A Short Move

by Katherine Hill

  He couldn’t tell which was better, Caryn’s confidence or the dessert. The tiramisu was rich, but Caryn was practically her former self. When she talked about spending his money, she reminded him of the entitled Glamour Shot he’d fallen for, the Virginia girl who’d seen the best in him. She’d gotten sidelined for a long stretch there in Miami and New England, first by football, then by motherhood, and truth be told, by his own ego, too, and that was unfortunate for them both, because Caryn did not thrive on the bench. By the time it was over, he was sick of dealing with the pleading, selfish thing that she’d become, both because he hated those qualities, and because he’d known it was half his fault. It had to be. She’d finished college in no time once they’d agreed upon a divorce.

  “I’m really proud of you,” he told her. He felt himself gathering for an apology, as he often had in recent years. “I never gave you enough credit.”

  The suggestion of their past seemed to embarrass her. “Water under the bridge, Mitch,” she said.

  “Well, I’m serious about this yoga thing as a gift,” he said. “You don’t have to pay me back.”

  He figured thanking him would have embarrassed her, too, and that was fine. When you gave something, you had to give it freely. But she smiled, and that made him feel good. Then she made him picture his breath circling around his heart, expanding across the width of his chest, rising to the top of his skull. “Try it before the game,” she said. “This time actually do it.”

  After paying the bill, he stood outside with Alyssa while the women used the bathroom one more time. “You know Mom has a new boyfriend,” Alyssa told him.

  “No,” he said, “I didn’t.”

  “Well, she does.”

  She hugged herself in her coat while he opened his to let the air in. DC was so much cleaner than Philadelphia, like a hotel even out on the street. “This one treat her right?”

  “She’s not crying or anything. They go on real dates.” She ducked into his armpit for warmth.

  “What does ‘real’ mean?” He hated himself for asking follow-up questions, but Alyssa’s evasiveness practically demanded it. Thirteen years old and already running the meeting. He gave her a little squeeze.

  “Like plays and really nice dinners. He drives a BMW.”

  “Don’t tell me: the Inn at Little Washington.”

  She grinned up from the cave of him, caught. “Yeah, they went last week.”

  “It’s all coming together.”

  “He’s old, though.”

  “I’m old.”

  Alyssa gave him a look like he’d just tried to take the fall for a crime she’d personally witnessed another guy commit. “He’s, like, fifty,” she said. “Don’t say that.”

  He mimed zipping his lips. “Whatever you want,” he said, and she huddled closer to suggest there were all sorts of things she still wanted, and he squeezed back to tell her, just ask.

  He was back on time. He’d paid his share of bullshit fines: roughing the passer, low block, cell phone on the sidelines, unauthorized socks. Lately, he was squeaky clean, at least according to the official record. When you got old and distinguished, they wanted you to be a role model, which meant they touted you at least as often as they looked the other way. But it worked, that little lie of theirs. In his dotage, named one of the league’s best men, he found himself following the rules.

  Nine o’clock, and the defense was all crammed into their designated meeting room at the hotel. It was so much worse than the brand new classrooms of the facility, not enough chairs for everyone, and those who got them had to smush, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. A crinkled team banner more suited to a sports bar was strung along one wall. Tomorrow’s locker room would also be worse, one of the many mind games of playing on the road. Not that Mitch’s mind could be messed with at this point. He’d been a pro too long.

  He stood in the back with Moore, who was still icing his elbow, while Delahanty reviewed every weakness in Washington’s game. They were legion, most of them real and exploitable, some invented just to fire the guys up. The lead running back was indecisive. The second-year QB was soft. Number 8, remember him? We own him. He was built to take the sack.

  “We’re blitzing all day because they’re vulnerable,”Delahanty said. “Even when they know it’s coming.”

  That was the best, getting guys who knew you were coming and still couldn’t get out of your way. He would miss that. He would miss hitting guys in general, especially the smaller ones he could carry a few yards before they crashed. Like sweet little brides across the threshold. Welcome to your new home.

  They reviewed everything they’d learned that week, everything they already knew. Football was a perfectionist’s game, which meant it was a game of repetition. Look back. Plan ahead. Review, review, review.

  He avoided Hatchett in the dining area, focusing his attention instead on the whirling blade that was making his strawberry banana smoothie. He watched the creamy liquid rise to fill the blender, pictured his breath rising to fill his lungs. Caryn would be proud, this was just what she was trying to get him to do. He headed to the elevator with half the D-line, Moore and Burgess and Smith, all three of them carrying gummy worms from the bottomless candy bowl and overflowing bags of buttered popcorn.

  Back in his room, he called Lori, said I love you and yeah and me too and good night, then gave himself over to Pay-Per-View. He was a faithful man, but pre-game porn was practically on the official itinerary, in that conspicuously lengthy space between 9:45pm Snack and 11:00pm Curfew and Bed Check. What else was a man alone in a hotel full of men supposed to do? You didn’t just want to rub one off, though, no way. Some guys did, but not Mitch. For him, there was power in the tease. It fueled him, filled him with a little extra juice, a little more aggression. He lay there, getting hard, sound on mute, as a bomb-chested brunette with maraschino red nails worked her tongue all over a faceless dick. He clenched his fists, thought of Caryn, clenched his ass. He felt everything necessary inside him tighten.

  By the time the strength coaches knocked, he was breathing normally again, having bottled most of what he needed, his dick flying reverently at half-mast. “Yep!” he shouted, hearing the noise of protocol move on, already knocking at the next door down.

  D called a few minutes later.

  “MoJo’s ready,” he reported, meaning their star running back Morris Johnson, whom he’d spotted getting his usual stretch while everyone else was getting dessert. They rarely talked to MoJo, or any of the offense, but they watched them, D especially. He wanted to know what sort of conditions the defense would be playing under. “He was in his legs already,” he told Mitch. “I’m telling you. I never seen the man so calm.”

  “Kid’s got what it takes.”

  “He’s a specimen,” D said appreciatively.

  “We just gotta do our part.”

  D took a breath and Mitch could almost hear his brain shifting into its philosophical register. Rhetorical questions were coming, metaphors for understanding victory, the subject of every conversation with D. It was one conversation, in a way the only one they’d ever had. Their positions had changed over the years—once it was Mitch who insisted D take everything seriously, now D drove the motivational car—and maybe that was why one conversation had sustained them so long, because no matter what, they were always in motion. No position was ever really fixed.

  Still, D’s angle this time took Mitch by surprise.

  “I know we don’t have you much longer, man—”He must’ve felt Mitch’s resistance, because he stopped there, but without stopping. Instead he cleared his throat and restarted. “I just keep thinking how special it would be to do it for you this season. I think the guys could really rally around that.”

  Certain kinds of straight talk, Mitch liked. From certain people, at certain times. This wasn’t any of those.

  “Huh,” he said, which seemed safe.

  “You feel me, brother? Guys need motivation.”

  “N
ot me, though,” Mitch muttered.

  “Huh?”

  “That’s not me. Let ’em find that somewhere else.” He wasn’t sure these were the right words, exactly. But his tone, at least, was unmistakable.

  “Aw, don’t be like that,” D said.

  Now he was angry. His head was off the pillow. He could feel D’s complacent body resting effortlessly through the phone. “You think because you’re in your prime right now, it’s never gonna happen to you?”

  “Course not. I know it is—”

  “I can still do this. I feel it. So I’d rather not think about anything else. Okay?”

  They breathed together. Mitch looked at the heavy hotel curtains, drawn against the next morning’s light.

  “Just seems like we could do something to prepare ourselves.” D’s voice had grown less aggressive, but that didn’t mean he was going to relent. “This job chews people up. Spits ’em out. Guys live for this job, and then it’s ‘Bye. See ya. Go live for something else.’ But, like, imagine a different reality, where we prepare ourselves for that other thing, same as we prepare ourselves to play. Celebrate it, even. Turn it positive.”

  Why they were even talking about this, he had no idea. Had he asked D to bring it up? He had a semi for freak’s sake and he was trying to make it count. He felt his back, which had been nagging him all week, but had he complained? He hadn’t. He pushed it down into the mattress, felt the pillow top push back. He had power still inside him. He had stored up those extra years. He had no need right now for conversation.

  “You prepare yourself however you want,” he told him. “Let me take care of me.”

  Sunday morning appeared before him. He’d been asleep, now he was awake, a new day popping open like a fresh box of cereal. He got to his feet, ignoring every twinge, thinking only of breakfast. He threw open the curtains, threw on his sweats. In the dining area he walked from Smart Start to sausage, in the ballroom he walked through the defense one last time. The carpet below his feet was ivy-patterned; above him were three crystal chandeliers. The mood was light, guys joking like dads at a barbeque. And why shouldn’t they joke? They played a game. Other people worked for a living; they were the jerk-offs who got to play.

  Go Dad!!! Alyssa texted. You’ve always been my hero. I’ll be cheering for you so hard.

  She killed him sometimes with her love. It was more than he probably deserved. Bet I won’t be able to hear you, he texted back. Maybe he’d get to spend more time with her once all this was through.

  Ten push ups says you will

  God bless you baby girl. Love you

  Love you MORE

  The most

  You win

  Then he texted Hardy. Game day! What u up 2?

  And Hardy immediately replied, Dont choke

  He took a hot frothy shower back in his room, a luxury each week to rinse alone, then boarded the last bus to the stadium. In the locker room, at every spot, all the uniforms were set, like a hall of mirrors of uniforms, each jersey carefully stretched over its pads, shoes and helmets on each shelf, pants on hooks. Griggs, who was superstitious, was already out of his worsted wool, taped and head-phoned, and in his warm-ups, sitting with his chair facing in. He listened to the same handful of pregame songs in the same order each week, no skips, no substitutions. One of them, Mitch knew, was “Fuck tha Police.” He wouldn’t look at anyone until they were dressed, and then, just like that, at a moment known only to Griggs, he’d join the room. When he did that, you could see it in his eyes, he was with you, he was present.

  Mitch wasn’t that fussy, but he was old enough that he had to take care. A little time in the tub, another rinse, a little time stretching on the field on his own, the best he felt all week. His breath was good, too, almost mentholated. It filled his ribcage and puffed out toward the seats where a few early-access fans had already taken up their positions. Back inside he taped his foot and fingers, a promise ring between each knuckle. I will love, cherish, and honor you, I will help you get your best grip, I will pop you back when you get gnarly, forever and ever, ’til death do us part.

  And then he was dressed and on the field again, stretching in line with the team, running show-off drills for the sideline crowds, and then he was in the training room, getting numbed and juiced, and then he was in the shower room, asking God for strength, and now they were all together in the locker room and everyone was absolutely dialed in. Kowalczyk gave his pregame sermon, which always invoked a war. This time it was World War II, a favorite. Something about a foxhole and a desert. His eyes grew bluer in their righteousness; his belly seemed to sit up straight. He was a quiet guy normally, he saved it all for Sundays when he had to send them to battle. And this Sunday was 6-6, division rival, on the road. This was the most excited he’d been all season. He spat half the words; he couldn’t help it. Then he wiped his forehead and asked Mitch to lead the prayer.

  He hadn’t told him he was going to do this, which was uncharacteristic. The man famous for driving to work the most efficient possible route, who probably didn’t even need a secretary he kept such meticulous files, who designed playbooks like they were lives—Kowalczyk didn’t believe in surprises. Not when he could plan things in advance. Mitch looked at D, who was holding his camera. His fault. Had to be. He’d said something he had no right to say.

  Though D talked nonstop in the pregame locker room, firing himself up, tapping guys on the hat, keeping the headphone-filled room safe from silence, Mitch hadn’t really engaged with him since they’d hung up the night before. He’d been lost in his own routine that morning, his own body, his own mind. But now he remembered his anger. It had kept him awake longer than he’d wanted, staring first at the muted sex on his TV and then at the dull wall behind it.

  Everyone knew you didn’t talk about the end. Think about it in the off-season, maybe. Plan for it, sure. But you kept that discussion on the inside, and you did not let other people in. You had to keep moving forward, protect yourself from their doubts. Only D would have the nerve to try to get in Mitch’s head and call that a good thing, something helpful. A job, he’d called what they did. Well, Mitch used to call it that, too. But it wasn’t a job. It was heaven on earth.

  “We are here because we are blessed,” Mitch said, looking at Jennings, who was already nodding along. “We were given talent, and we were given the opportunity to use it. A lot of people sacrificed for us along the way. We give thanks to them: the mothers and grandmothers and fathers and grandfathers who fed us and coached us and drove us so we could make it in this game and in this league. We wouldn’t be here if not for them.”

  He looked at a few guys in turn—Kohler, Moore, Griggs. He looked at Hatchett, in the back, who was no more exempt then the rest of them, and the look he gave him said exactly that. Then he looked at D, who wasn’t even being sneaky about it: he was recording the entire thing. He wasn’t smiling like usual, though. His mouth was closed behind his little silver camera, and he might as well have been shaking his head, that was how obvious it was he disagreed. Well, fuck him, Mitch thought in D’s own foul language. Fuck his philosophy. In your prime you can imagine whatever you fucking want, and still imagine you’re going for the win. Mitch knew better. He knew football better and he knew God better, and he knew he couldn’t out-think them.

  Mitch looked straight into the lens. “We talk all the time about ‘doing our job,’” he said. “We talk about ‘getting to work.’ But that’s bull, and we know it. What your parents did was work. What your grandparents did was work. This is not work. This is a game. We give thanks that God lets us play. We give thanks that God lets us win. So let’s get out there today and play. Let’s win this game, amen.”

  “AMEN!”

  “Eagles on three.”

  “Onetwothree EAGLES.”

  They pounded out into the tunnel, awaiting their entrance cue.

  “You know it is though,” D shouted through his facemask in the dark. “It is work.” The tunnel clanged with al
l their bodies, D’s growing more furious as the start of the game approached. But Mitch’s brain was so charged with his own faith that even D’s disagreement sounded to him like further proof. He felt his faith in him, which was how he knew it was right, like a straight line from the ground to God and on that line was his own honest body.

  “Post that video!” Mitch told him. “’Bout time people heard the truth!”

  In the first half, Rainey threw well, and MoJo ran as if through walls.

  “That’s it, Offense!” D shouted. “That’s the way to do your job!”

  “Post it!” Mitch shouted at D every time they took the field.

  “Let’s get to work!” D snarled back.

  It was almost as if the Skins weren’t there. They’d taken a hostile field and made it neutral and then they’d made it theirs. Mitch flew to every threat at his best, which in the moment was the only level he remembered. He heard D talking at guys the way he did, weakening them with his words. “Post it!” Mitch shouted, killing another drive. His inside self had logged off. He was all action now, all body. He lost his vision once on a hellacious hit, and it was exhilarating because it stopped the guy and it brought D’s voice to his ear. “You’re a beast, Wilk! You hear me? You’re a motherfucking BEAST!”

  But then the second half began, and the poles began to shift. The offense kept stalling, standing themselves up on date after date.

  “Bunch of gay ponies out there,” Moore muttered.

  “Limp dicks,” Griggs agreed, disgusted.

  “Do your job, 44!” D screamed. “Offense! DO YOUR JOB!” He had on his insane look, his look of historic anger, with his eyes standing up as straight and tall as he could make them.

  One plan fell through, then another. Rainey snapped his chinstrap in frustration. Coaches ran back and forth on the sideline, their clipboards like sandbags to hold off a flood. When, after Rainey finally completed a good pass that was brainlessly ruled incomplete, Kowalczyk threw the red challenge flag, his face nearly matching its hue. Some coaches tossed the flag the way gamblers tossed their bets. A formality, because they had to. But Kowalczyk threw it like a gauntlet, always ready for the duel.