“That guy got old,” Kris said, drawing a laugh from Emily as he opened wide and pushed a full third of the slice in.
A flood of flavors rushed to Kris’s tongue as he chewed, many of them associated with memories from a lifetime before. The associated effects of melted cheese and crisp crust with grease and salt set his body to buzzing. The first bite was barely chewed before he shoved more in, filling his mouth to capacity.
“Oh, my God,” he muttered.
The comment drew another laugh from Emily as she worked on her crust, turning it sideways and coming at it from the end.
“See what you’ve been missing in that self-imposed salad hell of yours?” she asked.
“I forgot how good melted cheese and dead pig can taste,” Kris said, his gaze already moving towards the box to select his second piece.
For the next twenty minutes, there was little talk beyond the occasional moan of food-induced euphoria. Most of the way Emily matched him piece-for-piece, not until the very end slowing down to concede defeat.
By the time they were done the first box was gone, nothing remaining by a grease spot in the bottom.
“I think I’m going to burst,” Emily said, flopping herself back into the corner of the couch and laying her hand flat atop her stomach.
“With pride I hope,” Kris said, matching her pose, minus the hand. “That was impressive.”
“That was delicious,” Emily added. “But I’m going to regret it in the morning.”
“A sure sign of a night well spent,” Kris said. For a moment he allowed himself to think back to the last time they had eaten until miserable together, a night a full fifteen years before.
At the time Emily was just over halfway through the pregnancy, her growing stomach starting to cause some discomfort. Kris was a rookie on the Warriors, not yet starting, or even seeing the field.
One evening after a tough loss he came home and together they ventured out to an all-you-can-eat Chinese Buffet. The only two Caucasians in the place, they ate until they ached, both of them ignoring the looks of open shock around them.
“Were you really so surprised to see me again tonight?” Kris asked, pushing the memory away.
“Well, I mean, Kris, you haven’t exactly been around the last fourteen years.”
Kris rolled his head along the back of the couch towards her. “I’ve never been more than twenty minutes away.”
“And yet this is only the, what, fifth time you’ve ever been here?” Emily countered.
Kris stared off, trying to do the math in his head. There might have been one or two more visits than that, but she wasn’t far off.
“Yeah, that’s fair.”
“Shame it took a shot to the head for you to remember you had a kid,” Emily said.
Kris could tell the moment the words left Emily she regretted them. She raised the hand from her stomach to her mouth, covering it with the palm.
Kris let his lips part a fraction of an inch, but kept his composure as he stared off.
Again, she wasn’t terribly wrong.
“I’m sorry,” Emily said. “That sounded a lot angrier than I meant it to.”
Kris pushed a long breath out through his nose and said, “No, your statement was right. Angry would have been saying you wished it happened years ago.”
Emily opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the back door opening in the kitchen. She and Kris both sat up on opposite ends of the couch, listening as Kyle shuffled into the kitchen.
“How was practice?” Emily called, already moving past the conversation she and Kris were having just a moment before.
“It was good,” Kyle said, his response punctuated by heavy bags hitting the table. Footsteps grew closer as he approached the living room, saying, “Tell me that smell is what I think it-“
Kyle popped around the corner, his gaze landing on Kris.
“Is,” he finished, his face flat.
“Hey, Kyle,” Kris said, remaining seated on the end of the couch.
“Hey, Honey,” Emily chipped in. “Look what Kris brought by for us.”
“Yeah, I can see that,” Kyle replied, his tone a mixture of indifference and hostility.
“So practice was good?” Emily asked, still trying to force some civility.
“Fine.”
“Your mom tells me you’ve got a show coming up,” Kris added, looking from Emily to Kyle.
“A gig,” Kyle corrected, his body rigid, just a step or two into the room. He shifted his body at the waist to Emily and asked, “Can I eat dinner in my room tonight?”
A frown tugged at the sides of Emily’s mouth as she shook her head from side to side. “You know the rules.”
Already sensing what was unfolding, Kris patted his palms against his knees and stood. “That’s okay,” he said, “you can stay. I should be going. Enjoy the pie.”
Stepping out from behind the table, Kris crossed the living room floor to the front door. Kyle remained where he was, his face flat as he watched Kris go.
“Kyle, what do you say?” Emily asked, pushing herself up from the couch.
“Thanks,” Kyle offered, the word said so low it was barely discernible.
“Mhmm,” Kris said, nodding. “Good night.”
The cool rush of night air passed over Kris as he stepped outside, his stomach feeling the effects of the pizza he’d just eaten. One at a time he walked down the steps, ambling towards his SUV parked on the curb.
Halfway there the front door opened behind him, a slash of light spilling out onto the lawn. Kris turned over his shoulder to see Emily shuffling forward, a pair of plaid slippers on her feet. She wrapped her arms tight across her body and hugged herself for warmth as she walked towards him.
“I don’t want you to get the wrong idea,” she said, stopping just a couple feet from Kris, her voice low. “He’s actually a pretty sweet kid, he’s just a teenager. And you showing up like this...”
She let the words fade away, the direction they were going obvious to them both.
“No, I get it,” Kris said, shaking his head. “I’d react the same way.”
Emily took a step backwards, her body beginning to quiver with the cold.
“If you’re legit about this,” she said, “keep at it. He’ll come around.”
She took another step back, the gap between them beginning to grow.
“But if you’re not, please, just stop now.”
With that, she turned on her heel and went back into the house, using an exaggerated move somewhere between a walk and a run.
Kris stood where he was and watched as she disappeared inside, the light that was cast over the lawn blinking out, leaving him standing alone in the dark again.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Even though it was Monday, Kris couldn’t shake the memory of what happened the last time he stopped by. Armed with three rolls of breath mints and a large orange juice, he made his way through the back hallway of WWAR, hoping his reinforcements would be enough to block any residual odors that might be lingering.
Weekend cleaning service or not, never again would he find himself unprepared, blocked into the tiny studio with just Jimmy and a week’s worth of body odor and Indian food.
“Morning, Mickey,” Kris said, stepping up behind the sound board and staring through the glass at Jimmy. He was perched behind his microphone in the same pair of red gym shorts, this week swapping out the white Warriors away jersey for the black one the team wore when playing at home.
Kris lifted his orange juice and took a small swig, using the cup to hide the smile on his face.
Fanatical or not, Jimmy’s dedication had to be appreciated.
“Hey, Hop,” Mickey said, moaning the words out in a pained cadence. He shifted and looked up at Kris through bloodshot eyes, a waft of alcohol breaking through the orange juice cloud.
“Damn, Mick,” Kris said, squinting his eyes and leaning back a few inches. He passed the juice in front of his face like a mak
eshift fan, trying to force the smell away. “You fall into a refinery last night?”
“Naw,” Mickey said, turning back to shift another dial in front of him, every movement slow and pained. “Yesterday Jimmy invented the WWKD drinking game. It didn’t go well for us.”
“W-W-K-D,” Kris said, sounding out each letter phonetically. “Do I even want to know what that is?”
Overhead the red light went on, Mickey cutting away from the live feed. Without looking back at Kris he said, “It’d be better if Jimmy just explained it to you in there.”
“So he’s in the same condition you are?” Kris asked, already feeling a dreadful sensation pass through him.
“Worse,” Mickey said. “Just take a look.”
As he spoke, he motioned through the window. Kris followed his outstretched finger to see Jimmy bury his face in a trash can, his entire body heaving as he expelled every bit of solid matter from it.
Kris’s eyes went wide with shock as Jimmy pulled himself back and wiped away a long string of spittle, his face bright red from exertion. He passed the back of his hand across his face and motioned for Kris to enter, dabbing at his sweaty face with a handkerchief.
“Oh, shit,” Kris muttered, popping two breath mints into his mouth. Turning at the waist he pressed his shoulder into the door and passed through, catching a half-hearted thumbs up from Mickey as he went.
The smell hit him in a wave, enveloping him on contact. It penetrated the mints and the juice instantly, seeming to ooze into his clothes and pores. Nausea swept through Kris, a bit of moisture glassing over his eyes, before he steadied himself and walked on in.
Jimmy nodded and offered a wave as Kris pulled his chair as far away as possible and slid down into it.
“I’d shake your hand right now, but...”
“I understand completely,” Kris said, keeping his hands far back out of reach. “What the heck happened to you guys?”
Jimmy shook his head and ran a black and red plaid handkerchief over his face once more. “Hold on just a second. I’m only explaining this once.”
Kris nodded and assessed Jimmy again, surmising that Mickey was right. Whatever had happened the night before, the host had gotten the worst of it.
“Alright, sports fans,” Jimmy said into the microphone the moment the red light went out, letting them know they were back live. His voice was an octave or two lower than usual, every word seeming to be pulled out from somewhere deep within him.
“Some of you heard me earlier allude to my state this morning, citing it as a direct result of my new WWKD drinking game. Seated at my right here is Kris Hopkins, the subject and inspiration for the WWKD, otherwise known as What Would Kris Do?”
A thin smile crossed Kris’s face as he leaned back, sensing where this was going.
“The way it works,” Jimmy continued, “is every time Jon Walsh makes a boneheaded play that makes us wish Hop was back out there on the field, we take a shot.
“Throw an interception? Drink. Miss an audible? Drink. Take a dumb sack? Drink.”
A chuckle started somewhere deep in Kris, a belly laugh that shook his entire upper body as he fought to keep himself from cackling over the air.
“Now, judging by my friend’s reaction here in the booth,” Jimmy said, “I’m guessing he doesn’t feel too guilty right now about getting me the most shitfaced I’ve been since college yesterday.”
“Pleasure to be here,” Kris said, a broad smile across his face. For a moment he even forgot the stench in the air or the items he brought along to combat it as he stared at Jimmy in misery.
“Uh-huh,” Jimmy said, letting his skepticism show. “Let’s start right at the top then. How are you feeling?”
“Getting better every day, Jimmy,” Kris said, the smile still in place.
A lopsided smile that was equal parts bitter and mirth traced Jimmy’s face. “Have to be crawling the walls by now I imagine? Getting ready to be back out there?”
“And then some,” Kris said, the smile fading away as he nodded at the microphone. “You know, it’s tough. This isn’t like past injuries, where I could rehab and know exactly where I stood.
“The only medicine for injuries of this kind is time and patience.”
“Not exactly a trait you’re known for,” Jimmy added.
“Definitely not.”
Jimmy leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table, grasping the sleeves of the jersey in either hand. “I have to tell you Hop, after that game yesterday, I don’t know how much patience Warriors fans have either. We now need a clean sweep of the last two games to lock up the division and clinch a playoff spot.”
Out of pure habit, Kris took a long pull on his orange juice, using it to give himself a second of separation from the question. He and Jimmy had been through this talk enough times for him to know he was being baited.
No matter how much he hated Dumari, or how badly Walsh played, there was no way he could let that happen.
“You know,” Kris said, “I think what we saw out there says more about the kind of football Albuquerque is playing right now than any major condemnation of us. They’re a hot team, and sometimes on the road those things happen.”
A tiny hint of a grin passed over Jimmy face, seeing what Kris had done with the question. Just as fast it passed, replaced by the look of queasiness he’d worn all morning.
“Yet another reason we are glad to be back at home this weekend,” Jimmy said. “Tell me, can we expect to see you roaming the sidelines come Sunday?”
“Oh, yeah,” Kris said, nodding his head in earnest. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“You’re going to have to open things up a bit,” Kris said.
The words came out without Kris looking over at Dumari, keeping his face even and neutral. He knew there were no less than a dozen cameras covering every inch of the field, at least one of them aimed at the injured star quarterback and his head coach.
Side by side they walked the length of the sideline, past the team going through their halftime stretches. Neither one glanced over at the fifty guys spread in a massive circle, all bent at the waist, their noses aimed towards their left knee.
“I don’t remember asking you,” Dumari said, his voice low, just audible over the usual host of halftime sounds.
On the loud speaker, the stadium announcer directed people’s attention to the Jumbotron screen where a quartet of cartoon cars in various colors raced. The muted swell of the crowd rose nearby as fans cheered for the selected winner, gazes aimed skyward.
“You can’t ride Dickson the entire game,” Kris countered.
“Worked just fine in the first half,” Dumari said, the frown on his face growing deeper.
Kris chanced a momentary glance away from their straight ahead path over to his right. Clustered together were the Warrior cheerleaders, two dozen young ladies in their twenties wearing matching outfits. Adorned in tassels and sequins, the garments managed to cover less than ten percent of their total body mass.
A few watched Kris as he walked by. One even chanced a smile.
He did not return the gesture.
“Actually, it’s not,” Kris said, shifting his attention from the young ladies to the scoreboard above the far end zone. On it, the score was stretched over two feet in height, announcing the Warriors were trailing the Boise Bears 14-10. “It worked on the first drive. We haven’t done shit since then.”
Dumari pulled a rolled up play sheet from his back pocket and looked down at it, using the action to hide the growing scowl on his face.
“Just because you’re walking the sidelines and wearing headphones today doesn’t make you a coach, Hopkins.”
“I could say the same to you,” Kris countered.
Dumari snapped his gaze up at Kris, his right nostril raised in a sneer. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Emboldened, Kris matched the sneer. Deep within him he knew it wasn’t wise to stand toe-to-toe wit
h his coach, especially given Dumari’s existing ego problem and the cameras scouring the field, but he found himself without the will to care.
“I’m somebody that wants to win this game,” Kris said, inching a bit closer as they walked. “The kid can play. It’s time to take the training wheels off.”
The two men walked another ten yards, almost snarling at one another, before an assistant coach approached and handed Dumari his headset. He accepted it and peeled off towards midfield without another word, glaring at Kris the entire way.
Kris stopped his path on the edge of the field and folded his arms across his chest, matching the look.
“Dick,” he muttered, watching as Dumari turned and shuffled towards midfield.
“What the hell was that all about?” a voice asked, finally turning Kris back towards the sidelines.
Jon Walsh stood behind him, helmet in hand, a towel over his shoulder.
“I just went to bat for you, Rook. Don’t make me regret it.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The roar of the crowd was still audible inside the tunnel, a faint rumbling that echoed off the vaulted concrete ceiling and walls. It passed through the space, carried by the chilly autumn breeze, buffeting the entire procession of Warriors trainers and staff as they shuffled along in an excited convoy.
Tucked in against the wall Kris allowed the momentum of the throng to carry him along, following the current as it passed into the locker room.
Upon entering a second burst of noise greeted his ears, a thunderous ovation that engulfed the senses, pounding through his head. Pain coursing through him, he raised his hands to the side of his face and pressed his fingers down onto his ears, willing the uproar to subside.
There would be none of it.
The entire space of the locker room was filled with players and staff, all arranged in a swirl that resembled a human hurricane. Dressed in various forms of Warriors apparel, the players made up the inner ring of the room. The majority were already out of their shoulder pads, standing with their game pants unlaced and spandex undershirts stretched tight across their bodies.
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