“Why is it that this is the first time you’ve ever been here?” They both knew Michael couldn’t say he’d never been invited. Murray had extended numerous personal invitations to him as well as the team-wide invites all through the years, both on and off season.
He shrugged. “Don’t know.”
“What’s the difference tonight?”
“I didn’t think I had a choice,” Michael responded with mild annoyance tempered with interest.
Murray laughed. “I can’t believe you’ve never been out before. You have missed out on some serious good grub, my man. As well as my incredible company,” Murray stated as they made their way into a gourmet kitchen that took up what appeared to be the entire rear of the house. The kitchen sparkled with glossy green marble countertops, maple cupboards and a variety of different appliances. A steel refrigerator was off on one side separated by countertops leading to a six burner stove that looked like it could cook enough food to feed the entire Tide. A large rectangular island dominated the middle of the kitchen, flanked by bamboo stools that invited guests to sit down, settle in for awhile, and take a load off. A big fireplace crackled with life to the left. Recessed lighting and shiny floors made the entire room glow.
I bet Mary would love a kitchen like this. She deserves to cook in a kitchen like this, Michael thought.
Something sounding like jazz was coming from somewhere, but Michael detected no visible signs of music--no CD players, no stereo system or even an iPod docking station.
“You know, the first time I met you, I had you pegged all wrong. I was sure Mr. First-Round-All-American would be endorsing it up. But you don’t do endorsements.”
Michael’s silence was his only response.
Murray laughed. “Okay. I guess that wasn’t really a question. Let’s start with something easier. Can I get you something to drink?” Murray asked, ever the gracious host.
“No, thank you,” Michael replied, still unsure why he was there and where this was heading.
“Johnson seems to be doing ok. What’s your read on him?”
Michael was surprised. No one ever asked him what he thought about any of the other players. Murray as the veteran linebacker had been his captain ever since he’d been drafted, but he’d never asked him his opinion about anything. Murray had neither welcomed nor shunned him when he’d shown up at training camp almost six years ago. Hell, no one ever asked him anything about anyone or anything for that matter. Plays, players, teammates, calls. Nothing. Which was the way he liked it, wasn’t it?
Michael considered Murray’s question and wanted to frame his words right before he answered.
“He’s fast. After the last couple of days, I think he might be too fast, too quick before the draw,” Michael answered. “On Third and Short, Seattle loves to call the D off sides. I’m afraid he might fall for it.”
“I know. He’s going to draw some off-sides calls which we do not need. It’s inevitable given his natural explosion off the line. Seattle has the lowest penalties of any team in the league. They’re masters at exploiting their opponents’ penalties. We get too many and allow them the opportunity to capitalize on them, and we can kiss the game goodbye.”
“We might need to tell him to internally delay for one second before launching. He’s not used to playing the left side and that’s going to take some time for him to get used to,” Michael continued.
He hadn’t considered his captain wanted to discuss Johnson, but in retrospect, it made sense. The Tide’s defense had worked together for the last three years without any substitutions or major injuries. While there were play-specific substitutions that occurred on a case-by-case basis, they were a cohesive unit and cohesiveness had been blown apart when Campbell blew out his ACL. If they wanted to maintain their high degree of functionality as a unit, they needed to successfully incorporate Johnson. The sooner Johnson learned exactly what was necessary for him to be successful as the left defensive end, the better for the team.
“I guaran-dam-tee you Johnson will fuck up, if not against Seattle, then against some other team. We all fucked up our rookie season. Shit. Some still fuck up as veterans. Look at Johansen.” Murray shook his head as he began stirring something in a big, red pot bubbling on one of the island’s burners.
“I didn’t fuck up my rookie season,” Michael was compelled to point out.
“Oh, right. Rookie of the Year. Boy Wonder, you were perfect.” Murray negated the sarcasm in his rebuke with a smirk sent Michael’s way.
“Do you recall any time I seriously fucked up a play in my rookie season?” Michael challenged, irritated that he was being compared to Johnson.
“No, but that’s not the point. The point is Johnson isn’t you. He will fuck up which will deflate that motherfucker’s ego, albeit temporarily. And that, my friend, will be a good thing for both of you.”
“You summoned me here to discuss Tamar?”
“Fuck no. Little dick isn’t worth any more time than we’ve already spent.” Murray continued stirring the big pot. “As your captain, I’ve never asked you for anything, have I?”
“No.”
Michael watched the interplay of expressions cross Murray’s face before Murray continued.
“You think I’m a decent captain?”
“Yes.”
“You trust me?”
“Yes.”
“Have I ever asked you to do anything?”
“No.”
As the questions continued, Michael felt like Alice going down the rabbit hole. Out of sorts, disoriented, and unsure where he was going to end up, exactly as he had when he’d first arrived.
“Fact is, we need good press. Like, a lot of good press. We need to sell more tickets and amp up public support. I know you give less than a shit about the public, but the rest of us on the team do. It’s important that we generate some decent press, and soon, given what’s happened this year between Rodriguez getting caught with that tranny and Johansen’s divorce. I asked you here because you’re about to become the team’s face of its formal non-profit partnership with Portland Public Schools.” Murray occupied himself with pouring some more whiskey into a highball glass and adding a little pepper to the corn chowder while he waited for Santiago to respond.
“Excuse me?” Michael’s temper bubbled below the surface of his words.
“You heard me.”
“Yeah, I fucking heard you. Problem is, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Here’s the way this is going to play out. You’re going to do a bunch of P.R. pieces. The Oregonian, Sports Illustrated, ESPN, KXL, etc. to discuss your work with Walker. All of this will be part of a concerted campaign to highlight the Tide’s partnership with the Portland Public Schools.
“For this fall, we’re inviting Walker seniors to come to our upcoming game against Detroit if they’ve applied to college sometime towards the end of October. Afterwards, the Silverstons and the team,” Murray emphasized the last word before he resumed his sales pitch, “will host the students, their families, and their teachers who will be chaperoning them at some reception. You need to appear at the reception.”
Michael was shaking his head long before Murray finished. “You don’t need me there. There are plenty of other players who will happily have their pictures taken and do all the fucking press. Not me,” Michael protested.
“You have to be a part of it. You’ll already be there for the game and all we need you to do is show up, talk to the students, and take off. Olivia Silverston has personally requested you be there.”
“Look, I think inviting the students to the game is a good idea. I’ll even show up at the party afterward. But I’m not doing any press for it. No. Fucking. Way.”
Murray smiled, indicating that was all he was actually after in the first place.
“Alright, my man, just the game and reception, no interviews. I can sell this. Let’s eat.”
It was only after Michael was on I-5 driving home that h
e realized he’d been expertly played.
Chapter 7
“I think everything is ready. The busses are gassed and they’ve all actually started for once. All of the chaperones are prepared and the parents know where to meet us after the game. Am I missing anything?” Dr. Boxer asked Mary as they stood in the principal’s office finalizing their preparations for the Tide’s game against the Lions. The student turnout had been overwhelming. The competition had proven to be a terrific incentive for motivating the seniors to actually complete the applications, not browse them and put them off for “some day.” Once the school announced that the eligible students could not only attend the Tide’s game against the Lions, but also meet some of the players afterwards along with their parents or guardians, college applications had been downloaded with regularity and flew out the door. The competition yielded more students than seats and the school reluctantly had to resort to a raffle system for all of the eligible students to determine who could attend this game on October’s second Sunday. After the students who weren’t selected in the raffle protested, Walker had made arrangements with the Tide to host a second game and reception for all the students who weren’t able to make it the first time around. Small enough price to pay to encourage college, the Silverstons reasoned.
“No, I believe everything is set.” Mary pulled on her fleece parka, grabbed her purse loaded down with donuts, Ding Dongs, and Cheetos, and followed Dr. Boxer out of her office towards the school’s parking lot where the students, chaperones, and busses were waiting to depart.
“I still don’t understand why I can’t take my own ride, Ms. Stuart,” Ryan Leedy complained as Mary approached Calleigh’s make-shift check in table. “I haven’t been seen in one of these death traps in years. It’s bad for my rep.” Calleigh was responsible for checking the students in outside and directing them to the appropriate buses.
“School policy for all field trips, Ryan. You know the drill. You don’t want to ride the bus, you’re welcome to stay here,” Calleigh reminded him.
“Well, school policy sucks,” Leedy responded.
“What were you saying, young man?” Dr. Boxer asked as she and Mary flanked Calleigh on each side.
“Nothing, ma’am. Nothing at all,” he stammered.
“Good. Now that’s what I like to hear.” Dr. Boxer’s broad smile communicated she’d overheard every word of his exchange with Calleigh, but wouldn’t make an issue of it right now. Boxer was a combination of Mother Teresa, the Iron Chancellor, and every teenager’s worst parental nightmare. She could intimidate any student at any time with a tone, a look, or simply a perfectly arched eyebrow.
“Listen up,” Mary bellowed as the bus pulled out of the parking lot and towards I-5 as soon as the students had quieted down and given her their full attention. Or as much attention as any seventeen and eighteen year olds could give to a teacher when they were constantly in the midst of texting, Twittering, and BlackBerrying.
“Anyone who misbehaves today, either on the bus, during the game, or afterwards at the reception, will earn an automatic trip back to the bus, no stops, do not pass go. This includes anyone using any inappropriate language among you or towards others, any rudeness to one another or the patrons or any fights. You will automatically return to the bus and prepare yourselves for a two day suspension.”
The moans and groans threatened to drown Mary out until she held up her hand and waited for everyone’s attention again.
“Yes, suspension. If you’ve got a problem with that, you better leave right now. Get off this bus. You all are going to college next year and some of you are already eighteen. Adults in the eyes of the law. You better start acting like it. And today, you’re representing Walker High School. Now, make me proud. Let’s go to the game and have some fun.”
The students erupted in brief cheers before settling down for the remainder of the bus ride.
“I don’t suppose I could convince you donuts aren’t the world’s worst evil and get you to eat one?” Mary offered Calleigh as she opened the bakery bag, tempting her with the rich fragrance of fried dough and glorious sugar as soon as they were settled on the bus. Mary had brought four dozen donuts for the students on the bus and pilfered a few before they could be completely consumed. “We can’t bring any food into the facility so we need to eat these now.”
“Might as well. I’ve got no reason to not ingest as much fat as humanly possible,” Calleigh replied while reaching for a fried apple fritter and promptly shoving almost the entire thing into her mouth.
“Oh. My. God,” Calleigh moaned. “What have I been missing all these years?”
Mary laughed. “Come on. This can’t be your first donut. If it is, there is something seriously wrong with your life.”
“It’s not,” Calleigh said between mouthfuls. “It’s been so long since I had one, I had forgotten how completely delicious they are. Are there any more in there?”
“Sure,” Mary answered, giving her the bag and watching as Calleigh tore into a jelly donut, the red goo oozing out from the sides.
Calleigh continued chewing as the bus continued plugging away and Mary studied her best friend amidst the chaos around them.
“Is everything ok?” Mary inquired, concerned since this was the most calories she’d ever seen Calleigh consume in a single sitting. Calleigh never went out for lunch, always eating in with her pre-packed salads of veggies and the occasional tuna. In all the years she’d known her, Calleigh had always been calorie conscious. When they went out, Mary envied Calleigh’s willpower as she steadfastly ignored all fattening, happy hour food. She never loaded a nacho chip down with cheese and beans and had never experienced the pleasure of hot spinach dip. She never drank alcohol and avoided chocolate like it was some man’s sperm intent on giving her a baby.
“Why shouldn’t everything be ok?” Calleigh countered.
“You’ve seemed off this week. Subdued and preoccupied. Is everything alright with your mother?”
Calleigh licked her fingers and wiped her sticky hands on a napkin Mary quickly shoved into her hand.
“Lauren is fine. Well, as fine as Lauren Stuart can be at any given moment.”
“Then what’s with the sugar and the sarcasm this morning?”
Calleigh sighed.
“Remember our deal?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I tried to hold up my end of our bargain. Didn’t work out,” Calleigh turned her head and looked out to the signs they were passing on the side of the highway.
“Oh, Calleigh, I’m sorry.”
“Me too.”
“Do you want to talk more about it?” Mary offered, sensitive to the mood and the clustered environment.
“Not here,” Calleigh responded, motioning to the teen ears surrounding them.
“Later?”
“Later.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Before they knew it, they had arrived at Silverston Field, home of the Portland Tide. It was bright and sunny, but cool, the chill of November beginning to sweep through the city. After making their way through security, Mary and Calleigh led their group of students to their seats.
“These are terrific seats,” Mary mentioned as they found their seats on the 35 yard line, up high enough to see the field and the players, but not so high that they needed binoculars.
All around them fans were in their Tide jerseys and a few Detroit fans were inter-mingled with the rest of the natives. Mary’s own loyalty was torn. As a life-long Michigan resident and Lions’ fan, she wanted to cheer for her home team.
But her home team wasn’t home to Michael Santiago.
And wasn’t that just the pickle of the day?
Dr. Boxer had spoken about him all week, babbling like a teenager in love about how excited she was she and Michael had pulled this all together. Evidently she wasn’t quick to offer any credit to anyone like the Silverstons or the players who’d given up their players’ tickets in orde
r for the students and chaperones to attend the game.
The Tide ended up easily handling the Lions, 35-17, no surprise, but a good game nonetheless.
“Alright guys. Stick with each other and follow me. Ms. Stuart is going to be taking up the rear as we make our way to the reception,” Mary instructed the students. They had waited patiently until all of the other fans had left their section.
“Did you say Ms. Stuart likes to take it up the rear?” some senior boy all full of himself remarked to the guffaws and high fives of those around him.
“Marcus, if you want, there’s a seat on the bus waiting for you. I’m sure your mother will be proud when I tell her you weren’t able to make it to the reception because of your mouth. Your choice,” Mary advised him.
“I was kidding, Ms. Richardson. Sheesh,” Marcus Shelby remarked, shaking his head while closing his mouth. “Ms. Stuart knows I’m joshing her, don’t you?” he asked Calleigh who remained silent, allowing Mary to dole out the discipline.
“Next comment, there won’t be a warning. You’ll be gone. We clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
~ * ~ * ~
~ * ~ * ~
The Tide’s conference center was on the fourth floor of the complex and resembled the glittering lobby of the Ritz Carlton. A circular room, it was surrounded by glass on all sides, granting its occupants a heightened view of the Pacific Northwest. The room overlooked Portland to the South, Mount Hood to the East, and Mt. Rainier in Washington to the North. A microphone and podium sat up towards the center of the room. For the adults, two bars had been set up on each side of the room while tables upon tables were piled high with food with a Southwestern theme. By the time Mary, Calleigh, and their students made their way in, all of the parents were there as well as the other students, chaperones, and a few of the Tide’s players and coaches.
The player Mary was most interested in was conspicuously absent.
Mary picked out the Silverstons immediately. A handsome couple in their sixties, Pat and Olivia Silverston were actively listening to Dr. Boxer’s animated conversation. She continually punctuated with big hand gestures and even bigger facial expressions. Those poor people, Mary thought, noting their expressions had glazed over. They had no idea what they were getting into when they agreed to this partnership with Portland Public Schools and Dr. Boxer.
Hail Mary Page 8