The décor inside was much the same, everything done in pine. The floors and walls were left rough hewn, their texture obvious to anybody that rubbed against them with bare skin. The counters and table tops were lacquered to a gleaming shine, the surfaces so smooth they were almost slippery.
Chandeliers made from repurposed wagon wheels hung down from the ceiling, suspended in the air by wrought iron chains. Black and white photographs of everything ranging from the gold rush to John Wayne dotted the walls, all encased in extra wide wooden frames.
Seated in the far back corner were Kris and Kirby.
Kris sat with his back to the room, keeping the collar of his coat turned up. In front of him sat the last half of his steak, a pile of mushrooms heaped to the side. A glass of sweet tea completed the meal, a series of wet rings beneath it showing how many times it had already been lifted.
Across from him sat Kirby, a chicken salad and a Diet Coke in front of her. With one hand she stabbed a fork at the salad, staring in open awe of Kris as he worked on the steak.
“Damn, you weren’t kidding,” she said, raising a half-bite to her mouth and chewing slow.
“Did you think I was?” Kris asked, cutting away another slab of beef.
“No,” Kirby conceded, waving a hand around the room. “I just didn’t see any of this coming is all.”
Kris forked the bite into his mouth and leaned back, a look that bordered on orgasmic crossing his face. He chewed the bare minimum times before swallowing, ignoring the look of amusement on Kirby’s face across from him.
It was the first steak he’d had since the off-season. He was going to enjoy it.
“Damn, that’s good. Can’t get an authentic cut like that downtown,” Kris said.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Kirby countered. “I’ve done alright before.”
Kris paused, his forearms resting against the edge of the table, his knife and fork poised above the plate. “Let me guess. Kobe at Nishimura’s. Wellington at Ticonderoga.”
“Tartare at The-“
“Tartare at The Cove,” Kris finished for her. “All good beef, but if you want an actual steak...”
“This is the place?”
“This is the place,” Kris confirmed, going back to work with his knife and fork.
The same amused expression crossed Kirby’s face as she looked around the room. “I doubt most people even know the difference.”
“Most people didn’t live in Oklahoma.”
The comment pulled Kirby’s attention back to the table. “Be even worse if you were from Texas.”
“Says the woman that mentioned tartare from The Cove with a straight face,” Kris said, shoveling more steak into his mouth.
Kirby raised in eyebrows in resignation and looked out over the restaurant. “How did you...” she began, letting her words trail off. Her gaze focused on something in the distance, her voice falling silent.
Still chewing, Kris turned over his shoulder to see a man and his young son dressed in Kris’s jersey approaching. He knew the sight within a millisecond, twisting back in his seat and sliding an inch lower in the booth.
“Shit,” Kris muttered, swallowing down his food as the man and his son covered the last few feet between them.
“Excuse me, Mr. Hopkins?” the man asked, keeping the boy back a few steps, not wanting to intrude any closer than necessary.
“Yes, sir?” Kris replied, putting his façade in place. It was a character he had been using for years, a role he could slip on and off as easily as if it was a jacket.
“We’re very sorry to bother you, but my son was wondering if he could get your autograph.”
“Absolutely,” Kris said, turning sideways on the bench seat to look at them. Accepting the unspoken invitation they stepped forward, the boy extending a pen and paper towards him.
“What’s your name, Sport?” Kris asked, accepting the items from him.
“Ernie,” the boy said, his shy voice just barely audible over the din of the bar.
“You a football player, Ernie?”
“Not yet,” the boy replied, gaining confidence. “But once I get old enough I’m going to be a quarterback, just like you!”
Kris finished the autograph with a flourish, sliding it across the table towards the father. “That’s what I like to hear.”
Reaching past his son, the man collected the pad and paper and nodded in appreciation. “Thank you. It means a lot to him.”
“Yeah, thanks, Mr. Hopkins,” Ernie echoed. “I hope you get better soon.”
The smallest crack formed at the edge of the mask, Kris’s smile fading for an instant. Just as fast he shoved it back into place, holding his palm up towards the boy.
“Me too, buddy.”
An oversized smile stretched across Ernie’s face as he slapped his small hand against Kris’s, his father nodding in thanks again as they retreated.
Kris turned back to the table, his unfinished steak before him. For a moment he contemplated going in for more before folding his hands in front of him and sitting in silence, his hunger gone.
Bent at the waist to see around Kris, Kirby watched the young boy return to his table and show the new souvenir to his mother, bouncing up and down in excitement.
“I take it that sort of thing happens a lot?” she asked.
“All the time,” Kris said, a bit of a grumble in his voice.
Kirby flicked her gaze from the boy to Kris and nodded. “Hence the raised collar.”
Kris shrugged. “Sometimes it helps. At least they were nice.”
The comment set Kirby back an inch, surprise on her face. “There are people who aren’t nice?”
“Oh yeah,” Kris said, nodding and drawing the words out slowly for emphasis. “You’d be amazed how entitled fans can become because once in 2001 they paid fifteen dollars to watch you play.”
Kirby nodded, sensing the convivial atmosphere of the evening had passed. “You done eating?”
“Yeah,” Kris said. “Once the first one comes over, it opens the flood gates. Better if we just go now.”
“Oh, okay,” Kirby said, focusing on his face, trying to get some read on what he was thinking. “If it helps any, you did just make that little boy’s night.”
“Yeah, well,” Kris said, looking up to meet her gaze, “he just ruined mine.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The darkened film room in the bowels of Warriors Stadium was designed to hold up to fifty people at once. Space enough to accommodate the entire offensive or defensive units even in the summer when free agency ballooned the roster to a hundred players in total.
Today there were just three men, each separated by a couple of empty chairs, on the front row of the theater style seating.
On the left sat Dumari, his head cocked a bit to the side, his attention aimed at the screen before him. Two seats over was Walsh, leaning into the arm rest on his left. A notebook sat balanced on his knee, a half page of notes scribbled down in blue ink.
Completing the trio was Kris, leaning back in the far right chair with his fingers laced atop his stomach. A sour look graced his features as he kept his head aimed at the screen.
In front of them, film of the Los Angeles game three days before played out on the eighty inch LCD television. An almost life-size depiction of Walsh was splashed across the screen, pulling a play-action fake and sprinting out towards the sideline.
“That’s good work there,” Dumari said. “Reading the defensive end and keeping it.”
Kris watched as the defensive end crashed down tight off the edge and tackled Dickson while Walsh ran for the first down, sliding to a stop.
Using the remote, Dumari sped the film along to the next play, setting it to regular speed in time for the ball to be snapped. The play was a three step drop, Walsh throwing for the slot receiver on a post. Just before the ball reached its intended target the safety swooped in, knocking it away.
A crack of a smile appeared on Kris’s face as the safet
y danced in frustration before them, knowing he just missed the opportunity for an interception and possibly a touchdown return.
“Now on this one,” Dumari said, “you held on to the ball just a little too long. That’s how Hanley was able to cover the gap and knock it away.”
“Mhmm,” Walsh responded, scribbling down notes.
“You also locked on too early,” Kris said. “Look off to Mills, or even pump fake it. Safety will bite every time.”
“Okay,” Walsh said, twisting his head towards Kris and making another notation in his book.
“But don’t get too happy with your pump fakes,” Dumari countered, “they’ll stop being effective.”
Kris unlaced his fingers and ran his palms down the front of his shorts. He raised himself up a few extra inches in his seat and said, “Not on a ball hawking safety like Hanley.”
Kris saw a flash of movement in his periphery, Dumari turning to glare at him. He was long past caring at this point, the look one he’d received no less than a hundred times before.
“And they take time,” Dumari said. “You won’t have that this weekend in Albuquerque.”
“Won’t be an issue in Albuquerque,” Kris said, his voice rising a slight bit. “They still run a Cover-2. The safety will be deep playing the back half.”
A long moment passed, none of the three moving. Kris stared at the frozen image on the screen, waiting to see if Dumari would challenge him further. Beside him Walsh sat staring down at his pad, pen poised a few inches above it.
“Moving on,” Dumari said, disgusted finality in his voice, as he pointed the remote at the screen and went to the next play.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The heels of Kris’s feet tapped out a steady cadence against the side of the exam table as a he sat and waited. With one hand pressed against his thigh he stared at the polished tile floor and tapped his heel against the bed, his legs twitching in an unending pattern.
A menagerie of thoughts rolled through his mind, touching a half dozen different topics as he tried to make sense of the last couple weeks. Despite the particular issue or the way he approached it, there was really just one incontrovertible truth he kept returning to.
“You’ve got to get me back out there, Doc,” Kris blurted out the moment the door opened, catching Kirby by surprise. She paused in the doorway a full moment, one hand on the knob, before stepping inside and closing it behind her.
“You know that’s not my call to make,” she said, placing her glasses on her nose and taking up his chart.
“Like hell it’s not,” Kris said, hopping down from the table, the soles of his boots slapping against the tile floor.
The comment and the sound both drew Kirby’s gaze up to him, watching stone faced as he twitched in front of her. “Mr. Hopkins, you saw the scans.”
Kris shook his head, frustration rolling off of him. “So let’s take another scan. They’re not always right.”
For a moment Kirby started to respond before stopping. She put the chart down and took up the chair beside the bed, motioning for him to do the same.
“That scan was done two days ago, and it showed exactly the same thing as last week.”
“But I feel better,” Kris said, shaking an open hand in her direction. “Or, what did you call it? Well.”
Once more Kirby started to respond before pausing. She drew out the penlight from her chest pocket and held it by her ear. Using the other hand she held a single finger between his eyes.
“Look right here, please.”
With a click of the thumb she turned the light on, aiming it between his eyes. She watched as his pupils barely responded at all, but held the light up a few extra seconds to prove her point. Across from her Kris’s body went rigid as he stared back at her, moisture glazing his eyes.
For several long moments Kris gripped the sides of the bed and forced himself to stare back at her, his entire body quivering as he fought to hold the pose. The same thoughts he’d had a few moments before returned to his head, fueling him as he tried to remain unwavering, but the searing pain behind his eyes was too much.
Unable to take it any longer, he shook her off and bent at the waist, twisting his body to the side. He pressed his right thumb and index finger to his eyes, moisture rolling over them.
Taking advantage of his position, Kirby stepped forward and smacked her palms together a few inches above his ear. The sound was like a firecracker ignited at close range, ringing through his head. Kris snapped himself up to full height, a hand pressed to his ear as anger flashed on his features.
“Ah, Jesus! What the hell was that?”
Kirby stared right at him a moment before retreating to her chair. The look on her face softened to the border of sympathetic, almost imploring Kris to calm down.
“Kris, I’m sorry, but you’ve suffered a pretty serious brain injury. This isn’t the kind of thing you can will yourself back from. Right now all you can do is wait and see how your body responds.”
The look, her words, did not have the effect she was angling for.
Kris twisted his face in anger, shaking his head to the side. He pushed himself up to a standing position, pacing back and forth across the tiny space.
“Dammit, don’t tell me that. You’re a doctor. Isn’t there something you can do?”
Kirby remained silent a moment, watching him pace. She waited until he stopped moving and looked at her before nodding. “Actually, I think there might be something that can help you.”
“Anything. Name it.”
“Can you meet me here tomorrow?” Kirby asked, her voice low, borderline soothing.
“No,” Kris said, shaking his head to the side. “The team flies out for Albuquerque tomorrow morning at nine.”
With that Kirby stood, pushing her chair back into place alongside the bed.
“I’ll see you here at noon.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The morning sun filtered in through the open curtains, casting a milky white pallor over the living room. It reflected off of the gleaming hardwood floors, illuminating a path from the bedroom to the living room as Kris exited, pulling his arms through a leather jacket.
On the television was a morning news report, the continuation of the weather forecast Kris was watching a moment before. He lifted the remote from the arm of the sofa to turn it off, pausing as he saw the emblem of the Portland Warriors flash in the top corner of the screen. Turning the volume up a few bars, he waited as the studio crew cut away to a correspondent reporting live from Portland International Airport.
A middle aged man with a clipped mustache and glasses stood in front of the camera, holding a schoolboy cap down atop his head. In the background was the chartered bus the team used to travel from the stadium to the airport, players filing off one at time. Kris watched as Adler, Mills, and Dickson departed from the oversized coach, laughing together, all dressed in suits as they headed towards the plane.
The sight of them brought a smirk to Kris’s face as he tried to imagine what smartass remark Mills had made to make the others laugh.
It slid away as Kris realized it might have even been at his expense.
Beside the correspondent stood Dumari, his hands shoved into the jacket pockets of a plaid blazer. A striped tie hung in a misshapen knot at his throat, the customary glower in place.
“Good morning,” the reporter said, forcing a smile into the camera. “I am standing on the tarmac here at PDX with Warriors Coach Marc Dumari, ready to head out for their last away game of the season in Albuquerque.”
He turned away from the camera to face Dumari and said, “Thanks for taking a minute with us, Coach.”
“Sure,” Dumari said, almost belching out the word.
The reporter pulled the microphone back to himself and said, “Last week the offense seemed to sputter a bit in a 13-10 win in Los Angeles. What do you foresee happening this Sunday?”
Dumari leveled a glare on the man and said, “We’ll do what we h
ave to to win this weekend, just like we did last weekend.”
The reporter nodded, again pulling back the microphone. “How much of what happened last week could be explained by the absence of Kris Hopkins?”
Dumari took a half step backwards, already starting his retreat towards the plane. “Jon Walsh is a very solid and capable quarterback. Our approach hasn’t changed at all with him at the helm. Thank you.”
Turning on the ball of his foot, Dumari spun out towards the plane, the tail of his coat kicking up behind him.
“And there you have it,” the reporter summarized, the camera shifting back to frame him in the middle of the screen. “The Warriors should be back to their old ways this Sunday in the desert.”
Kris turned the television off and stood in the living room a moment, letting the silence of the house settle in around him. The images of his teammates boarding the plane without him ran through his head again, all of them grouped up and laughing together, before Kris shook his head clear.
“Dick,” he muttered, snatching his keys up from the counter and heading for the door.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Dr. Kirby was already waiting by the front desk as Kris rounded the corner into the neurology department, resting her elbows atop the counter. She spotted him at the far end of the hallway and pushed herself to an upright position, waving at the nurse working there and heading his way.
She met Kris halfway down the hall, walking fast in the direction he had just come from. “You’re late,” she said in salutation, motioning for him to follow her.
Turning on the ball of his foot Kris reversed his course, jogging a few steps to catch up. “Like three minutes late. Where are we going anyway?”
“Someplace where they’ll notice,” Kirby said, holding the elevator door open for him. She waited as he stepped on before following him in and pressing the button for the fifth floor.
They waited in silence as the elevator ascended, depositing them in an open lobby of white and grey tile. Before them a set of double doors stood open wide, natural light pouring in from every angle.
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