Uncovered (Dev and Lee Book 4) (16 page)

We cheer from the sidelines, not because it’s better to get the ball first, but because we feel good about winning the coin toss. Zillo and Charm and I relax with Pace and Vonni and Carson as much as we’re able to, watching all the action as the game gets under way.

I look up toward Lee’s section at the breaks. He’s sitting with the wives, next to Gena and Angela and their cubs. Vonni’s wife is sitting with another vixen on the other side from Lee, and Aston’s is there, and about a half-dozen others. It’s not hard to pick out the fox in the section, as they’re right behind our sideline and not too far up, and I can even see that he’s looking at me at one point in the first series, because he gestures to me to pay attention to the field.

We’re a little tentative on offense. Aston tries one long pass to Strike, but they’re ready for it, and after that we just go short. “Taking what they give us,” the coaches say, and it gets us close enough for a kick, which Charm nails as confidently and easily as if he were still out in practice.

And then it’s our turn to take the field. Boliat has a powerful running game, and they go to it early on, pounding away up the field. They don’t really make much effort to hide what they’re doing; their running back is just really good. Our line is, too, but we can’t stop him from getting two yards here, five yards around the end, another three inside. And their veteran quarterback knows exactly when he can dump off the ball for a short gain. They get another advantage by holding our guys, grabbing them a little more than is legal, but never enough for the refs to call it.

Fisher screams at one of the offensive linemen to play legal, and the bear replies that he don’t see no flags on the ground. Gerrard has to calm Fisher down to get him back to the line. Our coaches take up the pleas, to no avail on this drive. The Boxers make it down to the seven-yard line and then their running back plows through us to score.

We trudge back to the sidelines. Already I’m remembering getting to the playoffs my senior year in college, only to fall short in the quarterfinals. But the coaches are upbeat. “It’s a long game,” they tell us.

And indeed, our offense goes on a nice long drive that ends in another field goal, so we’re only down 7-6, which is where it sits at the end of the first quarter after a couple non-scoring series.

The big problem for our offense seems to be false starts; with all the noise in the stadium, it’s hard for the guys on the line to hear Aston’s snap count. They make some adjustments in between series, and in the second quarter they get a lot better about their starts. Meanwhile, Boliat is hit with a sudden rash of holding calls on their offensive drives—sudden, that is, if you didn’t hear Coach screaming about the holding all through the first quarter. The refs just start listening, and that stalls a few Boliat drives and negates at least one big gain. “There’s your flag!” Fisher screams at the bear after one penalty, and looks like he’s ready to go after the guy until we pull him back.

After another field goal from Charm, he comes back to the sidelines with one fist raised. It isn’t until I’m running out to defend again that it sinks in that I’m protecting a lead now. We’re actually winning the game.

It doesn’t last; just before the half, Boliat mounts a great two-minute drive—I mean, great in that ‘when you’re watching it on TV and rooting for the Boxers’ way. From our side, it’s frustrating as hell. We’ll get them to second and long, third and long, and then their quarterback rifles one just past Gerrard’s paws, or just over my head, to complete the first down. We manage to stop them from scoring a touchdown, but they get a field goal to go back on top, 10-9, as we run into the locker rooms at halftime.

Defending the run takes a lot out of you. Running around covering receivers and short passes just tires me out; when I’ve been plowing into their line and tackling people over and over, I feel beaten down. It’s like when we played Gateway, though thank God they don’t have anyone like Gateway’s wolverine running at us. Everyone looks like I feel, but the coaches are encouraging. “You are doing good,” Steez tells us, standing over the linebacking corps as we catch our breath. Gerrard and Carson sit beside me, Zillo and Marais behind me. “Now you need to be great.”

That’s the worst part of it, that we’re doing everything right. They’re half a step faster, reacting half a second quicker. “Need to anticipate better,” Gerrard says. “We know what they’re going to do.”

“Line needs to stop the run,” Carson says. “Their O-line is creating holes.”

Our defensive line is getting its own talk a little ways away. Fisher’s voice is the loudest, even over the coaches, while the rest of the line is mostly silent. “If they could slow the other guys down even just a step,” I say, “we could get in there. By the time I get to the guy, he’s already past the line and got momentum.”

“Yes,” Steez says. “Second half, you play up a little closer, charge line on running plays more aggressively. Corners and safeties will watch the receivers. Once or twice we will blitz to shake up number 12.”

That’s the quarterback. Gerrard shakes his head. “Not going to shake him up,” he says. “But might get a turnover that way.” His ears flick and he looks up at the cougar. “You think we’re going to need a turnover to win.”

Steez remains impassive. “Turnovers always help. Worth taking small chance for. Their offense is conservative, more conservative than on film. We think we can make something happen.”

“All right.” Gerrard looks around at the rest of us. “We good with that?”

“Take chances,” I say. “I’m good.”

Coach gathers us all for a speech to send us back out there with. “This is an important game,” he says, “and it’s probably the best team we’ve faced all year. They don’t make a lot of mistakes. So we’re going to need to be more aggressive and make something happen. I know we can do it. This team has the talent to beat any other team in the league. But they’re not going to deliver us a victory. We’re going to have to take it from them.”

We head out inspired and full of energy. On the sideline, we stretch to stay loose, keeping the sore spots and abused muscles from the first half from getting too stiff. And because we got the ball to start the game, they get the ball to start the second half, so we buckle on our helmets and go out to defend.

Being aggressive is easier said than done. My instincts are to find the play, sometimes to anticipate where the play is going, not so much to charge ahead with less regard to what’s happening. But that’s what we’re doing; we can tell in a split-second whether the play is a run or not, and then we’re just driving forward into the line. When they try to run around us, we sniff that out and stop it. They break through once or twice more, but we hold them on that first series.

They figure out what we’re doing, of course, and then start throwing. They’ve got that great tight end who helps them move the chains again and again; Carson always seems to be a half-step away from tackling him. The Boxers get two long gains, get to right around midfield, and then the game changes.

It starts out as a standard running play. Fisher’s coming off the end right into the heart of the play, but their running back jukes and Fisher spins around off-balance right as one of their offensive linemen slams into him, knocking him to the ground.

I see it peripherally, but don’t think much of it. I mean, most of us get tackled hard every game. It knocks the wind out of you, then you get up. Only Fisher doesn’t get up.

Gerrard’s the first one to notice, and then I see Fisher sprawled on his stomach, the big number 75 not moving, his orange-and-black striped tail limp across his thighs. Two Boxers are already crouched over him as Gerrard and I hurry over.
Not again, not again
, I’m thinking as I get close. “Hey, Fish,” Gerrard says. “Come on, get up. We got a game to play.” But the coyote’s helmet is off and the cant of his ears shows the worry he’s not letting into his words. Fisher’s up on the Jumbotron now and the crowd has fallen silent, so we can hear all the things going on around us with eerie clarity.

“I just tackled him,” the huge bear from Boliat says. He sounds defensive, gesturing to the ground, which is clear of penalty flags. “It was all clean and legal.”

We ignore him, mostly; Gerrard nods quickly at him to show we’ve heard, and Carson stands next to him and tells him it’s cool. Already our team physician is hurrying over from the sidelines with three trainers, and Strike, of all people, is leading the way.

Just as they get there, Fisher’s tail twitches. He groans and gets his arms under him, trying to push himself up.

“Easy there,” the doc says. “We got a stretcher coming.”

“Don’t need a stretcher,” Fisher mutters.

Strike says, “Okay, just take it easy, bud. Think you can roll over onto your back?”

“Don’t move him yet,” the doctor snaps. “I need to check—”

Fisher growls and rolls over onto his back. He pushes himself to a sitting position before the doctor can do anything. “I’m fine,” he says, more clearly.

“Let me just take a look at your eyes.” The doc gets his helmet off and shines a light into each of Fisher’s pupils. “Are you dizzy at all?”

“I’m
fine
,” Fisher snaps again. He looks up at me and Gerrard. “Tell him I’m fine,” he growls at us.

“What year is it?” Strike asks, crouched over with his paws on his knees.

“Do you know where you are?” the doc asks.

“I’m in…” Fisher looks around, up at the roof and the steel girders in front of it. “This is Boliat, right?”

“All right,” the doctor says, and gets to his feet. “Come on, you’re coming out of the game.”

“I have to stay in!” With the help of the trainers, Fisher struggles to his feet. The crowd cheers, so much that it’s hard to hear the next words he says. “This is an important game. I can still play!”

Strike says something, but I can’t catch his words. I hear the doctor, though, still talking as the trainers, an otter and a slender ringtail, try to walk Fisher to the sidelines. “Why is it important?” the doctor says.

The trainers are having trouble managing Fisher, so I step in to help, blocking Strike, who’s still trying to talk through the doctor’s words. “Because…because it’s the playoffs,” Fisher says. “We have to win this game.”

“You’ve got a concussion,” the doctor says gently. “The best thing you can do for your team is step over to the sidelines and let the healthy players finish the game.”

“We can do it!” Strike says, with a big smile and a fist pump.

Fisher looks at me and then at Gerrard. The coyote lifts a paw to Fisher’s shoulder. “You’ve given us all you can,” he says.

I nod. “Go get better. We’ll finish this.”

The big tiger slumps. He lets the trainers support him back to the sideline.

Gerrard turns to me. Pike is already walking out to take Fisher’s place on the field. “You ready?” Gerrard says. I nod. He puts his helmet back on, and says, “Then let’s finish this.”

Chapter 7 - Aggression (Lee)

I feel worse than I can ever remember feeling at a football game, not only at the moment Fisher went down and didn’t get up, but at Gena’s cold stillness beside me. I can’t even think of what to say to her as those agonizing moments stretch out into minutes. Next to her, her sons—Fisher’s sons—are just as still, although I see them look at Gena while she doesn’t take her eyes from the field.

Finally, when he rolls over and sits up, Junior says, “Dad’s okay,” and that seems to snap Gena out of her daze.

“Of course he’s going to be okay,” she says, and forces a smile as she turns to them. “He’s going to be fine.”

“I’ll stay with the boys if you want to go down there,” I say gently, though Bradley’s probably only about seven years younger than I am.

She turns to me. “During a game?”

“Well…” I just want to make sure she won’t spend the rest of the game worrying about him. “Let’s see if he goes back to the locker room. If he does…”

Even then, she might not go down there. Right now they’re talking to him and I don’t know what’s going on. Then he stands up and we all cheer, our section loudest of all. Nice crowd in Boliat. There are some things that transcend team allegiance.

“Look, he’s walking off. He’s okay,” I say.

“They’re supporting him,” Gena says.

The boys lean forward to look, passing a small pair of binoculars between them. Bradley offers them to Gena, but she waves him away. Junior says, “There was a guy in one of my games who got the wind knocked out of him so bad he couldn’t come back in the rest of the game. But it was just a rib contusion, he was okay in like two days.”

“At least it’s not his leg again,” Bradley says, watching Fisher. “He’s walking fine. He’s talking with the trainers.” He pauses. “He’s angry.”

Gena takes her phone out to text. When she puts it away, she says, “Hopefully he’ll write back and let me know…”

They’re taking Fisher back to the locker room. So he’s probably not coming back to the game. It’s a good game, but my thoughts keep going to Fisher and what happened to him, and how close Dev might be to something similar, some game-ending or, God forbid, career-ending injury. I try to focus on the football game to chase away those thoughts, with moderate success.

Pike’s out there now, slower but more powerful. I wait for Boliat to run more quick patterns to his side, see if their runner can get around him before he can bring his weight to bear. That’s Dev’s side, and with some help from Pace, they seal the edge until it’s clear Boliat’s not going to be able to exploit Pike that way. Chevali has a bit of an advantage here; they played without Fisher for half the season, but Boliat probably only prepared for Fisher, not Pike. Plus Chevali’s now playing for Fisher as well as themselves, I’m sure. The whole defense is fired up: Dev pumps his fist more than once, and his and Carson’s tails lash constantly. When Dev does look my way between plays, I can see the white gleam of his fierce, proud smile.

But Chevali’s offense can’t muster more than a field goal after a long pass to Strike gets them down close to the end zone. And in the fourth quarter, down 12-10, Boliat starts passing the ball more, when it becomes clear that the Firebirds aren’t going to give them any running room. Dev covers the short receiver, but when they split out three wide plus the tight end, they can get some passes off quickly enough to keep marching down the field. They’re at the seven-yard line when the quarterback lobs a pass to the corner of the end zone.

Dev is covering the short receiver and Vonni the deep one, but of course at this distance, there’s not much distinction. As it happens, the pass was to the short receiver, with the deep one running a curl in front of him as a decoy. Vonni nearly smacks into Dev, but adjusts in time to see the pass going behind him. He stops, leaps, and twists brilliantly in the air to get a paw on it. That sends the football to the left, where Dev shoots a paw up and snatches it cold. He brings it to his chest and drops to the ground clutching it as he disappears into a sea of ecstatic red and gold. I’m standing in my seat and jumping up and down and Gena stands too, her worries about Fisher momentarily erased.

Of course, there’s six minutes left in the game. The Firebirds offense takes the field and does exactly the right thing, handing the ball to Jaws over and over to chew up clock; the Boxers know what they’re going to do and stack the line, holding the big wolverine to two yards on first down, one on second. And then Aston does something wonderful and unexpected.

The Boxers haven’t forgotten about Strike; they’re too good a team for that. Aston drops back to pass on third down and fakes the long throw as Strike races down the field. There’s already a corner on him, another cheetah who can barely keep up, but the fake sends the safety shooting across the field to help cover.

And there’s Ty, red tail streaming out behind him, lifting a black paw over the middle, and Aston throws so smoothly that it’s clear that’s where he meant to go all along. It’s a brilliant fake that makes me jump up again with all the wives as Ty dodges one defender, and then Strike throws a terrific block on the safety who’s now trying to reverse field to catch the fox, and there’s nothing between Ty and the end zone and he strolls in, tail high, and slams the ball to the ground.

Our little section is screaming and hugging while the rest of the stadium is silent. The people near us give us half-hearted boos and jeers, but they know who we are, pretty much. Before the game, in one of the rare periods when I could keep my ears up without getting deafened, I heard speculation from the next section over about which of the females over here was whose wife on the Firebirds. I didn’t hear them speculate about me, but now that we’re cheering and the rest of the crowd is quiet, I can hear little bits of conversation, and I focus in on the ones that say, “fox.”

Like: “…that fox with the tiger—that’s DiCarlo’s brother.”

“DiCarlo’s got a brother?”

DiCarlo is Vonni. I don’t think he has a brother.

“…the fox is with the wives…”

“…it’s families too—he’s gotta be a younger brother or something…”

After that, the Boxers receive the kickoff and the crowd gets loud again. But during the ensuing drive I sneak a look over to see if I can pick out the guys who were talking. I narrow it down to either a pair of cougars in Boxers t-shirts, both with 32-ounce beers, or a dark grey wolf chatting with a muscular brown rabbit in a wife-beater. But I can’t match the voices up exactly to either pair, and so as I watch Boliat stall at midfield, I focus back on the game. They punt with three minutes left, and the Firebirds’ punt returner, a quick-cutting otter, calls for a fair catch on the five. Great punt—the Firebirds are backed up against their end zone and they have to be really careful here.

Run, run, run. Jaws takes the ball and runs into the line, and the Boxers call time. It’s a tedious part of the game and yet I’m still wringing my paws. Up by nine, this should be the part where we’re just counting down to the end of the game. Unless they don’t get a first down. If they have to punt the ball, then the Boxers get another chance, and a quick touchdown and an onside kick and a field goal…

Those kinds of endings happen just often enough to keep us nervous, as the Firebirds get to third down and take their time getting back to the line. They come up in a passing formation, which makes me curse softly, “Just run the ball again, chew up more clock.” But Aston drops back and passes, and Ty reaches for the ball—

—the crowd holds its breath—

—as the ball glances off his fingertips—

—and a Boxers’ linebacker, a tall fisher marten, makes an incredible diving catch, rolling over and over with the ball on the ground—

—and the crowd erupts, screams and cheers all around us, as Gena and I look at each other, as Bradley says “Shit,” and Gena doesn’t even scold him for his language.

“They still have to score,” I say. “Twice.” But the energy of the crowd is deflating for us. All down our row, ears are flat and tails are limp.

It doesn’t seem to be doing our defense much good, either. Though Dev and his teammates play pretty well, the Boxers are fired up and determined. They march down the short field with screen passes to their tight end, who gets out of bounds at the sidelines after gains of four, three, five—at which point Gena cries, “Can’t they stop him?”

I know she’s thinking that she doesn’t want this to be Fisher’s last game. I don’t want Dev’s season to end here, either. I squeeze my paws together and don’t say anything, just watch the action on the field.

They line up on the three-yard line and I feel the creeping sense of inevitability. They’re going to score here, I know, whether on this play or the next. It’s just one of those things you get a sense for. Sure enough, they give the ball to their running back and he drives up the middle—risky, because they’ll lose precious seconds if he doesn’t get in—but their offensive line creates a nice gap for him, and when Dev tackles him to the ground, he’s already a foot inside the end zone. The ref raises both arms into the air, and if I thought the crowd was loud before, that was nothing. I actually put my paws over my ears for a moment.

Beside me, Gena’s shoulders slump. Her boys do too, although Junior straightens up and says, “We’re still winning.”

Just don’t give up the onside kick, I mutter. That’s all you need to do. Hold on to the ball. They’re out of timeouts. If the Firebirds can just recover the kick, they can run out the clock and win, 19-17.

The Jumbotron screams, “MAKE NOISE,” and a piece of a popular song plays, about a boxer who knows when to fight. The crowd is on their feet, and we stand with them. “Come on, Firebirds!” Bradley hollers, and I echo him.

Our cheers might be lost in the noise from the crowd, but they make us feel better. Ears perk up (some; it’s still too loud to have them all the way up, at least for me) and our tails and body language show more energy.

The teams line up for the onside kick. The receivers and cornerbacks are out there—the “hands” team—for both sides. The noise from the crowd escalates to a roar as the Boxers’ kicker kicks the ball into the ground, sending it up through the air in a short arc as the Boxers charge madly down to get in position before the ball comes down. Ty and Vonni are waiting for it, but it’s Strike—the superstar wideout, in the game on a special teams play—who leaps and swipes the ball out of the air with a paw, tumbling to the ground with it.

Players from both teams leap on him. The ball and cheetah vanish from view as the crowd around us gasps and holds their breath. The referees run to the pile and start peeling away players. All around, Firebirds are hopping and gesturing that it’s their ball, and as the referees get to the final layer of the pile, one of them stretches out his arm and points toward the Firebirds’ side of the field.

Chevali ball. All we have to do is run out the clock.

The crowd deflates, sagging back into their seats for the most part. A few die-hard fans stay on their feet. Bradley and Junior slap paws in a high-five and then Bradley turns and hugs his mother. In the relative quiet, as my ears come up, I catch scattered words nearby, the same voices, one telling the other to be quiet.

I turn and catch the rabbit looking at me, though he turns away the moment my eyes meet his. Next to him, the wolf is staring down at the field. Well, when your team is about to lose in an upset at a playoff home game, it’s a tough thing. Still, I wonder why they’re staring at me. I’m trying not to be gay-paranoid, because I’ve never had a problem in a football stadium, but it’s hard not to read the attention in that way. That mutes a little of my excitement at the Firebirds going to their first championship in a generation or so.

Aston takes the snap and kneels immediately. The clock ticks down to 40, 30, 20…Aston gets behind center again and takes another snap and a knee, and that’s the game.

The wives cheer and hug each other while the fans around us go dead quiet. I hear the wife of one of the offensive linemen say, as she hugs Angela, “Another fifty grand!” I’m just bouncing on my paws until Gena gathers me in a big hug.

“This must be exciting for you,” she says.

“Incredible.” I’m grinning like a maniac and feeling that burst of pride for my tiger in my chest. “The interception, just—he played so well the whole game.”

Her ears flick, and I see Fisher in her eyes again. “They played great,” she says, and we turn back to the field. The players in their road whites with the red-trimmed gold numbers are still jumping up and down as the two coaches shake paws in the middle of the field. Dev is out with the rest of the team exchanging pleasantries with the Boxers, but he doesn’t stay more than a minute before sprinting to the locker room. I’m sure it’s to check on Fisher.

“Going to go down there?” I ask Gena.

She holds up her phone. “I just got a text that he’s fine, but I need to come pick him up. You can get back to the hotel okay, right?”

I nod, heading toward the aisle and out. “Sure.” The other wives are dispersing. Angela waves at me; some of the others smile as well. Penny, the vixen Gena was worried about, actually comes over with Daria as we’re all filing out of the row of seats and says she’s sorry I couldn’t make it to drinks the night before. I guess she met Dev earlier in the year at a dinner and thought he was very nice. Then we get to the aisle and are separated by the crowd; she waves and I wave back, slightly puzzled.

Bradley and Junior follow their mother out behind me. But they turn and walk down to the field as I walk up to the concourse, figuring I’ll let Dev enjoy the moment with his teammates.
So proud of you
, I text.
Going to the championship!

I get up to the concourse wedged into the crowd, the miasma of scents and greasy food and beer all around me. People spot my Firebirds shirt and some boo, others say “Good game” or “Congrats.” I raise my paw as best I can, shuffling toward the exits with everyone else.

Then I feel warm liquid drench the back of my shirt, dripping over my tail, and I catch the smell of beer. I turn and the rabbit in the wife-beater, one of the ones I thought was talking about me, is there with an empty beer cup, leering at me. “Hey,” I say. “Watch it.”