Rooster: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Abbey Foxx

  I visit Luke, but it doesn’t help. It’s been something I’ve put off for years, and when I get there I see a well-tended grave, a perfect headstone, and message of compassion I’d forgotten I’d put on there that I’d prefer not to have read at all.

  We go 4-0, and I lead the division in touchdown passes. There are four other teams with perfect records, none of whom have scored as much as we have. We are dominant, well organized and worthy of our position, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by the press.

  “An amazing turnaround.”

  “Impressive.”

  “New man.”

  Are some of the things that get thrown around about me, which compared to last year's headlines is a complete reversal.

  I feel good on the field, empty off it. I throw myself into the game, to the exclusion of almost everything else, besides sponsorship and press obligations, and the infrequent social get togethers I find impossible to get out of, while I politely decline invitations of all kinds, just because my head isn’t in the right place to say anything else.

  I turn down a lot of opportunities with a lot of good looking girls the old Alex would never have even considered, and I do it so often the papers print a story about the possibility of me already being involved with someone, so secretly it seems that no-one has been able to get even a single photo of her.

  It’s bullshit obviously, and I deny it when asked, but the papers seem intent and the story carries itself along way longer than is necessary. I feel like proving them wrong by accepting one of the opportunities, fire myself up to do it and then pussy out right at the last moment because my heart’s just not in it.

  After the fourth game and the first month of the season is up, the light on me begins to fade a little. It begins to shift direction to other players in the league, the rookies making good, or the surprise stories, or the bad boys who can’t keep it in their pants. It feels good not to be the main focus of their attention and even better to read about some else doing the kind of shit that I used to do and getting called out for it. Andy Lynch getting so drunk he was found wandering down a highway dressed as a chicken, Julio Rodgers in a sex scandal that has got him suspended and the best one of all, Gerhart Grevin in a weird sex film being covered in thin slices of Spanish ham by a black midget. I kid you not, the board have no idea how to react to that one. Obviously, the kind of shit that I used to do and get called out for was nowhere near as weird as that, my point is, it’s nice to have the focus shifted for a while.

  Our fifth game is a division rivalry and the game everyone all over the states has been waiting for. Whether you’re a fan or a neutral, as far as most people are concerned, this is the game of the season. Superbowl winners three years in a row, with arguably the best defensive line-up the football league has ever seen, this is the team we need to beat again if we have any chance of making it two in a row. Last year, as a result of injuries and bad luck they didn’t make it to the Superbowl final, a game we won against a wild card team that no-one expected to get into the playoffs, but they did beat us twice in our division - the only two games we lost.

  We played well in both of those games, but got outplayed by a smart unit, with tight offensive plays and a wall of a defense we just couldn’t get past. This year I promise it’s going to be different. This year I’m more focused. This year there is no way I’m going to let them get to us.

  We finish the first half down by 10-17, although I think we are the better team. We give away a sloppy touchdown at the end of the first quarter, and a decision goes against us in the second that leads to a rush on the far side of the field we can’t stop them from converting from.

  The wall of noise around us from their home fans is intimidating, but nothing we can’t block out or use to fire us up. They know they’ve been lucky too. They know they are playing the Superbowl champions and even though we haven’t beaten them in two seasons, I can tell they're scared.

  In the third, we sack their quarterback three times in the first five minutes, and the crowd go wild and then silent. It’s as though a completely different team has come out for the second half and with a clever dummy play on third and six at the twenty-five-yard line, Hurley rushes in to even the score.

  At 17-17 and five minutes to go in the third, pinned into our own half and under a wave of pressure, Kowalski stands strong to block what looks from where I’m standing to be a wall of advancing players, before ending up at the bottom of a pile of them. When they peel off him to get up, Kowalski doesn’t move and I know that it’s serious.

  We finish the third quarter with another injury to Michaels, and a touchdown off the pace at 17-24 down.

  Kowalski has a concussion and a broken rib, but nothing overly serious. Michaels, our rookie tight end from last year, has a twisted knee and looks like he’ll be out even longer. I’m tired but fired up, battered and bruised but not willing to give in just yet. We’ve been unlucky, but this isn’t over. With fifteen minutes left, I know we can win it still. I’m throwing the ball like a dart, and with a couple of good opportunities, I know this game can turn around. They may have the best defense in the league, but they are up against the best quarterback this game has ever seen, and if there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s win.

  I fire the team up as best as I can, which isn’t easy considering we’ve been knocked all over the field and these guys are hurting like hell all over. The crowd has gotten noisier as well, and as we take to the field for the final quarter I can feel them baying for blood.

  This is what I love about the game, but I know it’s not for everyone. I’ve seen rookies come through from the draft who think they know everything about football, come to play in a rival’s stadium and shit themselves so much they would rather do anything else but return. For me, the louder the rival crowd chants, the more it makes me want to smash them into the ground and win.

  I have history here. Last year was the worst game of my career, what followed it to make myself feel better an embarrassing front-page headline across several national newspapers, coupled with a one-game ban and a hefty fine. I’m not prepared to let that repeat itself today.

  The first five minutes of the quarter is a back and forth in the middle third with possession going between the two teams and little advance being made from either. We get a decision go against us that leads to a field goal attempt on their part that looks for all the world like it’s good, before it swings out at the last minute, feathers the post and carries itself wide.

  That near miss, that would have probably sunk the rest of the team had it gone in, seems to have the reverse effect. I bang heads just to make sure. We take a time out to compose ourselves and to fuck up their rhythm and when we take to the field again, I know we’ve got this. Whether it takes every single ounce of energy each one of us possesses, whether it breaks us in half and we take a full month to recover, we’ve got this. Blood, sweat and tears we’re not letting ourselves down now.

  Pumped up, we push to their thirty-yard line, a clever series of interplay passes and tactical strategy they seem unable to get the read on. We switch and mix up, I pass, throw and run and the offensive line stands up tall and strong in front of me, a solid wall, refusing to go down.

  On a second down, less than five minutes of the game left, I dummy a pass and throw high into the corner, where our rookie draft jumps backward a meter into the sky and picks the ball out of the air like a hanging apple.

  He makes it look so graceful there is a moment of silence that descends around us while the crowd works out exactly what’s happened. A white flag contests it, but it’s only for show, the touchdown is good, the crowd erupts and we go into the final few minutes all square.

  No team has put more than two touchdowns past the Jets all year. No team has worked them as hard as we have. They push against us but we hold them back. They give everything they have and we match it. They look tired, worn, defeated. With three minutes on the clock, at third and five in the middle of the field and going nowhere fast
, they decide to use their last timeout.

  I know we’ve won this if we stay focussed. We drive them hard into the ground, push for a touchdown and make do with a field goal if we don’t get it. We’ll have time to run the clock out and they’ll have nothing to come back at us with, as long as we don’t let them score. As long as this doesn’t go into extra time, because if it does, chances are the pendulum will swing their way, the belief will evaporate and we’ll get royally fucked.

  On their third down they get up in one formation, and then switch at the last minute into something I’ve never seen before. The call hasn’t come from their technical coach because when I look over, he’s just as confused at what he’s seeing as I am. Our defensive line doesn’t know what the fuck to do. They look at each other, realign into what they think might stop what’s happening, only to be completely fucking out of position when the ball is snapped, dummied and then handed off.

  My heart drops as I see their running back break through into empty space, side-step a tackle, cross the forty yard line and then run out of steam under a sandwich of our men, who finally get it together enough to stop him.

  What it isn’t enough to do is stop them getting the first down, which is also now in field goal range. Their players celebrate while ours look like they’ve been had by a team of con artists. The crowd whoops and cheers while ours look plain faced and huddle themselves in silence, wondering what the fuck has just happened.

  It’s a first down but it isn’t over. Hold strong and we’ve still got this. Never give up, no matter how unlikely it looks that you’ll win. They reform into something more normal on the first down and I know exactly what’s coming. They’re going to run the clock down as much as they can, kick a field goal and make absolutely sure we don’t have enough time to do anything about it. It’s tactical, cowardly, and shows us just how much they are scared of us beating them. It makes my body temperature rise and my muscles tense.

  The first two downs only get them an advance of a couple of yards, but it runs the clock down by almost a minute. On the third, Duggins breaks before the call and the play is repeated with a five-yard penalty. They are third and two with a minute and a half on the clock, thirty-five yards from the goal and my heart is in my mouth.

  Again they change the play at the last minute and again our defensive line hustle to get organized into something they think might be the best way to defend it. I have no idea what’s coming, and when the ball is snapped and gathered sweetly, my heart stops beating.

  There is a faked throw, before Bayer turns, ignores his running back and runs himself, ball tight under his arm and a whole wall of our players closing in to sack him. Everyone is on their feet, watching him as he goes, the yards disappearing under his quick feet, that first down line closing in fast.

  At what looks like only inches from securing a first down, Metzler finally gets it together enough to get across and Bayer gets hit hard, not once but twice, as Cole joins him and our two tackles drop him fiercely to the ground.

  After the call gets referred to video replay, and it’s discussed, re-discussed and played out to a crowd of millions, and every single Giants fan all over the world holds their breath, they finally make a decision.

  The Jets are less than the width of my dick from a first down, but fractions count and this one, a world away from home, miraculously goes our way. I can visibly see their mood sink and even though they kick a field goal on the fourth and go into the last minute of the game three points to the good, they are downtrodden and psychologically beaten.

  I take to the field so pumped with adrenaline I’m basically floating. I have a vision so clear of how the next sixty seconds will play out it’s almost as if I’m sat alongside the spectators watching from afar. It’s almost as perfect a play as you’ll ever see. I’ve never thrown better in my life, never connected so well with the players around me, never felt so in harmony with my environment, and that’s a lot to say coming from a three time Superbowl winner and four-time MVP.

  The first down sees a dart ball travel forty yards through the air and whizz into Kaepernick's hands like a laser. The second gains us a first down at their twenty-yard line, from a rushed play that the Jets never look able to stop.

  We are first down and twenty-two and this game has never seemed easier. The Jets are poor imitations of their former selves, wandering around the field like lost ghosts waiting for someone new to haunt.

  They’ve fucking lost, even before the game is up. Even before, with fifteen seconds on the clock, I stand tall, take the snap, and throw an unstoppable ball-on-a-string pass that’s so accurate it’s impossible to do anything else with it but win the game. My wheelchair bound grandmother could have caught it, even if Reggie White were covering her. Not even Luke could have thrown a better ball.

  The Jets look stunned, the crowd falls silent and with less than ten seconds to go we are 31-27 up and everyone knows the game is definitely over.

  The last few seconds are a beaten team going through the motions. We kick, they catch, run ten yards into a defensive line they’ve not been able to get the better of all game, and the visiting crowd erupts, while the home crowd quietly escape, tails between their legs, pride battered and bruised.

  Half of me can’t believe we’ve finally won, the other half can’t believe I ever doubted myself.

  We do a courtesy victory lap, just enough to please the visiting fans, not too much to upset those home fans who still remain, glued in disbelief to their seats, and for the first time all season I feel fired up enough to want to go out hard and celebrate our win.

  Every player does after every game, whether we win or lose, and so far this season I haven’t joined them. Tonight feels like the right kind of night to change all that.

  In the locker room champagne gets passed around and I get a buzz on that feels so good I can’t believe I’ve been holding back for so long.

  Everyone is complimentary, and even though I’m the focus of our team, I’m proud of everyone who’s had a part in our victory. I’m the original lone wolf, but today, the Giants came together and proved beyond any doubt that as a team, we are the ones everyone else needs to beat to prove they are worthy, and right now, that feels impossible. Right now, I feel unstoppable, and if there wasn’t something niggling at the back of my mind, something I know is missing to make this whole thing complete, one word going round and round, one scene getting played back over and over again, I’d feel like nothing could make this day any better.

  I’m deeper in than I want when I head into the press conference, but it doesn’t stop me smiling. These penholders and article writers don’t bother me so much anymore, they’re going to say what they want anyway, whether it’s true or not, so what else can I do but smile, answer politely and wait until it’s all over for another week. I want to go out and celebrate the best game of my life, but this new me gets it as much as the old me hated it with a passion. I play their game and the chances are they’ll appreciate it enough to leave me alone. That’s the plan anyway, and as the star fucking quarterback, I don’t get to walk straight out to my car like the tight ends and the safeties get to do, but that’s why they pay me more, and that’s why I’m the face of a fucking soap bar, while Crosby’s the face that scares children.

  It’s only half an hour anyway. Give them a bit of time and I’ll get it all back and some in return.

  I can’t help but scan the crowd for her, not that I’ve ever seen her at one of these things anyway, but I do it out of habit and I can’t help but hope. Naturally, she’s not anywhere to be seen. There are familiar faces from a number of different national newspapers, press agency and magazines, and there might even be someone here from Endzone, but Lucy Parker is definitely not in the house.

  “That was one of the best team performances I’ve seen in a long time, arguably even better than anything last year, can you tell us how you feel?”

  It’s a dumb-assed question but I answer anyway. “Ecstatic. Beating the Jets
at their own ground is like a dream come true. That was what was missing from last season and now we’ve proved we are capable. I’m proud of everyone and personally, I feel like I’ve never played better football.”

  “Do you put that down to your new attitude? I mean, I think a lot of us are still getting used to having you here after the game, hearing the sound of your voice even.”

  Another dumb question that gets nods of agreement from the other reports.

  “Yes”, I say, purposely keeping the answer short, and smile.

  “There has been much in the news at the moment about a possible secret admirer, potential love interest. Is there any truth in that story”, someone in the back row asks.

  “Absolutely none whatsoever.”

  “So you are definitely single?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Unattached?”

  The sexy reporter smiles a gorgeous smile at me and holds my gaze for long enough to tell me exactly what she’s thinking, while almost everyone else in the room looks at her with grins of subtle cynicism, perhaps unable to believe she’s asking me so directly, perhaps used to her doing it with others.

  “Thank you”, she says finally, jotting what is probably her phone number on her notepad, before looking back up to me. “That’s good to know.”

  The rest is pretty straightforward, with lots of questions about the coming games, the rest of the season, my changing attitude and whether I think we’ve got a chance to win it again.

  It’s over in less than thirty minutes and I’m finally allowed to escape. I’m the last of the players in the locker room after I shower, get dressed and work out exactly how to spend the next forty-eight hours before I have to head back to our ground for training.

  I can feel that mischievous, troublesome side of me niggling to get out, and at the moment, I’m not entirely sure if I’ve got enough energy after today to stop it.