Harley Brennan, Running Back

by Jean C. Joachim

“During training camp? Yeah. Not so great going home alone.”

  “Hot for your new girl?”

  “You could say that.” Although she didn’t provide a lot of companionship, he missed what she did add to his life. “You and Trunk look good. This place is coming along.”

  “By the season opener, it should be finished. Like it?”

  “It looks amazing.”

  “My only worry is that someone’s gonna get into a fight and throw a dart at someone.”

  Harley laughed. “Might happen.”

  “I wanted to get safe darts. The Velcro kind? But Trunk talked me out of it.”

  “He’ll be here to sit on anyone’s face who gets out of hand.”

  “Yeah, he’s my security team.” She grinned.

  Harley’s gaze perused her. He’d never seen Carla look so good. Everything about her glowed. That’s what love looks like. He knew it was love, because he had seen it before, on Shyla’s face when she gazed at him. He frowned to think he’d never seen it on Vanessa’s face, even the day he’d proposed.

  Heavy-hearted, Harley picked himself up and drove home. Before he could hit the rack, his phone rang. He checked it, hoping for Vanessa, but it was his father instead.

  “Harley, my boy. What’s new?”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Wait. I’m putting you on speaker. Your mother wants to talk to you.”

  “Harley, dear. When are we going to meet the beautiful Vanessa? When is the wedding? I need a new dress.”

  “No, you don’t, Minerva,” Harley’s dad put in.

  “Old skinflint. I’m getting a new dress for my son’s wedding.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “That could be arranged,” said his mother.

  “Guys, guys. Don’t fight. No date set. Not until after the season is over anyway. No rush.”

  “Thank God you didn’t make an asshole out of yourself on that stupid, fuckin’ program,” Harley’s father piped up.

  “Arnold, don’t curse.”

  “Thanks, Dad, for the vote of confidence.”

  “I hoped you’d pull it off, and you did. Got the best chick in the joint.”

  “Don’t call our future daughter-in-law a ‘chick,’ Arnold. And I am buying a new dress!”

  “Mom, Dad, could we do this another time? I’m beat. Training camp today.”

  “Sure, sure, son. We get it. See you at the Super Bowl,” his father laughed, and hung up.

  Harley stripped down and collapsed on the bed. In a moment, he fell into a deep sleep.

  * * * *

  September was a glorious month in Monroe. Leaves were just beginning to change, the vibrant greens slowly fading, gold creeping in along the edges. The weather was slightly cooler, making it easier to play football. Harley arrived at the stadium early for the Monday night game with the St. Louis Sidewinders.

  The buffet was set up. He took a plate and loaded up on his favorite protein, roast beef and barbecued chicken. Next was baked potato for energy. He piled Brussel sprouts and broccoli high on the empty space on the dish. Taking a seat at the long table, he dug in. His appetite had kicked in since he’d stepped up his workouts. He was leaner and faster than ever, driving himself to new record running times.

  He’d be damned if he’d consider thirty-three as over the hill for a runner. And he was in shape to prove it. Coach Bass noted his improved times, and the offensive coordinator was adding him into more plays. He was at the top of his game, physically. It was a smoke screen created to hide his personal misery.

  Although he spoke to Vanessa every week, he could no longer deny their incompatibility. It had been almost four months and happiness was still out of reach for Harley. Phone conversations consisted of her bitching about not getting a role, or her squealing with delight when she was set up for a big interview or made the final cut for a modeling job.

  Vanessa didn’t watch football. He got that she didn’t understand it and considered it beneath her. But she seemed to like the money that came with it and cajoled Harley into footing another fifteen-thousand-dollar bill for her expenses in Los Angeles. He kept telling himself he couldn’t shortchange his future wife. He owed her his support. Besides, he was making a bundle, what else did he have to spend it on? Were her arguments now becoming his?

  Horny didn’t begin to describe the growing urges in the man. The release from going solo was wearing thin. He needed a woman, his woman. After hinting that she should come to Connecticut several times with no response, he considered making a demand.

  “Harley Brennan, are you ordering me to fly home and have sex with you?”

  “The thought did occur to me.” He had chuckled.

  “Honestly! I’m making such headway here. Just like a man to want his sex life to come before his wife’s career.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “But that’s what it is. Selfish man.”

  And she’d hung up.

  Harley had taken off his clothes and looked in the mirror. Yep, his balls were still there. So why didn’t he use them? Vanessa was walking all over the running back. An aggressive football player, Harley pushed men out of the way and steamrolled over others with no qualms. Why couldn’t he stand up to his fiancée?

  After many long walks through Nutmeg Park, it had seeped into his thick skull. He didn’t demand she return because he didn’t love her. Whatever magic had been created through Marriage Minded had worn off long ago. He was simply too chicken to admit it to himself. He’d made a mistake, Vanessa wasn’t the one for him, and he had no idea how to tell her without destroying her dream. And then, there was facing the world, the media, and all.

  He finished his food and kept his pals company while they chowed down. Tuffer Demson dug into a plate piled high with meat. Harley slapped him on the back.

  “How’s it going, Tuff?”

  The defensive linebacker simply nodded, his mouth full.

  “Tuffer’s dating Coach’s daughter,” Trunk Mahoney shared, easing his butt into a chair.

  “Yeah? She hot?” Harley asked.

  Tuffer nodded again.

  “You’re probably getting laid more than I am, and I’m engaged.” Harley gave a short laugh.

  “It’s not like that. I like her. We’re dating,” Tuffer said, after swallowing.

  “Go easy on the food. You don’t want to slow your body down,” Trunk put in, eyeing his teammate’s dish.

  “Coach said to stock up on protein. So, I am.”

  “Stock up on sex. Relaxes you and burns calories.” Harley chuckled.

  “Hey, guys. That’s none of your business.”

  “You have a sex life? Glad to hear it.” Trunk patted the younger man on the shoulder.

  “You guys are nosier than a group of grandmas,” Tuffer said, cutting another piece of meat.

  “We got your back. That’s all.”

  “Right. Did you watch that video?” Trunk asked, his eyes glittering with mischief.

  “That’s also none of your business.”

  “Oh, so you did? I get it.” The big man snickered.

  “What video?” Harley asked.

  “Is nothing around here private?” Demson asked.

  “‘O Face Challenge,’” Trunk said. “I think that’s the name.”

  Harley burst out laughing. “Best sex ed. video ever.”

  “You’ve seen it?” Tuffer stared at the running back.

  “Every guy on the team has. Why do you think we get lucky all the time? The Kings rule, in the bedroom and on the field.” Harley chuckled. He picked up his plate and took it to the side table where the dirty dishes were. Then, he went to his locker to dress for the game.

  Chapter Twelve

  When the food was cleared away, Coach Bass called the team together.

  “I know we’ve beat the Sidewinders in the past, but they got a couple of stars in the draft. Yeah, they’re rookies, but their wide receiver is a killer. He’s almost as fast as Brennan!”
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  The men laughed.

  “Seriously. Their new defensive linebacker, number sixty-three, probably doesn’t know the rules too well yet, so look out. He’s a fucking bone-crusher. Needs to get a couple of penalties under his belt, then he’ll calm down. Stay out of his way.

  We have some new plays this season. I hope you’ve memorized them. It’s a new day. A new start, and we’re working toward a new Super Bowl. So, get your asses in gear, and let’s send St. Louis home losers!”

  The team put their hands in the ring and did their Kings shout. They ran out on the field to the cheering of the hometown crowd. The players lined up and placed their hands over their hearts while the National Anthem was sung.

  Harley eyed the other side, looking for the new defenseman. He spied a big man with a young face. That must be him. The kid was a bruiser, six four at least, two hundred and fifty pounds, Harley estimated. Number 63. He leaned over to whisper to Lawson “The Kid” Breaker, one of the Kings’ offensive linemen, “That’s him. That monster there. Number 63. See ’im?”

  Breaker nodded.

  “That’s the guy you need to protect me from. Okay?”

  “Got it.”

  Griff Montgomery, the quarterback, loped out to the center for the coin toss. They lost, and the Sidewinders elected to kick off. Harley’s body jumped to alert, energy coursing through his veins. He paced while Buddy Carruthers and the rest of the receiving special team took the field.

  The kickoff went to Marquel Johnson, another wide receiver, instead of Buddy. Harley figured the Sidewinders wanted to keep the ball away from Carruthers at all costs. Smart move.

  He made it to the King’s twenty-five yard line. Harley snapped his chin straps on and ran out onto the field. First play would be a pass, probably to Buddy, unless he wasn’t free. The ball was snapped, and Griff drifted back. Buddy and Marquel were both covered. Griff had to run for it. Harley caught up to him quickly and blocked a defender, knocking the player out of the way. The quarterback slid for two yards, making the first down.

  The Sidewinders were effective in shutting down Buddy Carruthers by double-teaming him. Harley’s hand off was next. Breaker would be blocking a path for the running back. They made eye contact seconds before the snap.

  Griff handed the ball to Harley, and Lawson charged ahead. Out of nowhere came number sixty-three, barreling straight for Harley. Breaker jumped in front, and the big man took him down. Harley turned on the speed and was out of the way of the crash. He sped on for twenty yards before a cornerback caught up with him, grabbed him by the waist, and pulled him down.

  The whistle blew. Buddy gave him a hand up, and they turned to see Lawson Breaker lying on the field. Hank was already there, working on him. The running back and wide receiver ran over and took a knee. The Kid wasn’t moving. Hank was speaking softly, and in a few seconds, Breaker moved his foot then sat up with Hank’s help.

  The referee announced a personal foul, unnecessary roughness, and gave number sixty-three his first professional fifteen-yard penalty. Lawson was escorted off the field. They took the young offensive lineman into the locker room for the concussion protocol.

  Anger fueled Harley. Buddy had to hold him back. He wanted to maul the big guy. Breaker was one of the nicest guys on the team.

  In the huddle, Griff spoke. “Hand off to you, Brennan. You gotta score on this. Show that fucking bastard he can’t do that to a King.”

  Energy surged through Harley’s body. Griff called the numbers, and the ball was hiked. The quarterback faked to his right, while Harley passed behind and plucked the ball from behind Montgomery’s back. The offensive line blocked, and Harley took off. Propelled by fury, he fairly flew, bobbing and weaving around defenders. Straight-arming the last one, the running back broke free and ran like hell for a touchdown.

  Coach Bass did his little dance while Harley’s teammates clapped him on the back. He shot a gloating glance at number sixty-three before leaving the field. Robbie Anthony kicked for the extra point then booted the ball into the end zone for a touchback. The Sidewinders took over on their own twenty yard line.

  Trunk Mahoney and Tuffer Demson took the field. Harley watched from the sidelines as the Kings worked to shut down St. Louis. Lawson Breaker returned to the bench.

  The running back joined him. “Thanks for getting that gorilla out of the way.”

  “You’re welcome, I think. What did I do?”

  Harley’s smile melted to a frown. How well he knew the signs of concussion, having been there himself. Short-term memory loss was one. He patted Breaker on the shoulder. “Never mind. You were a hero. Thanks. We scored.”

  The Kid nodded. They turned their attention to the field. The new wide receiver on the Sidewinders was as fast as the wind. Coach Bass switched the defense and put cornerback, Devon Drake, their fastest player, on the newbie. Devon managed to keep up with the young receiver most of the time. He blocked a pass and almost intercepted another. The Sidewinders were held to a field goal.

  Harley went back out on the field. This time, Griff called for the “switch.” That meant Harley and Buddy would switch. Harley took off, and Griff rifled a pass to the running back. The Sidewinders were caught off guard, as they were double-teaming Buddy. The never expected a running back to receive a pass. Harley connected with the pigskin and blew past the only defender nearby, rocketing toward the goal line.

  As he crossed over, number sixty-three came flying at him. The huge man was airborne and smashed into Harley, sending him soaring into the goal post, knocking the wind out of him. Harley held the ball tight as he writhed around on the ground. Vaguely, he heard a whistle, but still gripped the ball. He scrambled for breath, his mouth wide, his eyes bugged out.

  Hank Montgomery was on him in a flash. Brodsky and Griff stared at the running back. Finally, his diaphragm began to work, and he sucked air into his lungs. A hush had fallen on the crowd. Hank took the ball and tossed it to his son, Griff.

  “You okay?” the trainer asked.

  Harley nodded, sitting up, but still breathing in and out rapidly. Lightheadedness kept him on the ground for another minute.

  “Harley?” Hank’s concerned eyes peered at the footballer.

  “I’m okay,” he gasped. “Just a little dizzy.”

  “Concussion,” Hank muttered.

  Harley put his hand on the trainer’s arm and shook his head. Pain in his chest signaled a possibly bruised or broken rib. “I didn’t hit my head. Trust me. I’d know if it was a concussion.”

  “Anything hurt?”

  “Yeah. Here,” Harley said, swiping his hand across his middle.

  “Ribs. Okay. We’ll tape you up at halftime. You’re out for now.”

  “Shit. Come on, Hank. I can still play.”

  “Bullshit. Let’s go.” Hank stood up.

  Griff offered Harley his hand. The crowd went wild when the running back pushed to his feet and walked, under his own steam, toward the bench, cursing all the way.

  * * * *

  “Harley, get up!” Shyla bolted from her chair, screaming at the television. Watching the game on TV was nerve wracking. She paced in Mindy and Drew’s den in front of the screen. “If I was there, I could check him out. Make sure he was okay.”

  “The trainers will take care of him,” Mindy said.

  “Not when he goes home.”

  “That’s what a fiancée is for. Is she there?” Drew asked.

  “She’s in L.A., I think. At least that’s what I read in the tabloids.”

  “So, they have a long distance relationship…just like you had with him?” Mindy questioned.

  “When you put it like that, I guess they do. But she wasn’t supposed to be flitting out to the West Coast at the drop of a hat. She told him she’d be with him, at least during the season.”

  “Guess that’s not happening,” Drew put in, as he opened another beer.

  Shyla plopped down on the sofa, her lips in a tight frown. Getting over Harley wasn’t workin
g. Maybe his engagement wasn’t working either. At least Shy was near enough to go to him if he needed her. Being three hours away was a whole lot better than being across an ocean.

  Although Mindy had offered Shyla the job permanently, the designer wasn’t prepared to sell her place in Manhattan and move to Pine Grove. She’d decided to wait until she was sure it would work out. So, she sublet her apartment and rented a small one upstairs in Laura and Barney Dailey’s house in Pine Grove.

  Pine Grove was almost twice the distance to Monroe as Manhattan, a three hour trip. Shyla had resigned herself to watching Harley on television instead of in person. The silver lining to the cloud was that she would be close enough if she wanted to go to a game, and she’d be in one place all the time, so she could pick and choose which she wanted to see.

  Being alone with no prospect of seeing Harley left her life empty. She rattled around the small, one-bedroom when not working, like the last pea in a pod. Mindy and her husband, Drew, had added Shy into their small circle of friends.

  Drew had fixed her up a couple of times with his friends, fellow lawyers. But Shy couldn’t rustle up enthusiasm for a new man. When you’ve been with Harley Brennan, no mere mortal will do, she told herself. The joke held more truth than she’d admit.

  Summer had been their busiest season. Shy raced to keep up with the opening of each new show. Two weeks and blam!, a new show had to be ready. It was a madhouse, but she loved it. Her creative juices were flowing as she sat in her apartment, enjoying the view of the lake from the picture window while she sketched a new set.

  September sales were slower, so they kept a show going for a month. The looser schedule gave Shy more time to put together new sets and free time to get to know the community. Pine Grove was growing on her. Friendly folk and community events—like church barbecues, garage sales, and fund-raisers for the volunteer ambulance corps—sucked her into the bosom of the town.

  Monday nights and Sundays, she hawked the NFL schedules, looking for Harley’s games. She even threw a couple of football parties. Seeing him on television was better than not seeing him at all. As much as she wanted to drive to Monroe and watch from the stands, she controlled the urge. Harley was an engaged man now. He was taken, and she needed to keep her hands off.