stomach. He felt as if he would run away rather than face the possible rejection, and if he wasn't so exhausted, that is exactly what he would have done. But the door opened suddenly, revealing Katie dressed in baggy sweat pants and a worn football T-shirt that had been his. Her face was filled with surprise. He was the last person on earth she had expected to see at her door. To him, she was a beautiful sight, and he instantly felt a sharp pang of guilt and regret for what he had done to her.
"Clay," she said quietly and gave him a hug. He looked pathetic. His eyes were sunken and puffy. He was obviously exhausted and distressed. "I'm so sorry. I know what happened. I know Max was special to you."
Clay's eyes filled again with tears. How could she say what she had just said? After what he had done to her, after how he had hurt her, all that, and she felt bad for him!
He began to sob. "Katie, I'm sorry, I'm sorry . . . Max is dead. I could have helped him. I hurt you. I hurt everyone ... I don't deserve you. But please . . . I'm so sorry . . ."
Katie sat him down on her bed and closed the door. Then she sat next to him and held his head against her chest while he cried himself out. When he began to sniffle, she handed him a box of tissues and he blew his nose several times.
"I must look pretty foolish," he said, "sitting here crying like a baby."
"No," she said, "it's not foolish. If you didn't cry, it would mean that what happened to Max didn't matter to you."
"I'm sorry about you too," he said.
"I know you are, Clay," she said, "and I had a whole bunch of games I was going to play to make you prove it, but this is no time for things like that. Just your being here lets me know that you're sorry."
"Katie, I love you," he said.
"I know," she said, "I love you too."
Clay hugged her and they fell back on the bed, holding each other tightly. They lay like that until Clay's grip loosened and the room began to fill with the sound of his heavy breathing. He was so deeply asleep that he was completely unaware of Katie pulling off his boots before covering them both for the night.
Chapter TWENTY-FOUR.
THE NEXT MORNING, THEY SAT DRINKING coffee after having had breakfast in the same diner they had eaten in hundreds of times.
Clay reached across the table to hold Katie's hand and said in a low voice, "I love you."
"Clay, there is one thing I have to tell you," she said, after hesitating.
"What, honey?"
"You can't do what you did to me ever again," she said, looking directly into his eyes. "If you do, I promise that no matter how much I love you, and no matter what you do, I'll never be with you again."
He nodded, shame filling him again. "I'll never do anything," he said.
They sat for a few moments in silence.
"I tried to call you," she said, "after I heard what happened to Max on the news Monday. I kept calling, but I guess you weren't home."
"No," he said, "I was home. After I found out about Max, I just went home and sat there. I don't think I moved until this morning."
Clay then told her about the service for Max and what he thought actually happened.
She interrupted him, saying, "Then Max didn't really die from cocaine?"
"No," he replied, "he couldn't have. Besides the fact that I know he wouldn't use it, he was already showing signs of a heart attack before he even got home. I should have known. I should have stayed with him."
"Clay," said Katie, "how could anyone have guessed that a person as young as Max and in the shape he was would have a heart attack? It's not your fault at all."
He nodded. They sat there silently for a while, then he told her how he had confronted the owner and the coach.
"And you used the drug too, Clay?" she asked. Even though he had told her why he had used it, she found it hard to believe, knowing how opposed to such things he had been.
He nodded and said, "Yeah, like I said, I figured it was use it or keep living in limbo. Nothing was worse than that."
"But not now," she said, "you don't still think that after what happened to Max--"
"No," he said, "not now. I wouldn't do it again for all the money in the world. Even if I never play another down of football, I won't use it."
"What will you do now?" Katie asked.
"Well," he said, "I was hoping you could miss some classes and go up to Loon Lake with me. I don't know what I'm going to do. I've got four days before the Buffalo game . . . but ... I don't know, I don't want to go back to that. It's sick what they're doing."
"Do you think you could really not go back?" she asked.
"I don't know," he said. "When I think of the guys and getting to the playoffs, I'd hate to not be there. I'd hate to let them down. I imagine White will give me shit if I stop using the drug. I could end up right back where I started."
"But they won't let anyone take it after what happened," she said.
He looked at her blankly. "You wouldn't think so, would you?" he said. "But they don't care about Max, or me, or any of the players. We're meat to them. We're less than meat. They don't even care if I won't play for them. They won't trade me or give me up, that's what they said. They said they'd hold my rights until I was an old man. They own me."
"But if they held your rights, they'd have to pay you, wouldn't they?" she asked.
"Yeah, but then I'd have to do whatever they wanted me to do, and if I didn't, they'd suspend me without pay. They'd make my life so miserable that it wouldn't be worth even that kind of money. Believe me, they can make your life miserable."
Kate nodded, and they sat in silence once more.
After a while she asked, "So, what will you do?"
He seemed to consider, then said, "I was thinking on the plane . . . with the money I've got, I don't have to worry all that much. I can do pretty much whatever I want."
"But what about football?" Katie asked.
"I thought about that too," Clay said. "It's not really football anymore, Kate. I mean, it's football, but it's not the game I signed on to play. I mean, you're not a person to them. It's bullshit. It's sick. It's a dirty business. I'm through in Birmingham. I'm not their 'boy.' There's other things I can do with my life besides football. They think because they've got millions more waiting for me that I'll kiss their ass and kill myself just to make them happy, but I don't need millions more. I've got enough now to live good--at least better than anything I've come from. Maybe I'll just surprise them all and walk away. No one owns me."
"Clay, it's not that I don't believe you, but are you absolutely sure that you're right about this drug killing Max?" Katie said. "I mean, I know how much you cared about him, but isn't it possible that the cocaine killed him? I'm not saying it did, but maybe you should talk with someone else about this, someone who knows about what these kinds of drugs can do."
Clay scowled. "I thought the same thing," he said,
then recounted his conversation with Dr. Norton.
Before they left town, Clay called a local handyman at Loon Lake to plow out his driveway and turn up the heat in his house before he and Katie got there. It had snowed overnight, and as they got farther and farther north into the mountains, the roadside drifts deepened and began to block their way. Clay had to rely more and more on his four-wheel drive. In a way, the snow was soothing. The clean white powder covered everything, and gave the world the brand-new look that only freshly fallen snow can. It was as though they were entering another world. The disparity between the calm of the countryside and the chaos of yesterday gave him the feeling that the events of the past twenty-four hours might all have been a dream.
They stopped in the town to get enough groceries to hold them over should they get snowed in. There was a stack of newspapers on the checkout counter, and Clay bought one to see if anything more had been written about Max's death. It was possible that if he had figured out what had happened, someone else had too. Maybe a coroner or a policeman or someone had investigated the situation more thoroughly than White and Lyles imagined. But if there was any news about Max's death, it wasn't in the paper.
By the time they got to the house, it was almost noon. The sun was bright now, but some western clouds promised more snow before the day was through. The house itself was laden with a thick cap of snow, as were the surrounding pines. The towering trees partially protected the house from the wind that blew across the great white field that now covered the lake. The snow had drifted high against the trees and along one side of the house. Gusts of wind blew white powder that had collected high up in the trees. The snow dust sparkled in the sunshine as it swirled to the ground. It was almost magical, and Clay felt a surge of pleasure knowing that this place belonged to him.
The snow crunched under their feet as they unloaded the truck and lugged their packages into the house. Inside, it was warm, and Katie went to the kitchen to make sandwiches while Clay brought in some wood. Setting up a fire in the hearth, Clay felt a pang of guilt, thinking of his teammates back in Birmingham. They would be working hard to get ready to play the Bills.
The phone rang.
"Clay? It's Bill. Are you feeling any better yet?" "Hi, Bill."
"You sound kind of glum," Clancy said.
"I've just been thinking about it. I'd be crazy to use a drug like that anymore. I just don't see how it could work."
"Don't forget your teammates, Clay," Clancy reminded. "It really wouldn't be fair for you to bow out now . . . when they need you. Especially since Max isn't there. Look, there's only three regular-season games left. I'm sure you could get by for the next few weeks without using the drug, and no one would even know."
Clay doubted that. "I just don't know how I could do it, Bill. I'm sitting here in another world that seems a whole hell of a lot saner than the one I've just come from."
"But think of how long you've worked, Clay," Clancy said desperately. "You can't throw it all away now. Think of the money involved."
"I've got enough money, Bill," Clay said.
Bill Clancy hadn't made it to the top of his field without being able to quickly assess any situation and immediately influence its outcome to meet his needs. If Clay didn't play on Sunday, trouble was likely to ensue. And even if it didn't, Clancy would lose five percent of the remaining $4.5 million which Clay stood to make over the next four seasons. The problem now was that Clay's comfortable financial situation was inhibiting Clancy's power to get his client back where he wanted him. Although Clay was correct in the appraisal of his financial situation, he was only correct if he could keep the entire two million he had now in the bank. It was that premise which Clancy knew he could assault with a mixture of truth, fiction, and lawyer talk that would quickly destabilize Clay's comfortable state of mind.
"Clay," said Clancy in a fatherly tone of voice, "if you don't go back to play for the Ruffians, you may have very little of that money left over to enjoy."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" said Clay.
"You have a contract with the Ruffians to play for four years. If you breach that contract, you are very liable to lose your entire signing bonus. First, you will undoubtedly be sued in a federal civil court, which will be costly for you. You will have to hire a lawyer. I couldn't handle it. I would have to insist that you get someone who is the best in the field of litigating contract disputes such as these. Second, the Ruffians will not only seek your signing bonus for failure to perform, they would undoubtedly seek expectation damages for the draft pick they used in order to sign you. Even if they don't succeed in getting all your money, by the time it was all through, after what a good civil attorney gets, you would have very little left."
Clancy let the words sink in before he added, "As for your house on the lake . . . you could certainly never afford to carry the expenses of that place, even in the best-case scenario."
Clay looked around him. This was something he hadn't figured on. Lose the house? No way. Clay stared out the window at the frosty snow. Clancy cleared his throat on the other end of the line, bringing him back. Clay gulped involuntarily.
"They could take everything?" he said quietly.
"Damn near," replied Clancy, adding drama to his case with a sad and equally subdued tone.
Finally Clay said in a flat voice, "See if you can get me a ticket back to Birmingham tomorrow. If I'm going to do this, I might as well do it right."
"You got it, Clay! You're really doing the right thing. I knew I could count on you."
Clancy slapped his leg and congratulated himself soundly after he'd hung up.
Clay sat staring out the frosty window at the falling snow until Katie entered with a tray of sandwiches and two cups of coffee.
"Hey," she said, "that fire looks like it's ready to go. What are you waiting for . . . Clay? Clay, what's wrong?"
She set down the tray on the coffee table and sat next to him on the couch. She took his hands and began rubbing them gently. Clay continued to stare blankly out the window.
"Clay . . ." Katie said again, "what's wrong, honey? Are you all right?"
Clay shook his head and said, "I want to do things right . . . with everything, you, football, I want to do what's right, but I don't know how."
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"I don't mean with you," he said, detecting the alarm in her voice. "I mean with football. It's not right to go back. It's not right not to tell someone about what happened to Max. It's not right."
"So you don't have to go back, you already said you didn't," replied Katie. "And if you think someone will listen, you can tell someone about Max, maybe even get them to do something about it."
"I can't."
Clay listened to the words and thought how weak they sounded. "That was Bill Clancy on the phone. If I don't go back and keep my mouth shut, I'll lose everything," he said with the wave of his hand. "This house, my car, my money, I could lose it all. I guess they really do own me."
"Clay, why did Bill tell you you'll lose everything? How could that be?" Katie asked.
"He said something about my contract," Clay replied, "a breach or something. If I don't play for them four years like I agreed to, they can get their money back--most of it anyway. I can't win. Quitting won't do any good."
He put his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes wearily for a moment.
"Max is gone," he said, looking clearly into Katie's eyes as if to make sure she understood. "No one would believe me about this whole thing anyway. And Bill's right about the team. They'll need me, this weekend especially. They will."
They sat for a long while in silence before he said, "I'm going back tomorrow."
Chapter TWENTY-FIVE
CLAY emerged from the tunnel and pulled the turtleneck up over his chin to take away some of the bite of the cold Buffalo afternoon. He gazed up at the stands, which were only half filled with heavily bundled people. He saw a middle-aged couple sitting near the railing in a
dark-blue double sleeping bag. They were drinking something hot from a thermos, but they still looked cold. Clay stuck out his tongue and felt a pellet of ice melt as soon as it hit. The sleet, or ice, or snow, or whatever it was that was falling, was clicking loudly off his helmet.
Clay looked around nervously. He wasn't used to being distracted during pre-game. Usually his mind was churning and his body was tense for action. Usually he could still feel a slight sting in his ass where the needle had been.
But that was over. If he was going to keep playing the game, it was going to be on his own terms.
He heard a ruckus in the stands behind him. He turned and. looked up into the end-zone seats to see his parents amid a throng of his father's friends from Ford. They were screaming his name. Buffalo was the closest place an NFL team ever got to Syracuse. Clay's father had bought the tickets back in August. Clay thought about snubbing them all, just to get his father. But it was something he could never do. Instead he waved and the small band cheered. Clay could see his father's large, proud figure in their midst, both fists raised high.
He turned away and searched the stands for Katie and Lever. He knew they'd be there, and he found himself thinking that a loyal friend like Lever was something of value. They would be sitting apart from the Syracuse contingent in seats he'd bought for them. He finally spotted them on the ten yard line about thirty rows up. Katie had already seen him and was waving frantically at him, smiling. Lever stood up and hoisted a beer high in the air as a salute. Clay waved to Katie and gave his old friend a thumbs-up. He was glad to see them both.
Clay jogged out onto the field and began stretching with the rest of his team. The crowd was starting to pour in from whatever shelter the tunnels of the outdoor stadium offered. The Bills started to filter out of their locker room and assemble for a stretch of their own. As Clay was reaching down for his toes, he heard Gavin Collins's voice.