Jared stands up. “You either kick a field goal, go for it on fourth, or you punt. Look, Jacks already taught us all this shit. Are we gonna scrimmage or not?”
Branson ignores Jared again. This guy’s just making all kinds of friends. Jared looks at me and shakes his head.
“McCoy. Beaumont. Line up and show these kids a little bump and run.”
Well, all right. I can get behind this shit. I’d love to get my hands on McCoy. Branson tells McCoy the call and waits for us to line up opposite.
“Green eighty. Green eighty,” Branson hollers. “Hut. Hut.”
McCoy explodes off the line.
Nuh-uh. Not so fast, man. I get my hands all over him. I press him. Hit his chest, which is hard, and he swings his arm down over mine, sweeping away my hand. Then he’s off downfield, running straight ahead, and I’m with him every step, my arm around his waist as he turns to look for the ball. He jumps, and I go with him, trying to get my hand between him and the ball.
Somehow that sneaky bastard snatches the ball outta the air. I drag him to the ground, landing on top of him, our breaths temporarily knocked out. The feel of his body beneath me, no pads between us, just T-shirts, jeans, and, for me, thin-ass sweats, is exhilarating. Which means I’ve got this shit bad, and I need to step back a bit. Yet I’m looking forward to the next ball to be lobbed downfield. Fuck me. I could do this all day.
“You see how Beaumont had an arm around McCoy? That’s okay as long as he doesn’t turn him away from the ball.”
“He’s trying to disrupt the play,” Jared says, clearly annoyed.
“Right. That’s called defense. It’s pass interference if Beaumont turns him or holds him or, without looking for the ball himself, prevents McCoy from completing the catch. A defensive player must be looking for the ball too, if he’s going to intercept it.”
We run a few more plays, and the kids are amped up, but they’re like a pack of monkeys wanting to take over the field. Branson just won’t let them for some reason.
Once more, Branson sends us downfield. It’s a curl route, meaning McCoy turns around and comes back to Branson for the ball. It’s a short-yardage throw, maybe twelve yards, and I hit McCoy the minute his hands are on the ball, coming over the back of him, trying to punch it out. He holds on to it, sure-handed, and rolls me into a tumble with him. He gets up grinning like a kid.
“That was fun, but we gotta get these kids out here to play.”
“Whatcha gonna do? Tell Branson to take a hike?”
“If I’ve got to, Iris.”
“I-rus! Rus, boy. Rus!”
He grins and jogs upfield, the ball still in his hand.
Damn, if he just wasn’t so pretty.
We get back to Branson, and he’s already running off at the mouth. “We have passing routes, or patterns. Hook: A tight end releases downfield and makes a turn back upfield. Post: a long pass, maybe forty yards or so, where the receiver runs a vertical route and at the last minute cuts a forty-five-degree angle toward the post.”
“A what?” asks the kid scratching his nose with one eye closed, presumably blocking out the sun. His face is screwed up in a look of confusion. These kids are cute.
“Goal post, kid. Goal post.”
“Hey, Terry,” McCoy calls.
Branson jogs over to meet us. “What?”
“I think Walt wanted you to spend more time with the other groups too. You know, spread the wealth type thing, and give other kids the benefit of your expertise.”
“Are you sure?” Branson sort of leans in to him. “I kind of wanted to talk to you later.”
“Give me a call afterward, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
“Hey, kids. Tell Mr. Branson thanks for helping out!”
“Thanks, Mister Branson,” the younger ones chime in, but Jared and a few others simply glare as Branson gives a little wave, running off to ruin someone else’s day.
“Thank God you finally ditched him,” Jared says.
I’m right there with the kid, but Jackson shuts him down. “Show him some respect. He’s a great quarterback.”
“Was a great quarterback. Because of you,” Jared says with a fair bit of disrespect toward Big Terry Branson.
* * * *
“Okay.” I point at Jackson with the football. “He gets a completion. What do you do?”
“Punish him!” There’s nothing like hearing a group of tiny D-liners get on board with punishing Jackson McCoy. I throw him the ball. I can’t help but laugh as all these youngsters scrimmage, falling all over themselves to bring Jackson down. He plays it good too. They dog-pile onto him.
What’s this guy got that makes kids love him, but defensive linemen want to beat the shit outta him? Oh yeah, I know—he’s that mother-flailing good at everything! I’ve never seen him drop a pass. Not even in double coverage. There’s a reason why he’s the number one wideout in the league. Pisses a lot of people off because he’s so small.
Let’s just tick through all his strengths:
Football.
Dealing with kids.
Having fun.
Nothing but goodness and heart in this guy.
Damn. I hate him more.
Although, I gotta say, he does his job when it comes to these kids. They’re still a little distrustful of me but not of Jackson. He hugs the ones who need contact and keeps his hands off the ones who don’t. He seems to innately understand what each kid needs, even letting Jared get a little too rough with him.
Jared sacks him, grabbing McCoy by his shirt and throwing him down, stomping on him at the end of the play. The kid tries to hurt him for real. The anger so clear in his red face. Jackson lets him, and then quietly explains about bullying. All the kids sit on the field to listen. Jackson plunks his butt down with them, but I stand in the back to watch him interact with these kids. I feel like I’m getting suckered into all the goodness in the man. He’s been chipping away at the anger all day. I don’t like it one bit.
Jackson takes off his glasses, hangs them on his shirt so the kids can really see him. They all know the bruises are there. No one’s been fooled, but I think it creates a connection with some of these kids. Makes me realize some of them probably have had a shiner or two themselves.
“On the field, it’s okay to be tough,” he says. “Your job on the defensive line’s to be a bully. Your job on the offensive line’s to protect your quarterback, so you bully back. You get that, but off the field, a real man doesn’t bully the smaller or weaker person. A man rises above all such nonsense, you know? It’s what being a man’s about—protecting the weak, helping them get stronger, and standing up for what you believe in, on and off the field. Football will help make men out of you, but you’ll be the ones who give the sport pride. We need pride. In ourselves, our families, whatever the situation may be, and in our community, those folks around us who help out from time to time.”
“What if you don’t have anything to be proud of? What if you’re too small?” a kid down front asks, his tiny hand raised.
“Everyone said I was too small. The number one wideout needs to be big and powerful to take hard hits from the corners. They still say that, but I don’t listen. There comes a point where you reach down inside yourself and ask, ‘Self? Who do I want to be?’”
Some of the kids laugh at the silly voice he does, but he’s got them entranced. They’re hanging on his every word, even Jared.
“What’d your ‘self’ say?” another kid asks.
“It said, ‘I want to be the number one wideout, and leave Iris in the dust.’”
“Okay, now see, wideouts are arrogant,” I say. “That’s why we beat them.”
Jackson winks at me. Thank God I’m dark because I can feel the heat in my cheeks and chest.
“What’s a wideout?”
“A receiver, just another term, generally one who runs deep downfield,” Jackson clarifies.
“A corner?”
“A cornerback’s a part o
f the secondary. We try to make sure the wideouts don’t get the ball downfield, and if they do?” I point at the kids.
They holler as loud as they can, “We punish them!”
Jackson smirks at me. “Teaching them the fundamentals, I see.”
“Gotta prepare them for the likes of you. Hit hard. Ask questions after the game. You know it.”
There’s the grin again. Can’t I antagonize this guy at least once?
“We use those hits too. Sometimes it gives us just a few extra yards. Maybe even a touchdown.”
“Right. So better to pick six the ball,” I respond.
“What’s pick six?” the tiny kid down front asks.
Another kid pipes up, “It’s when the linebacker intercepts the ball and runs it back for a touchdown.”
The kids turn to me, and one of them asks, “Have you ever picked a six?”
I chuckle. “Yeah, I’ve had a few.”
“He’s never picked one of my balls.” Jackson grins and winks. The innuendo goes over the kids’ heads. I almost don’t believe what I’ve just heard. Then I realize he’s serious about my never getting an interception on him.
“There’s time yet.”
“No, there isn’t,” he says, standing up. “You’re good, Iris. Just not good enough.”
“Really? Seems to me I’ve decleated you a few times.”
“Here’s something to remember, kids: punishment’s an intimidation after completion designed to make a receiver overly cautious and cause mistakes to disrupt their timing. For a good wideout, it doesn’t erase the completed throw or yards gained.”
“It can,” I say. “It can cause a fumble, result in a turnover, a pick, or even a pick six.”
Jackson tosses the kids a football. “It’s getting late. Go scrimmage while you still have time.”
He stands there, watching the kids play football, implementing everything we’ve taught them today. “You still crying over getting beat, Iris?”
“Don’t you worry, McCoy. I’ll get you next time.”
“No, you won’t,” he says, a smile spreading across his face, still so good-looking even messed up. “You’re not fast enough.”
“I’m the fastest corner in the league.”
“I’ve got the most completions for touchdowns. Something not meshing here, Iris? You’re not the best yet.” Two quick, jarring smacks to my chest, and he leaves me fuming. “All right, kids, time to pack it in! Great job today! Jared, excellent work blocking.”
The kids follow him like he’s Christ or something, surrounding him and running ahead to turn back, asking questions. My anger ferments. How could he simply dismiss my abilities, my skill? Arrogant son of a bitch.
Jackson turns around and winks at me. “You coming, Iris?”
I want to add to the bruises on his face.
* * * *
I catch up to McCoy in the parking lot. I wait while he says good-bye to the kids. Then he talks to Jared for a full twenty minutes. Some of the kids spend a little time with me before they load up on the school buses that brought them to the field. Jared and McCoy are almost face-to-face. The kid’s only a little shorter. Standoffish and angry, Jared’s getting belligerent, but then he turns to me, making eye contact. He’s crying.
McCoy’s hands are on his hips. He’s looking at his feet, shaking his head, and then Jared’s called away. Not before McCoy palms the kid’s red, curly mop. Jared bobs his head and walks away. Glasses in hand, McCoy double-times it to a Harley parked a few spaces away from my Dodge Charger. I run over to intercept him.
“McCoy!”
He ignores me and straddles his bike. An image of him straddling me pops into my head. Oh goddamn, I need to stop this shit. The idea of my dick penetrating his sweet ass sends warm tingles through my skin.
“McCoy, don’t you ignore me.”
He starts the motorcycle. A loud snap and rumble fills the air. Sparks shoot out the tailpipe as he revs the engine.
“Goddamn it.” I grab his shoulder. He slips his glasses on, but I catch a glimpse of a shimmer in his eyes. Tears?
“Why you gotta be like that, McCoy? Calling me out in front of those kids?”
“What’re you so angry about, Iris? Just a little friendly banter. You can take it, can’t you?”
“Quit calling me Iris.”
“Sure thing, Beaumont.” A slow, sly grin spreads across his face.
“Now why you gotta say my last name like it’s a dirty word?”
“Is there a point to this, man?”
Jackson flusters me, and I can’t think of a point. “What’s wrong with Jared?”
“What?”
“What’d you do to make that kid cry?”
“I didn’t do anything. His mother’s sick.”
“Sick? Sick how? Cancer?”
Jackson winces and then screws up his face. “Drug sick.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah, shit. She fell off the wagon after Jared’s old man got out of prison. She’s been sending him over there so she can party. Kid’s pissed and hurt.”
“How do you know so much about these kids?”
“I told you. I listen to them and try to help.”
“Once a year?”
“No, most of my kids are a part of group counseling. I know the social worker. She asked me to help out.”
“Why you?”
“Why not me?”
“How long are you in town for?”
“A bit.”
No way this guy’s for real. Despite his reputation for being an all-around great guy, I still find it hard to believe. “So you come to Washington State just to counsel some kids? Don’t they have kids in South Carolina?”
“Look, Beaumont, I grew up around here. I have a house out toward the mountain. Great view. Quiet. Secluded. Home.”
Great. How am I supposed to rein in my libido with him just across the valley? At least he’ll be leaving for training camp in a few weeks. “Well, just quit giving me shit in front of the kids.”
“So you don’t like being beat? The best corner in the league would stop me, Iris. Maybe someday you will.”
McCoy slips on his helmet, toes the bike into first, and takes off, his hair flying like it does on the field when he’s running it in for a touchdown.
Chapter Four
Highlanders’ Athletic Facility
Jackson McCoy
The assistant head coach of the Washington Highlanders, Tony Daily, welcomes me just inside the door of the training facility. The man shakes my hand and turns to lead me out of the lobby. He seems like a great guy, talking football all the way back through the corridors to the head coach’s office.
Coach Bryant jumps up, offering his hand with enthusiasm. “Hey, Jackson, great to see you. Coach Daily showing you around?”
“Yep. Sure is a great facility, Coach. Looks brand new.”
“It’s only a few years old. This city wants a championship.”
“Look forward to helping make that happen, sir.”
“I’m sure you’re going to like it here, son.”
A former D-lineman, Coach Bryant dwarfs me and Coach Daily. A big ugly with a friendly manner. He’s a breath of fresh air after the stagnant, choking hostility of the Pirates’ head coach. Still, I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like, oh yeah, we just found out you’re gay, so lube up for the railroading, kid.
Coach Bryant sends Coach Daily out to round up some of the other receivers. I’m eager to see the team dynamic. First hint’s in the locker room. If the guys are easygoing and joking around, it might be all good. Their reactions to me joining the team will be the deciding factor. With so much hostility and dysfunction in the Pirates’ locker room, I’m hoping the Highlanders will be different.
They seem different on the sidelines. A friendly environment would be a nice change. Not holding my breath. I haven’t felt like this since I went undrafted. Pirates picked me up as a rookie free agent right after the draft ended. I thi
nk some of the guys hated how I slugged it out for my spot on the roster. No friends in the receiving corps. Guess I’m used to it… Yeah. Sure would be nice to be part of an actual team.
“Alexander Haines is our number one, but he’s definitely a better slot guy. He gets into some trouble downfield. He just can’t seem to go up and come down with the ball like you do. I’m excited to see how you’re going to fit into our scheme. The routes we run and such. Alex’s hands aren’t as sure as yours. Hopefully, with you here, it will elevate his game. Give him some pointers, will you?”
Coach Bryant brings me back to the present. I swallow, trying to banish the butterflies, and say, “Absolutely, Coach. I’m a team player. My ego’s long since dead.”
“I’ve watched you since college, son. Your ego was never born. You’re a good, solid, dependable player. I’m glad we have you.”
“I think Haines has great potential, Coach.”
“What do you think his problem is?”
“He lets the D-backs get in his head. They punish him, and it makes him gun-shy. Even in the slot. A lot of strong safeties out there hit hard.”
Coach chuckles. “Well, you’re not gun-shy. You can take the punishment.”
If you only knew, Coach. “Punishment can be used to my advantage. I’ve gained plenty of extra yards because of hard-hitting DBs.”
“I swear, you’re part tailback, Jackson. Almost tempted to use you in the run game. It’s like you look to battle those defensive backs. I know you shook Irus up a bit this last season. I thought the man was gonna kill you. No, you don’t shy from conflict, but you don’t stir it up, either. I like that in you. A good clean player. Just what we need.”
“Well, I’m a hard man to keep down. Not a lot of things keep me off the football field. It’s home, ya know?”
“You’re a cool customer, McCoy,” says a soft voice from behind me. There’s a tinge of admiration in his voice. The lack of hostility surprises me. Maybe I can hold my breath after all. The Highlanders might not be anything like the terrible environment of the Pirates organization. I turn to see Alex Haines with Coach Daily.
“Alex,” says Coach. “Come here. You know Jackson McCoy. Get him on board with our system. Look over the routes and offensive plays. First, take him to the locker room and get him settled. We’ll run some routes later. Okay?”
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