Hail Mary

by C. C. Galloway

  “Yo, yo, yo, we’re here,” a loud, booming voice sounding as though it was from Darth Vader’s son carried from the front of the house. In walked three of the biggest men Mary had ever seen in real life. She picked Campbell out immediately with his crutches. Behind him was a dark-skinned man with lots of curly black hair and hazel eyes full of mischief who was decked out for more of a fancy dinner complete with grey dress pants, black sweater and black top coat. Rodriguez. That meant the final musketeer was Turner, who looked like twenty miles of bad road in his black leather jacket, distressed jeans, biker boots, and general pissed off air. Turner actually kind of reminded her of Michael.

  “Well, well, well. You don’t look like you play for the Tide,” Rodriguez drawled, sidling right up to Mary and Michael, planting himself in front of them, reaching for Mary’s right hand before he placed a warm kiss on it. Mary laughed, loving the flirtatious attention even while Michael immediately stiffened at her side and drew her even closer than before. Murray was showing off his sleek refrigerator and other kitchen gadgets to Turner and Campbell while Rodriguez focused his attention on Mary and Michael.

  “I don’t play, but I love to watch the Tide when I can. Mary Richardson,” she stated.

  Rodriguez inclined his head towards Michael’s glowering puss. “You with this guy?” he asked, his tone full of good humor.

  “I am,” Mary proudly stated, putting her arms around Michael’s taut waist and leaning into his chest, prompting him to put his arms all the way around her.

  “Shoot. I never knew Santiago had a girl. Didn’t think any woman could put up with such a mean SOB,” Rodriguez lamented, turning his back to be a part of the drink action.

  “Shut up, Rodriguez,” Campbell instructed, placing his crutches on the side of the dining room chairs. “You’re jealous because no decent woman will have your sorry ass.”

  “Oh, really. That a fact, Gimp Boy? Last I checked, I wasn’t the one who hadn’t been able to land a date in five years.”

  “Earth to Rodriguez: It isn’t a date when you have to pay the woman to go out with you,” Campbell volleyed back, settling himself in on the chair while Murray poured him a Hefeweizen.

  Rodriguez blew his lips together as though to say, “as if” when Turner jumped into the fray.

  “No shit,” Turner growled, his lips pulled back to reveal stunning white teeth at odds with his surly expression. Nothing that beautiful should be delivering such nasty words. “No woman in her right mind would have anything to do with you without getting paid. And getting paid handsomely for it.”

  “Enough. I’m bored with this. What’s on the menu tonight, Murray?” Rodriguez asked, eager to divert the attention from his dating life.

  Since dating Michael, she was up on the news of the team members and knew Rodriguez was, in fact, responsible for one of the Tide’s scandals over the past year. Mary wondered as she silently sipped her beer if the man had known the hot chick who’d spent all night coming on to him at a party was a pro and a tranny?

  “Nothing fancy. Tonight I decided to return to my southern roots. Grilled pork chops with a pan-seared sauce of mushrooms, white wine and leeks, mashed sweet potatoes, and collard greens.”

  “And for dessert?” Rodriguez asked, walking around the kitchen, inspecting everything as though it was physically impossible for him to stand in one place for any longer than a second.

  “What’d you bring for dessert, Rodriguez?” Murray countered.

  If she could bottle and market Rodriguez’s constant energy, she could be monstrously rich. She was used to the teens at the school being physically anxious. However, she had never encountered a grown man with the unstoppable amount of energy that defined Rodriguez since she’d met him.

  “What? How was I supposed to know I was on dessert duty? You know, next time you might give me some warning, Murray.”

  Murray, Turner, and Campbell collectively rolled their eyes at their younger teammate while Mary and Michael remained locked together, enjoying the banter, enjoying the moment they witnessed, but not having to participate in it.

  The banter continued as Murray set out an antipasto plate that everyone quickly devoured before sitting down for one of the best meals Mary had ever enjoyed in her entire life with a group of men who, in spite of their common profession, were as different as seniors were from freshmen. It was clear Rodriguez was the GQ class clown--well-dressed, full of jokes, both at his own expense and others, and needed a lot of attention at all times. There was never a lull in the conversation thanks primarily to Rodriguez who loved to discuss all of his prior triumphs, both on and off the field, and explain why he believed he was consistently overlooked every year when it came time for the MVP votes.

  “No offense, Santiago. I’m not saying you don’t deserve it. I’m saying I don’t get enough fucking press to make me a national, household name.”

  “Rodriguez, the day you’re voted fucking MVP is the day I shoot myself in the head,” Turner responded, stabbing his sweet potatoes with a force reminiscent of his hits on the football field.

  “Don’t be jealous, Turner. Safeties are not destined to be MVPs on any team. You want to be recognized? You gotta play a position which actually matters.”

  “Enough, Rodriguez,” Murray chided, noting the tightening around Turner’s mouth that was a surefire sign the guy was ready to launch at Rodriguez, something that definitely needed to be avoided.

  “What? Turner knows I’m kidding, just trying to have some fun here. Sheesh. It’s Saturday night and you are about as fun as an STD exam.”

  “For the love of God, Rodriguez. There is a lady present, you moron. Could you for once act like you have some idea what it means to be polite? Would it fucking kill you?” Campbell asked, expressing everyone’s exasperation with the twenty-five year old.

  It was interesting for Mary to see Michael with his teammates and how he interacted with them. They sat next to one another and Michael, for the most part, remained quiet, content to let his teammates go at it, teasing each other, making fun of themselves and some of their other absent teammates. He only participated when one of them directly asked him a question or, towards the end of the night, when they began discussing the following day’s game against the Tampa Bay Buccaneers and the defensive and offensive strategy.

  Michael seemed surprised when both Rodriguez and Murray asked him about the plays they anticipated they’d see on defense and how they could shut down the Bucs’ offense. Tampa Bay was one of the more explosive teams in the league, routinely racking up forty point plus victories, while only allowing their opponents an average of thirteen points.

  Michael cleared his throat before offering his two cents. “The only way we’ll successfully defend against the Bucs is by shutting Wilhorn down. End of story. Every single play we should be rushing him, sacking him and hurrying him to the point where he cannot get a single pass off without one of us having a piece of it. Otherwise, once he gets into a rhythm, he’s nearly impossible to stop.”

  Murray nodded his bald head. “Yeah. We need to throw him off his rhythm as much as we can. If we can get him to throw a couple of interceptions or even get one fumble, he won’t be able to recover. He goes to shit once he’s had a bad quarter, or a bad couple of quarters, in the beginning of any game.” He turned towards Turner.

  “You hear much about the plan on offense?”

  Turner shrugged his shoulders and pushed his plate away. “That they’re trying to keep Johansen’s fucking head in the game. I think Coach wants them to run a lot, run down their fat doughboys on defense so by the fourth, they’re worn down.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with Johansen these days, anyway? I mean, it’s like he’s there, but he’s not there.” Rodriguez interjected himself back into the conversation, unable to let more than two minutes pass without him contributing something to the table topics.

  “Jesus, Rodriguez. Where the fuck has your head been? Johansen’s in a seriously nasty custody battl
e with his ex. Do you read anything other than the fucking sports page?” Campbell scolded him, shaking his head across the table and seriously looking as if he could smack some sense into his teammate.

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Johansen’s ex took the kids and is refusing to let him see them at all. The lawyers are fighting about it and the ex is essentially trying her case in the press. Dredging up a lot of shit from his past that’s designed to bias the judge against him. She signed a pre-nup she’s seeking to set aside and get full custody of the kids,” Turner explained.

  “What’s up with his past?” Rodriguez asked, his confusion apparent.

  “Allegedly, she’s claiming he liked to use a lot of coke, both on and off season. She’s also claiming he used steroids and had sex with a teenage neighbor.”

  “Is any of it true?”

  Turner shrugged. “I don’t know, but it’s distracting the shit out of him right now. I actually think she’s doing it specifically right now to get him to concede to her demands. They’ve been married for nine years. She knows exactly how important this time of the season is, especially since Johansen’s contract is up next year. He fucks up right now, as in, seriously fucks up, and he could be looking at a back-up position soon.”

  “That’s what you get for getting married and having kids,” Michael said, shaking his head, not noticing the collective silence around the table. The men quickly looked at Mary and then looked away as her flush climbed high on her cheeks.

  Chapter 18

  After Michael’s little bombshell, the conversation careened to a standstill. Mary’s stomach dropped out of her body. Since dinner was pretty much over and everyone wanted to be home and in bed earlier rather than later in deference to the game, they quickly helped Murray clean up, placed the dishes in his state-of-the-art dishwasher and left.

  On the drive home, she and Michael could have been separated by a thousand miles.

  The radio was on, the Jeep was cruising, the night was dark, and I-5 heading north to Portland was relatively quiet.

  After ten minutes, Michael broke the silence between them.

  “What the fuck’s wrong, Mary?” he barked, increasing the Jeep’s speed as they raced towards the city.

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why aren’t you talking?”

  “I don’t seem to have much to say right now,” she murmured, looking out the window at the side of the road, unable to see anything in the inky darkness blanketing the night, but entirely unwilling to look at Michael. Her emotions were swirling in a tempest all around her head and her heart. Questions she wanted to ask, but wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answers to. Statements she wanted to make, but did not want to wait for a response. Sense she wanted to shake into him that she knew would be futile. She was hoping for things that would never come to pass, for feelings and commitments he would never be able to make. And despite that, her disappointment stole her breath. Her heart was stuck in her throat and her eyes felt as though they were about to burst into tears. She was not going to cry. Absolutely not. Not tonight, in front of Michael for no reason. At least, no reason he would possibly understand.

  “Bullshit. You always have something to say, Mary. Just say it.”

  “What exactly would you like me to say, Michael?”

  His grip tightened on the steering wheel.

  “I want you to fucking talk to me. Something is obviously bothering you, but you won’t tell me what it is. I can’t fix it if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

  Her laugh was dark. “You can’t fix it.”

  “How do you know if you won’t tell me?”

  “Trust me.”

  “I’m trying to trust you, Mary, but you’re not giving me a lot to work with here.” His frustration shone through his voice, acting like sandpaper on her already frayed nerves. All she wanted was to arrive home, crawl in her bed and forget about what happened tonight.”

  “Michael, where do you see this going? With us?”

  “Oh Jesus Christ, Mary. You’re better than this.”

  “Better than what, Michael? Better than wanting to know where we stand? Sorry if I’m a little too real for you. But sue me. I deserve to know.”

  “Better than having to fucking define what we are.”

  “I’m a teacher, Michael. Definitions work for me. They structure my life. Sorry if I’m a little too typical for you.”

  “I don’t know what the fuck we are. We’re together, I guess.”

  “You guess? As in, you’re unsure?”

  “I’m sick of your fucking word games, Mary.”

  “I’m sick of your attitude, Michael.”

  “If we’re together, what’s our endgame?” she inquired, now eager to finish this in the car, where he wouldn’t be able to see her face and she wouldn’t have to see his.

  “What the fuck do you mean, ‘what’s our endgame’? We’re together. What more do you want?”

  “You want to know what I want? Because after dinner tonight, I don’t think you can handle what I want. What I want and what I deserve.”

  “Enough with the games already. Spill it.”

  “Fine. I want to be married. I want babies. I want several babies in fact. I want a husband who believes in marriage and commitment and family as much as I do. I want to be married for fifty years to the same man and grow old with him. Watch our kids grow up and our grandchildren come over for holidays. That’s what I want.”

  The silence, as many had said, was deafening.

  She laughed again, hollow as it reverberated around the interior of the vehicle.

  “That’s what I thought. Look, I love you and I want to be with you, but I’m not going to remain in a relationship that’s never going to give me what I ultimately want.”

  Michael was pulling the Jeep onto Northwest Overton and Mary, heart in her throat, again gave thanks she’d made it through the conversation she’d never expected to have and certainly not so soon.

  “Good-bye, Michael, and good luck.” Mary opened her door and ran into her apartment before she could run back out and kiss him and love him the way she wanted to. The squeal of his tires echoed through the streets two seconds later.

  ~ * ~ * ~

  “Good-bye, Michael.” Mary’s final words rang in Michael’s head as he pounded the trails in Forest Park, the December rain matching his mood perfectly. Unable to sleep and not wanting to see his teammates or any of the coaching staff at the Tide complex, he’d hit the trail to try and expel some of the energy and anger that had kept him up all night after he dropped Mary off. Honestly? Those were her last fucking words to him? If that’s what her supposed “love” meant to her, if she could walk away so cleanly, so easily, without even hearing from him or having him respond? Then she never loved him in the first place.

  Panic and anger increased with each mile he ran. He knew exactly what she had been pissed about. You never lied to her, you never promised her anything, you never claimed to be anything other than your mean, miserable self.

  His knees reminded him his constant workouts were beginning to wear and tear on his joints, but he pushed the thought out of his mind as he again turned to Mary. One fucking comment and she threw everything away? So what if he didn’t want to get married? By now, she more than anyone, should have known, should have realized he was not marriage material. No woman in her right fucking mind would want him for a lifetime partner. His headfuck from his family and Tracey combined with his shitty personality and fucked up back were enough to send any decent woman running. And kids? No fucking way was he passing on Don Santiago’s genes. He couldn’t, and he wouldn’t, take any chance with his DNA. No. Fucking. Way.

  And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about how she had heard him, had listened to him recount his childhood, knew all about his scars, and still said she wanted to be with him. Well, there’s clearly something wrong with her.

  The problem was, there wasn’t anything wrong with her. It was all on
him. Every single, shitty thing he’d said. Or hadn’t said, as the case would be. He hadn’t told Mary he loved her. He wasn’t sure exactly what his feelings were. The five years between the two relationships he’d had served to sever all concepts of normalcy and expectations in romantic relationships. After Tracey, he’d vowed he’d never utter the words again. No woman was ever going to wield such power over him. Love wasn’t for him and even if he ever felt it, there was no need for him to communicate it.

  Ultimately, it was of no consequence to him. Mary Richardson was out of his life for good, which was good for him and good for the Tide. He’d remain focused on the tasks before him, assist the Tide in reaching the post season, and move on with his life.

  ~ * ~ * ~

  Mary’s eyes felt like sunken grapes inside her head, the result of a restless night full of tears and sleeping fits. She’d tossed and turned in between her crying jags, finally giving in and getting up around seven to take Max out. At least one of them was happy, she mused, hooking up his leash as they headed out onto their standard morning walk route.

  She hated second-guessing herself, but it was a compulsion she couldn’t ignore. Should she have never told Michael she loved him? Should she have tried to talk more last night and figure out why he was dead-set against marriage and kids? What would that have accomplished? Sure, Michael hadn’t had the best hand dealt when it came to the parental pool and it was not difficult to hypothesize that his antipathy towards marriage and family stemmed from his own fucked-up background. All that talking would have netted was the confirmation his parents were responsible for his feelings. But it was Michael, as an adult, who allowed them to color his view of love and commitment.

  He’d never even said he loved her. He never said what he wanted from her, nor had he ever given any indication whether he thought they had any future, or if she was simply a convenient bed partner.

  The Sunday morning dawned as dark and as grey as she felt, as though Mother Nature too was pissed off and cranky as she and Max continued about the neighborhood. Her emotions swirled around and around like a tornado in her head, unwilling or unable to land in any one particular spot.