“Like I said Mr. Larroquette, it's cool. She's got nothing I'm interested in.” The GM looks at me like I'm crazy, but I'm not lying. Since her first trip back from visiting her parents on the outskirts of London, April and I have grown closer and closer every day. I'm becoming positively domestic, looking forward to a night at home with her more than going out or doing something more akin to what I did in my spare time in college. The only thing that April and I haven't done is say the l-word, but I can feel it coming. Hell, I took the time to learn how to do some cooking, that's gotta say something, right? Even if it is just making Hamburger Helper.
“Just be careful,” Mr. Larroquette says, stepping off the stage as the program cuts to commercial and Trisha comes over to our mini-set. Bending over, she displays even more cleavage, and I'm certain those things are surgically enhanced somehow, there's just no way they can't be.
“Hi Tyler, I'm glad you're taking the time to talk,” Trisha greets me, offering her hand. “And without a handler, even.”
“The GM is still here,” I say, motioning beyond the lights that have come up and temporarily blinded me. I blink, knowing that it'll come around in a minute, but I'm dazzled, and can't see anything beyond a few black outlines against the darker black of the deeper backstage. “I'm sure if I get too out of hand he'll whack me with something.”
“Well, I'll try not to make it too rough,” she says. “Let's have some fun.”
I’m starting to think this is part of her game. She's trying to get a little bit of leverage to ask some tough questions.
“Trisha? We're back in ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”
“Just relax and we'll enjoy ourselves,” Trisha says as the producer continues counting down. Her eyes sparkle, and I'm certain. She either wants me, or she’s about to try exactly what Coach warned me about.
“Two . . . one . . . and we're on!”
Trisha's smile to the camera is picture perfect and probably has half a million men rubbing their crotches at home with it's innocent naughtiness, and I try not to roll my eyes. “We're back Canada, and with us now is the rookie who's lighting up the scoreboards like he's Father Christmas with a tree, Tyler Paulson. Tyler, thank you for being here.”
“Glad to be here, Trisha. Thank you for having me.”
Trisha smiles and starts on her introductory spiel. “Tyler, in the four games you've played so far, you've set a pace that could have you match or even beat the single season passing touchdown mark, currently set at forty-nine. So far you've got twelve touchdown passes and another two touchdowns rushing. How does that make you feel?”
“Well, I've been fortunate to have the teammates that I have surrounding me,” I immediately reply. Sure, every quarterback gives this sort of same canned answer, but that doesn't make it untrue. “With good receivers like DeAndre, Robbie and Paul, and of course my line in front of me, we've gotten off to a good start.”
“Yes, I'd say a good start would be an understatement. Still, some say the Fighters have benefited by having three of your first four games be essentially home games, with the farthest you've had to travel being Ottawa in week three. However, starting after tomorrow's home game against Winnipeg, you're going to be on the road for the next month, except for a bye week.”
“I'll admit, playing in front of friendly home fans has been helpful,” I say before Trisha can get out a question. “But I'm confident in our team's ability to play well on the road too.”
“Even with a defense that's giving up nearly thirty-three points a game?” Trisha asks, and I could practically hear Mr. Larroquette groan in frustration. Yeah . . . our defense sucks. Unfortunately for the GM, his gamble of blowing the budget to get me signed meant that the young players on the defensive side of the ball haven't had the chance to learn from seasoned vets that command higher prices. They've taken some injuries too, and we've had to actually sign some guys on free agent contracts just to keep the squad filled up. Still, if we can keep the injury bug off them more than they have been, we'll have a tremendous defense come the last few games of the season.
“Well, I know the GM may not like me talking about our defense,” I say playfully, letting Trisha think that she's got me, “but I think that these guys are tremendously talented. I played against a lot of guys who are now playing pro ball, and I'd match the heart of those guys up against our defense any day. Someday soon, they're going to click, and I feel bad for the quarterback that has to play against our defense the day that happens. They're going to be in for a long, long day.”
Trisha smirks, and I know that while I disobeyed orders, I don't think even he could be upset with my answers. “And what about you, Tyler? There's still fourteen weeks left in the season, after all. Do you think you can keep up this record setting pace the whole year?”
“It's going to be a long season, of course. But I'm excited, I feel good, and I hope to keep making progress. We'll see.”
“Last question, if you don't mind. Are there any games that you're not looking forward to?”
I'd expected this one, and laugh. “Yeah . . . week eighteen at Edmonton. I'm a California boy, I've always hated cold weather games. Playing a team called the Inuits in November has me packing my extra sweater already.”
Trisha laughs. “Well, good luck tomorrow. Thanks for joining us.”
“Thanks for having me.”
She turns back to the camera, all professional. “When we come back football fans, Owen and Mick are going to break down all four of tomorrow's games, and I'll have our in-depth story on Jim Collins of the Calgary Sabercats, who's remarkable comeback from near career-ending injury is inspiring others around the country.”
“And we're out!” the producer says in a moment, and Trisha's professional smile turns to a predatory one as she looks back at me.
“Nice interview. You handled my defense question well.”
“I figured you'd be asking about it. A good QB prepares for the opposition.”
She gives me a half smile, cocking an eyebrow. “Is that what I am? The opposition?”
“The press and the players have always had a sort of semi-symbiotic, semi-confrontational relationship,” I reply, using words that I've not used since some of my college classes. Honestly, who in daily life uses the term symbiotic? “I need you to help my public image, you need me to make ratings. Not that we won't take advantage of each other any chance we can.”
“Taking advantage of me is just what I had in mind,” Trisha says, scribbling on a piece of paper. “Here. I'm staying in town for the weekend, we'll be hosting live coverage of the game tomorrow. Say . . . drinks, after the game?”
I take the paper and see that she's written her hotel and room number, along with a phone number that I assume is hers on it. “Sorry, but I'm taken. Flattered, for sure . . . but not available.”
“Well, you think about it,” Trisha says, giving me a saucy look as she gets up. “Think about it,” she repeats
The producers are getting ready to bring the show back for the two guys who are getting ready for their game by game breakdown. I adjust my tie and get up, going off the set to where I see Mr. L standing, his lips pursed but he's nodding. “Not a canned answer.”
“Still a good one,” I reply, looking at the piece of paper in my hands. “Hey, you're a smoker, right?”
“Yeah,” Mr. Larroquette says, “as much as my wife gets on my ass about quitting, I can't help it on game days, I've gotta have my stogies. Why?”
“You got a lighter or some matches on you?”
He reaches into his coat pocket and comes out with an ornate Zippo, lots of scrollwork etched into the steel sides. He offers it, and I go over to the snack table, where there's an empty bowl that someone left behind. Flicking the spark wheel, I get a flame, and set the piece of paper on fire, dropping it in the bowl once it's fully ignited. “Why'd you do that?”
“Some things are more important than freaky sportscasters,” I explain, only to be interrupted by a cough behind us.
I turn and see April standing there, her arms crossed and her leg cocked to the side. “Hi. When did you get back?”
“About five minutes ago, enough time to see her hit on you, and you burn that note,” she says, trying not to grin. “I got your chorizo.”
“I thought you told me you sent her to get goose sausage?” Larroquette asks with a smirk. He's not that dumb. “Either way, get some sleep, you'll need it. You’re going up against a great defense.”
He leaves, and I look at April, who's broken out in a smile as soon as he’s gone. Coming over, she puts her arms around my neck and gives me a kiss. “That, if you don't know, was the sexiest, most romantic thing I think any man has ever done for me. Not too many girls can say that their hunk of a boyfriend actually burned Trisha James' phone number. Especially when she had those huge boobs in your face.”
“She tried,” I tease, patting her butt, “How's your folks?”
“Dad's doing better, he's back in the home, and Mom had a good day today. She thought I was still in high school, but at least she recognized me. How're you feeling for tomorrow?”
“Good. I was just going to head home, will you join me?”
“I've got just a little bit of paperwork to turn in on these trips, since this is the end of the month. If I don't get them in, the accounting people get their panties in a twist,” April says with a chuckle. “So I'll head back to the office first. I'll be home by nine though.”
“Great, I'll pick up some butter chicken curry from that place down on the corner, we can relax.”
April smiles and gives me another kiss. “Just relax is right, mister. Remember, women weaken legs.”
She leaves, and I watch her go, smiling wistfully at the sight of her butt in her new jeans. Even April's clothes are changing, and she isn't hiding her figure as much as she used to.
I hear a hum behind me and I turn, seeing Trisha James sipping at a cup of what smells like coffee with an amused look on her face. “Well, at least I can see my number was burned for good reason.”
“A good one. I don’t suppose you can keep this one off your show?”
Trisha laughs and nods. “We cover football — not dating. Unless you do something on the field or involving the cops or something warranting a press release, we don't mess with it. Best of luck with that though, she looks like a nice girl.”
A producer calls out her name and she turns her head and waves. “That's my cue. Take care of yourself tomorrow.”
I nod and head out of the studio, hoping to catch up with April before she's left the parking lot, but I don't see her when I get out there. I shrug and head over to my Mustang, and put my keys in the door. “Excuse me, Tyler Paulson?”
I turn and see a guy in a sport coat and jeans, and he doesn't look like a fan wanting an autograph. Still, he doesn't look like a psycho either. “Yes, I'm Tyler Paulson. How can I help you?”
The guy whips out an envelope, and hands it to me. “Thanks. You've been served.”
He turns and walks away while I stand there, stunned, looking down at the envelope in my hand. Served? As in . . . a lawsuit?
My fingers tremble as I open the envelope, and unfold the notice inside. Ontario Court of Justice, the concern of Tyler Paulson vs. Catherine Paulinski and Greta Lawson in the matter of paternity and child support . . .
I blink, a pit in my stomach. Catherine Paulinski? Greta Lawson? Who the fuck are they?
Third quarter, and I'm flat out stinking up the joint. Overthrown passes, underthrown passes, bad reads, it doesn't matter, if I can fuck it up, I've done it so far this game. Through two and a half quarters I'm ten out of twenty-four passes, zero touchdowns with an interception. At least the defense has found their balls a little bit, and we got a lucky punt return that has kept us in the game. We're down by seven, seventeen to ten.
The problem is, I can't get that envelope out of my head. Two women, both claiming I had unprotected sex with them two months ago, both claiming they're now pregnant. I mean, first, what are the fucking odds? And to have it happen just before April and I started seeing each other . . . what are the fucking odds?
“Tyler? HEY, TYLER!”
Something smacks me in the head, and I look up to see Dave Hawk looking me in the eye. “Call the play, man.”
Play? Oh yeah, the play.
I call the play, break the huddle, and everyone gets into position. I settle into shotgun, and read the defense. Well, there's twelve guys out there, I can count still at least.
Dave snaps the ball, and chaos erupts. Bobby comes across like he's expecting a hand-off, but it's not there, while Paul and Robbie are running crossing wiggle routes that end up getting both of them into what is essentially double coverage. DeAndre’s getting jammed, and oh shit, here comes the linebacker . . .
I take off, running like a scared rabbit for the nearest hole I can find. There's a hint of daylight up ahead, and maybe I can squeeze through for some gain . . .
I don't even feel the hit, it's so fast and violent. I just know suddenly I'm flying sideways, knocked totally off my feet with something wrapped around my waist. The grass comes up hard, jarring me, and my helmet bounces off the ground, stunning me. I somehow held onto the ball at least, but it takes me a moment to get up.
It's third down, and Coach sends out the punt team. I get over to the sidelines, where he's giving me the hairy eyeball. “What the fuck was that?” he asks while the punt goes on and our defense takes over. “I called for triple slants, not that Keystone Kops Cluster Fuck.”
“Sorry . . . I just missed the play,” I mumble, shaking my head. Coach grows concerned, and calls the trainer over, who checks me out. “No, I don't have a concussion.”
“Yeah well, you're playing like shit today,” Coach says, concerned. “What’s going on?”
“After the game, we'll talk,” I say. “I . . . I might need the team's help on this one.”
Coach nods, serious. “Okay. But whatever it is, put it out of your mind for the next seventeen minutes, can you? I need a quarterback out there, not a zombie.”
“I'll do what I can.”
I take a seat on the bench, shaking my head and waving off any of the other players who come over, concerned. I turn around and see April in the stands, wearing my old Western jersey just like she'd asked to do when we officially became boyfriend and girlfriend. Underneath, I know she's wearing her lucky lingerie, something she'd shown off for me the first night she got it, but right now sex is just about the furthest thing from my mind.
Shaking my head, I try to wrap my head around the clusterfuck that I'm in now. The best girlfriend of my life, the first one I can say that I've had real feelings for since Catrina, that's for sure . . . and I go and fuck it up. Literally, fuck it up. I mean, how can I tell her that our first night out, when I treated her like an inconsiderate shit, I end up not only hooking up with two bar sluts, but somehow get them both pregnant? At least, that’s where I’m assuming these chicks are from.
But the problem is, I remember nothing. Hell, I barely remember names at this point. I've spent the past eighteen hours since that envelope was handed to me racking my brain, and my memory keeps fading just after the two girls come up and offer to pay for my drink . . .
“Tyler, you here man?”
I look up and see Vince taking the seat next to me. I hazard from the look his face that Coach has been asking him to warm up, in case my head isn't screwed on right. “Yeah, I'm here.”
“Coach wants my opinion if you should go back in the game. What's going on?”
I shrug. “Legal problems. Got a lawsuit dropped on my ass last night, having problems getting it out of my head.”
“So you're not sick or anything? Just mental?” Vince asks, and I nod. He hums and nods himself. “I won't ask the details, not my job. I'm just a backup QB who wants to become a coach next year. But if you want my advice, just separate yourself from the event. Nothing you do in the next quarter and two minutes is going to affect that lawsuit, b
ut it will affect this team and your job. So put it aside. It'll still be there after the game, that's for sure.”
“You ever been sued?” I asked, and Vince nods.
“Yeah, my second year, had some ambulance chaser come after me when I had a car accident up in Saskatchewan. Total bullshit, but it fucked with me for a game or two. Try not to let this one do the same to you. Hey, how's the domestic life?”
“Domestic, huh? I guess it's an open secret.”
“Five games, and April's been wearing Western U colors every single one of them. Even the dumbest of us can see what's going on there,” Vince says. “It didn't mean you had to punch out Lance a month ago, but I can understand it. He's always been an asshole.”
I laugh, and give Vince a grin. “Nice distraction technique. All right, tell Coach I'm good to go. Maybe I can turn this shit into gold if we've got enough time.”
There's a groan from the crowd and Vince and I look. Our defense, which has been fighting tooth and nail all game, just got smacked, and now we're down two touchdowns. Vince sighs and gives me a look. “Hope you've got enough.”
Chapter 14
April
It's a little strange, sitting in the team offices in my Western jersey after the first loss of the season. It's the first time I've seen Tyler lose, and while his play in the fourth quarter was like I'd come to expect, the debacle that was the first three quarters was too much to overcome, and we ended up losing by ten points, trading touchdowns until BC iced it with a field goal with a minute and some change left. Tyler's last ditch attempts at heroics fell short, and the Fighters lose for the first time all season.
Now I'm in the offices, trying to look like I'm not concerned or that things are normal, while wearing Tyler's jersey — it even still has his name on the back — and typing away at my laptop. Mr. Larroquette asked me to verify the team's hotel accommodations for the trip next week to Calgary, and this is as good a time as ever to fire off those emails.
Rushed: A Second Chance Sports Romance Page 11