Blitzed (21 page)

"We have to," I reply with a smile. "They're in our division, and if we go 0-3 and 0-2 in divisional play, life is going to get very ugly on the team for a while."

"
T
his is so
cool
!
"

"Dani, come on. We're supposed to be acting debonair and slightly bored, like we've been in luxury boxes before," I admonish her, still unable to keep from smiling. Laurie is sitting with her nose nearly pressed against the glass, her brand-new Troy Wood jersey nearly swallowing her body, since she insisted on getting one. "Remember?"

"You can act all aloof. You have a future of doing this as often as you want," Dani replies with a chuckle. "I'm just going to sit back and enjoy this. Seriously, Troy can do this for every home game?"

"Just twice a year up here," a voice from the side says, and a man in his mid-forties wearing a Hawks polo and slacks comes over, offering his hand. "Every player has the right to four tickets per home game, but the box seats are only used twice a year. The rest of the games have to be in the regular seats in the lower level. Hi, I'm Timothy Hauser, assistant General Manager of the team. You must be Whitney Nelson?"

"I am," I say, shaking his hand. "This is my close friend, Dani Barkovich, and that is—"

"Your daughter, Laurie," Hauser says with a smile. "Trust me, everyone on the team has heard about this little girl. Except for game prep, you two are about all that Troy talks about since the season started. And if I can say, your daughter is even cuter than he let on. Dani Barkovich . . . you're the friend of Troy's who just got married, right?"

Dani nods, smiling. "You have a good memory, Mr. Hauser."

"Not really. I'm just the guy who approved Troy's initial request for time off to attend the wedding," Hauser says. "Enjoy the game. We'll try and keep the commentary family friendly, but you know how football people get."

"Don't worry, Mr. Hauser. It's probably me who should be apologizing," I reply with a laugh. "Laurie's picked up some language when the two of us lived in Europe, and her main source of American culture and language was Netflix that, well, I'm still sometimes having problems getting her to stop."

"You lived in Europe? How entrancing," Hauser says. "Does she speak any foreign languages?"

"We both speak Italian," I say with a touch of pride. "If I need to, I'll just tell her to start yelling in Italian. She's able to curse like a sailor in Italian, but at least you won't understand it."

Hauser laughs and shakes his head. "No, actually, I should be asking your daughter for help. My daughter is in junior high school and hates foreign language. Getting tutored by a kindergartener might give her the kick in the pants she needs to actually study. Enjoy the game."

The food is a lot different than I expected, and a lot higher quality than the typical stadium fare that we ate last time, and Laurie's eyes get big when I set the meatball sandwich in front of her. "Really?"

"Really, sweetheart. So what's our time looking like?"

"Five minutes to kickoff. Daddy's already gone back inside. This is even better than last time, Mama!"

Dani and I take seats in the cushioned chairs that make up the seating area of the box, and Dani leans over. "Kinda like a good movie theater seat. Would you mind if I taught Laurie some of our old cheers?"

"Only if you promise not to be a drill sergeant like you used to be," I tease back, and Dani slaps my leg in mock outrage.

"Is that the thanks I get for getting you to try out and meeting the love of your life? Being called a drill sergeant? I’m no mere drill sergeant, Sis. I’m a domina!"

I laugh and take Dani's hand. "What you and Pete do is none of my business."

The game starts, and we cheer as the defense takes the field. I notice that Troy runs out this time with the starting players, and there's a small cheer as his presence is noticed. Watching him line up, I realize that this is only the second game where I've been able to really watch him play. In high school, I was busy half the time with cheers, and watching on television, the cameraman normally focuses on the offense and the ball in particular. In the pre-season game, I got to watch some, but with the higher vantage, it feels amazing.

"Go, Daddy! Kick their ass!"

"Laurie."

"Sorry, Mama. Get them, Daddy!"

In the first quarter, Troy's play is as dominant as ever as he quickly picks up another sack and tips away a pass. The quarter ends still scoreless, but I'm on the edge of my seat as the game pauses for a TV break during the changeover between the first and second quarter.

Dani turns to me and gives me a high five. "He's having a great game!"

"Too bad it's going to be his last," someone says behind us, and I turn around to see a black woman sitting behind us, giving us a commiserating but perhaps still sad smile. "Didn't you know?"

"Know what?" I ask, confused. "And you are?"

"Kim Winslow. I'm married to number 67, Gerald Winslow," she says, offering her hand. "Sorry, I guess you and Troy are still new together. We didn't have a chance to meet at the team social during training camp. The wire's been full of the news."

"What news?" I ask. "Why is it Troy's last game?"

"The Hawks are trading him to Jacksonville," Kim says. "They're sending Troy and their first and third round draft picks in next year's draft for the 'Cats' starting right tackle, and two of their backup wide receivers and some other picks."

The news hits me like a punch in the gut, and I stare at Kim blankly. "They can do that?"

"Trade deadline is November third. Actually, in some ways, it's not that bad a trade. My best girlfriend's man plays for the 'Cats, and they're in a rebuilding mode this year. They've got the offense, but they need a defense. So they need a young stud to build it around. Your man just got tabbed for the job. Best of all, he's not going to miss any playing time. The 'Cats got a bye next week so he'll have a week and a half to learn their schemes. When Gerald got traded here from New York, he had to miss a game in order to learn his blocking assignments. That hurt him come contract negotiations."

"How . . . how many teams has he been on?" I ask, stunned.

"Gerald's been playing six years now. There was that camp spot with the Fire where he barely had a chance to get his feet wet before they sent him to Miami. Five teams. I think he's finally settled in here, though. He might be able to stay another two or three years before he retires. But with the salary cap, you never know."

Six years, five cities? What sort of life is that for my daughter? I turn back and blankly watch a few minutes of the game but can't focus. "Dani, can you watch Laurie for a minute? I need to get some answers."

Dani, who's been giving me concerned looks, pats my knee and nods. "Don't stress, Whitney. I can see you stressing already, the little gears are turning and the smoke is starting to creep out. Don't stress. Think."

I nod and get up, looking for Timothy Hauser. I find him in his seat, watching the game and laughing along with some other people. "Mr. Hauser?"

"Oh, Miss Nelson! Enjoying the game?" Hauser asks, taking a sip from a beer in his hand. "The team's really fighting hard today."

"Yes . . . and I bet next game's going to be even better with your new right tackle and wideout," I reply, cutting off conversation with the group. One of the other people, a man in his fifties, it looked like, who had a sort of smarmy, lawyer-like look to him, turned around and considered me levelly. I returned his gaze, not backing down. I'd been through too much in the past two months to worry about some suit. "Who are you?"

"Larry Kardarelli, General Manager," he says. "I suppose you're asking about the reports of Troy being traded?"

"Are they true?"

Kardarelli nods and gets up. "The official report hits the networks right after the game. Officially, it doesn't happen until midnight, so that Troy can finish the game for us."

"You're trading him, but still want him out there busting his ass for you?" I ask, shocked. "What the hell gives you the right?"

"The Collective Bargaining Agreement," Kardarelli replies. He waves with his hand, and we leave the seats to go toward the back of the box. "You must understand, Miss Nelson, my job is to make the Hawks the best team they can be."

"So you trade a man who's becoming the best linebacker on the team? Maybe in the league?" I ask, furious and hurt. "Why?"

"You sound like Troy did when he heard the news,” Kardarelli says, then shrugs. "I have good linebackers. But I also have a gaping hole on my offensive line, zero depth at receiver, and a quarterback that's making ten million dollars a year. The Hawks can survive losing Troy Wood. We can't win with the offense we've got right now."

Almost in response to Kardarelli's words, a roar and a collective groan goes through the crowd as a Hawks punt is returned all the way to the two-yard line before the San Francisco returner stumbles and is taken down by a shoestring tackle.

Kardarelli sighs, looks over at the big screen replaying the play, then looks back at me. "All right. I actually like Troy, so I'll give you a promise. If the Hawks are losing at half time, I'll call down to the locker room. He won't dress for the second half. It'll give him a chance to avoid injury. It's not all bad, Miss Nelson. Jacksonville has beautiful weather this time of year, and he's going to be a superstar in Florida. And when we play the 'Cats in week sixteen back here, he's going to get a hero's welcome. I'll probably be burned in effigy, but I've gotten used to that."

Another groan goes through the crowd as a San Francisco runner blasts his way into the end zone, and the Hawks are down six to nothing. "See? Even with only two yards to score, the Dons are scared of him. They ran that ball as far away from Troy as they could."

* * *

T
roy comes
out of the locker room, and I feel my heart twinge seeing the hurt and defeat in his shoulders. He's not wearing his normal clothes, having ditched the typical Hawks clothes he'd worn the other times he came back home for a pair of jeans and an obviously borrowed Tommy Hilfiger polo. Seeing me, his head sags and he comes over. "I guess you heard."

"Yeah," I reply. "I sent Laurie home with Dani. She doesn't need to see you like this. Besides, we need to talk."

"About what?" Troy asks, suddenly curious and suspicious. "About the trade?"

"About the trade, about keeping information from me, and about Laurie's future," I say, trying to control my emotions. I can see that Troy's hurt, which makes this all the more difficult. I'm only a little angry, but it's the other emotions that are swirling inside me that make me want to hurl right now. "When were you going to tell me that the team was shopping you around? Kardarelli told me you knew about it weeks ago."

Troy takes a deep breath. "I was hoping it was just a threat. It was still the pre-season, you and I had just gotten back together, and we'd already been through so much. We hadn't even told Laurie about me yet. I just . . . I kept hoping that maybe someone would shake free in the waiver wire from another team, or that the line would gel. Worse came to worst, I thought that maybe if I played my heart out, I'd make myself too damn valuable to the team for them to consider trading me."

I think about it, and Troy's words make sense. I can't help but frown, though, and shake my head. "You realize this performance you've been putting on for two months has actually probably made you even more attractive to other teams? They know that they've got a superstar on their hands. But you're not the type of man who'd intentionally tank a game."

Troy shakes his head, then steps closer. "No, I'm not. But it's not all bad, right? I mean, Jacksonville's got good weather, and the home prices are lower. We can—"

"There isn't going to be a
we
," I say, trying not to cry. "Laurie and I . . . we can't go with you, Troy. I can't put her through it."

"Through what?" Troy asks in obvious pain. I've broken his heart once before, and I can see in his eyes the fear that I'm doing it again. But I can't let myself be swayed. As much as I love him, I
must
protect my daughter.

"Through being a football player's family, having to up and move cities all the time. Never mind the fact that I know the reality—every time you step on that field, you are risking career-ending injury. And while you might not be injured now, that doesn't mean it can't happen. What happens if some bad ass tight end catches you from behind, or your foot is planted just wrong when you go to tackle some running back? What if you end up like Gerald, five teams in six years?"

"That's the life of a football player," Troy says softly. "But that doesn't mean that I can't provide a good life for you and for Laurie. Please, Whitney. I know it means asking you to leave a job you just started, but we're a family now, aren't we?"

It's my turn to feel my heart breaking, and I force myself to shake my head. "Troy, as much as I love you . . . I can't do that to Laurie. She needs a stable home, the knowledge that she's going to be going to the same school, a chance to make friends. I can't uproot her again. I’ve already had to do it once. With the idea that I might need to do that again and again over the course of her elementary school years, never mind if you play long enough for her to get to junior high school—"