Fourth and Long

by Michele M. Rakes

  Where’d this heat in my chest come from? I just hope this good feeling carries over to the game next week.

  * * * *

  Jacks smacks Jared on the back as they tromp through the slider. “Very impressive work, QB.”

  “Thanks!” Jared twirls the ball in his pink hands and smiles. He runs to the hall closet to hang up his things and kick off his shoes. “Hey, Maddox is here!”

  Jacks slips off his coat and opens the front door as Maddox approaches. “Is there news from the grand jury?”

  “No, not yet. Don’t understand what’s taking them so long. No, I came by to tell you in person the theory concerning the near hit-and-run. I wanted you to hear the bullshit from me and not that jackass in charge of the investigation.”

  Maddox stomps the snow from his shoes before stepping through the doorway. No one is with him, which surprises me. “Where’s Frank?”

  “Bishop’s home resting. He still works too hard.” Maddox sighs heavily. For the first time, I can see the weariness in the man’s face. “He’s still not fully recovered. The bastard thinks he is, but some days he’s just laid out. Today’s one of them.”

  “What happened to him?” Jacks asks.

  “Shot. Jake shot him over a year ago.” Maddox doesn’t want to talk about it, that much is clear, and I move closer to Jacks at the mention of Jake. The fucker’s dead, but his memory still haunts my family.

  Maddox grazes his forehead with his thumb. “Fuck job shot him in the head. Memory’s wrecked. Doesn’t remember what happened or how he got there. The hardest part is he doesn’t remember some things about us, about when we were in college together. Makes it hard for him, I suppose.”

  “Shit. Sorry. Um, coffee?” Jacks asks, leading Maddox to the breakfast bar, where Jared sits lapping at the marshmallow crème Jacks insists on letting him have in his hot cocoa. I suppose I’m not better. I made the hot cocoa.

  “Coffee would be good. It’s damn cold out there.”

  “So, what’s this theory?” I ask.

  Jacks sets a coffee down in front of Maddox. “Black, right?”

  Jacks’s hands are shaking. Maddox curls his fingers around the mug, grazing Jacks’s fingers in the process, catching on to the reason for my man’s nerves. “Hey, he’s alive. I’m thankful.”

  With a brief nod, Jacks turns back to the pot to pour another cup for himself.

  “Thank you.” Maddox tastes the coffee and sighs. “That’s good.”

  “I made it,” I say. “Jacks can’t make coffee worth shit.”

  Maddox laughs. “I can see why Kane loves you so much. It’s your charm.”

  “What’s the theory?” Jacks asks. The tension in his body betrays his nervousness. I know he’s worried something could happen to Jared, but I think hearing about Frank has rattled him.

  “A homophobic fan.”

  “What?” I ask. “Bullshit.”

  “That’s what I said, but when the local police have the investigation, what can I do?”

  “They honestly think a homophobic fan tried to run down Frank? Why?”

  “They think you were the target, Jacks. Not Bish, shit, I mean…Frank. Gotta get used to that,” he mumbles.

  “Why do you call him Bishop?” Jared asks. Until then, he’d been quietly listening to the conversation, taking it all in like a little spy.

  “It’s his name. He hates it, and I can’t resist,” Maddox says with what I can only describe as a loving, yet evil expression.

  “Oh.”

  “Jared, why don’t you go finish your homework?”

  “It’s all done.”

  “Then go play Madden or something. Give us a moment to talk,” Jacks suggests.

  Jared rolls his eyes as he slides off the stool. Once the boy is gone, Jacks turns to Maddox. “What is the deal? Why is the grand jury taking so long?”

  “I don’t know. Usually only takes about a week. US attorney and the DA have both been dragging their heels the whole way, but…”

  “What?” I ask.

  “The tide’s turning here, fellas. Scuttlebutt is DA’s been involved in some sort of illegal entanglements. There’s gonna be a windfall coming. Might be good for our case. Plus, I have a few leads on more witnesses. Victims of Paul. This won’t just be on your shoulders anymore.”

  “You know, Paul keeps calling Jacks. Leaves him messages.”

  “That’s harassment. Are you saving them?” Maddox demands. He already has his phone out. “Can you transfer your voice mail?”

  Jacks is annoyed with me, but he nods. The first real argument in our relationship was over the voice mail Paul left after seeing the pictures of us holding hands on the Internet. Holding hands. Big goddamned news. The media attention has almost overshadowed the hype of the last play-off game, but not for us, not until Paul left his insidious messages.

  “I want to hear them. They need to be taken as evidence.”

  Jacks walks over to his old-fashioned message machine and pops out the tape, handing it to a stunned Maddox.

  “Are you serious? You still use that thing?”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  “There’s also text and voice mail on his phone too. I’ll forward them to you,” I say.

  “What does he say?” Maddox asks.

  Jacks shrugs. “The usual. He loves me. We’re destined to be together. Followed by threats if I say anything. Same bullshit he always said when I was a kid. No one can love me the way he can and tell that thug to keep his hands off.”

  “Sick fuck. All right. Thanks.” Maddox finishes his coffee. “Good luck, boys. I have to get back to Frank. His leg is aching.”

  “The pain, is that why he limps?” Jacks asks.

  “No, he had a stroke during his recovery. It’s his other leg that aches. The one supporting all his weight. He’s home with it up. Makes his hips hurt too. Anyway, bring us home a win.”

  “One game at a time, boss.” I shake his hand.

  Jacks walks him out, and Jared sneaks back into the room. “Paul is calling Jacks?”

  I throw a kitchen towel at the kid’s head. “Spy.”

  * * * *

  Fans line the road on both sides as our buses pull away from the facility, heading for the airport and our waiting plane. We’re not flying commercial today. Some big local sponsors are footing the bill to fly us to the play-off game of our lives. Jacks is next to me, his body swaying with the movement of the bus, rubbing our shoulders together. He’s fiddling with his promise and championship rings. I bite my tongue on a smart-ass remark. Poor guy. He’s been trying to get the damn things off all morning, in preparation for the game, but his knuckles are still swollen.

  “Probably gonna have to cut it off,” I say.

  “Not an option,” he says, a clear growl of warning in his voice.

  I tried to get him to at least cut off the promise ring last night, but his answer was the same as now. Never in my wildest fantasies did I ever imagine Jacks becoming so sentimental over a ring. That’s not who Jacks is, or at least who I thought the man could be. He’s more likely to crack a joke. Anything to keep you from seeing the real man under the mask.

  “Where’s my apple pies, rook?” our right guard asks Etterson.

  “Oh, man! I forgot the pies.”

  “Bro, how can you forget them pies? You’re gonna have to get me some at the airport Mickey D’s!”

  I smile as Jacks turns to our left guard and says, “We’re heading straight onto the field. Boarding the plane on the tarmac. No pies for you, bro.”

  “Aw, man! Rook, you owe me big.”

  “I’ll pay up after we win,” Etterson says.

  As we get onto the road, I smack Jacks to get his attention, “Look at that!”

  The crowd is ten people deep as far as I can see. Fans wearing our colors, our jerseys, waving hands and flags. Kids with their parents, skipping school to see us off, proud of us representing them in the play-offs.

  Eagle wipes a tear from his eye, and I
really look at the man. He’s older than me, wiser, and stronger. Built like a tank and just as tough. He catches me looking at him and smiles. “Been waiting a lot of damn years to see any fans this proud of us. They deserve a win.”

  “That’s right, you an original misfit.”

  “Sniped from a team worse than us,” he says. “Got me fer a steal.”

  The man bleeds blue, black, and red, our colors, and he inspires me every damn day. Eagle points up ahead as our buses close in on the freeway ramp, still lined with people, but it’s the overpass up above that gets our attention. A group of people in blue and black hold a huge sign that stretches half the length of the overpass. In big black letters on a blue background, the sign reads, “WE LOVE YOU, JACKSON AND IRUS!” and another sign says, “IRUS GIVE JACKSON A KISS BEFORE KICKOFF!”

  Jacks stands up, moves to the front of the bus to get a closer look, and on both sides, the fans see him and rush the bus as we slow down to a crawl. The fans are in the road, surrounding the bus, touching it and waving. Shouts of encouragement filter through the windows. Despite the cold, some of the guys open the windows, hanging out to high-five little kids on their daddies’ shoulders.

  The bus rocks to a stop, unable to go anywhere because of the mob, and Jacks winds up in the stairwell. I join him quickly, but he’s fine. Through the Plexiglas of the bus door, Jacks comes face-to-face with a little old white-haired lady wearing his jersey. She’s holding something out for him to take, a small chain with pendants on it, sort of like the charm bracelets my sister and aunties all wear.

  “Open the door, Irus.”

  “If we open the door, they may try to get in,” I say, but he just looks at me. He’s right. It’ll be fine. Everyone around the old woman is respectful, no one pushing or shoving. People are just touching the bus and moving on reverently.

  I open the door, and Jacks greets the woman. She thrusts the chain into his hands. He turns the jewelry over and I can see a football, a number twelve, and believe it or not, the symbol for a male/male union.

  The woman licks her lips and in a delicate voice says, “My son bought me this years ago. I added a few charms for you, Jackson. I’ve watched you since college. You’re still number twelve in my eyes. The same number as my son, Marcus.” She takes a moment, tears welling in her eyes. She looks at me and then back to Jacks. “My son died not being able to marry his partner. Died when AIDS was said to be God’s way of punishing the gays. Fuck those people.” And in a stronger voice, she says, “Go Highlanders! Kick some Paladin ass!”

  A man steps up to help the woman walk away, handing her a cane. He looks to us and mouths the words, Thank you.

  “Yes, ma’am. We will.” Jacks slides the bracelet on his wrist, stands back up, and I close the door. The crowd parts and the buses start moving again. For a few seconds, I just hold Jacks as we ride it out, standing in the stairwell. He’s looking at the charms.

  “This is something my mom would’ve liked, I think.”

  “You’re getting quite a collection of jewelry,” I say, and he smacks me.

  * * * *

  The Paladins’ Stadium

  Montpelier, VT

  We’re in the tunnel, all geared up. Mal’s working the offense, getting them revved up, and El’s leading us, the D-line, into our headspace. Gotta be mean. Let the aggressive, competitive animal out for the battle. The drive for dominance, to win, is key for our defense, and we can’t allow completions, especially yards after completions.

  The field was cleared an hour ago, but the snow has started to fall again. The coin toss affords us an opportunity to defer. We’ll receive the ball after the half. After a quick three and out for the Paladins, we have our first possession of the game. On our twenty-two yard line.

  Mal steps up in the pocket as it collapses, and lobs one down to Jacks, who just gets clobbered. We’re all waiting to see if he has the ball. The ref signals. Incomplete pass.

  Damn. After the hit he took, a first down would be nice, but it’s early yet. I’ve watched enough film on these guys to know they come out strong. They’re tough competitors, but as the game wears on, they’ll be wanting their mommies.

  The offense lines up again. Mal uses a silent count to try and get them to jump. They bite and draw an offside penalty. The referee turns on his speaker, places his hands on his hips, and announces the call. “Neutral zone infraction. Five-yard penalty. Still second down.”

  The crowd jeers. I’m surprised the stands hold so many fans in this weather, especially as the snow has increased. The field is now a blanket of white. We line up and snap the ball. Mal hands it off to Eagle, who plows the ball through traffic, picking up the first down. Two more times we run the ball, and we’re stopped shy of the forty-yard line.

  As soon as the ball is snapped, something goes wrong, and Etterson misses a key block. Now Mal is on the run, looking for someone to throw downfield, but they’re playing man on man coverage. No one is open, and Mal’s attention is split, watching the defenders chasing him while keeping an eye out downfield. Finally, he has to throw it away. Now we have to punt the ball. Damn it. Only two yards for the down too.

  I grab my helmet and head out onto the field with the rest of special teams. Coach Bryant grabs me at the last minute. He calls the code for a punt fake. He wants the down. We’re not done yet. Now our assignment changes. Instead of running downfield to tackle their returner, we’re gonna run a blocking play. Our kicker lines up. The Paladins’ returner is waiting downfield, but the boy is never gonna see the ball. The long snapper sends the ball right on course to our punter, fifteen yards back. Our punt protector intercepts the ball and runs. The punter fakes right as our upback runs left.

  The Paladins defense scrambles, splitting their coverage, but it’s too late. We have the down. Jacks pulls on his helmet as he takes the field, his blond hair wet with snow, and I slap his ass on the way by. “Go get ’em, boy.”

  The snow picks up. Big, fat flakes drop onto the field as Jacks works to scrub coverage and go up for a long pass. He catches it but is brought down hard by the safety. Snow flies into the air with the impact. Jacks comes up grinning. He has the ball. We wait as they move the chains. We’re now in their territory.

  Two more handoffs to Eagle for little gain, and we’re forced to pass. Mal sends it downfield, aiming for Haines, but it’s picked off. The defender runs back. Shit, he’s chewing up yardage. Jacks, like a goddamn safety, hits the guy with his body, shoving him out of bounds at our forty-yard line. Damn it.

  Jacks, covered in snow and looking like he’s loving it, holds his hand up to accept mine. He’s breathing heavy, and he yanks off his helmet. “Fucker’s fast.”

  “Yeah boy,” I say as I take the field. Time to go to work. They line up, just as I expect, and I holler to my linebackers. We close it up some, knowing they’re gonna go with the ground game first. They always do, and sure as shit there’s the handoff. The Paladins runner, a guy by the name of Willie Williamson, doesn’t pound out two steps around the end of the line before me and Els pick his ass up and march him into his own backfield.

  “We plan on making a statement, baby!” I shout to their quarterback. “A statement. We’re coming for you. We’re all coming for you.”

  The next snap, their quarterback drops back in the pocket, and I’m a blanket of coverage all over their star receiver, Mike Johnson.

  We have the best pass rushers in the league and one of the twins, Marc or Don Daniels, gets the quarterback, still in the pocket. Sack him for a loss of yardage. When we line back up, Donny Daniels has snow and grass stuffed up inside his helmet.

  “Good job, DD. Get that quarterback,” I holler. Thank God they have numbers on their backs. Swear, I work with these guys every day and still can’t tell them apart off the field.

  This is what we do. We shut them down. Don’t let them convert on third downs, and force them to punt the ball away.

  They line up for a simple screen pass, but Els comes across the midd
le and decleats the tight end receiver after he takes possession of the ball. Just blows this guy up. The ball bobbles. I swoop down to catch it just as I get hard packed into the snow and frozen earth. The ball slips through my fingers. Damn. Either way, they have to punt or turn it over on downs. We’ll have possession of the ball.

  They punt the ball into the back of our end zone. So they only pushed us back twenty some yards. Stadium employees with portable blowers clear enough of the snow from the yardage line to place the ball, and our offense lines up again for our second drive of the first quarter.

  All my optimism deflates as Mal is sacked twice. The next snap, he makes a great run, but he’s short of the down. A quick three and out. Snow is coming harder, making it a whiteout, and the only one who seems to be having any fun is Jacks.

  * * * *

  At the half, we’re trailing three and oh, and we drag our cold, wet selves to the locker-room. Just as Jacks catches up with me, one of the assistant coaches hands Jacks a cell phone. The whole thing is unusual, but the look on Jacks’s face perplexes me more. He’s either overjoyed or deeply saddened by what he hears. I can’t tell which one is most likely, since there’s tears.

  When he’s done, he hands back the phone and turns to me. “They’ve indicted the fucker!”

  Jacks jumps into my arms and wraps his legs around me, his lips locked to mine. I swear, this has to be a first in all of league history. He’s so happy, the man is actually vibrating, or he’s that cold. My hands squeeze his ass as Jacks whispers into my ear, “Paul’s going jail.”

  As much as I hate to do it, I lower Jacks and take his flushed face between my hands. “Baby, just means he’s gonna go to trial, not jail.”

  Jacks shakes his head. “He’s as good as gone.”

  This positive attitude makes me smile, and I kiss him again. The sound of jeers and Coach Bryant’s voice over all the others interrupts the best kiss of my life.

  “Well, damn, you boys think that’s gonna win us the ball game? All that kissy facin’ is gonna turn this team around? You guys are floundering out there!”