Uncovered (Dev and Lee Book 4) (31 page)

He laughs. “Yeah, we sure hope so. Well, if you’d like to come up here and watch the game, I invited Morty too.”

I swallow. My throat feels a little better. “Could I bring a guest? There’s a local reporter—freelance journalist, sorry—who’s a good friend of mine—really, the only friend I have down here…”

“A journalist?” His distaste shows as clearly as if I could see his ears flatten, his muzzle wrinkle.

“He’s a good guy. He knows sports, but he won’t publish anything he sees. Promise.”

“Sports journalist, huh? He know people up here?”

“Um. I’m not sure. Maybe?”

“Has he pissed off anyone up here, is what I’m asking.” He sounds amused.

“He’s been out of work for a couple years, but I don’t think so.”

“Well…”

“It’s okay,” I say. “I can just come alone.” I figure I have to be willing to give in, to show I can be a good employee. I’ll let Peter be the benevolent future boss.

He doesn’t disappoint. “What’s his name?”

“Kinnel. Hal Kinnel.”

Peter clicks his tongue. “He did the piece on you and Miski, didn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Look, go ahead and bring him if he wants to come. I’ll straighten it out here. Just tell him he’s not a journalist while he’s here, he’s a guest.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

And when I hang up, I take one of the honey packets straight up, let it coat my throat, and wash it down with tea. My throat feels better for a few minutes, and the tea still tastes good. Dammit, I don’t want to start liking Starbucks.

I hold the tea and lean back against the wall, closing my eyes. I’ve been not letting myself believe in the job, but Peter keeps sounding more and more confident, and if they’re flying me up to watch the game, maybe they do really want me. If only everyone did. The idea of watching the game with them is interesting, and with Hal along I’ll at least have someone I know if I start getting emotional about the game. Maybe…maybe…

I blink. The sun is less bright, and there’s a blanket over my lap. I’m no longer holding the tea, and my neck is a little sore. I straighten, rubbing it, and check the time on my phone: 3:14 pm.

So I did nap for a bit. I get up and walk out into the living room, where Hal’s on the couch with his laptop and a basketball game on TV. He grins as I walk in. “Feel any better?” he says.

I press fingers to my throat, which is still raw and dry. “Not really,” I say. “Not about anything. But the tea was okay.”

“We’ll get you a Starbucks card,” he says.

“Fucking hell.” I cross to the couch and sit on the far side, drawing my legs up and my tail around my ankles. I fold my arms, keeping as close in on myself as I can. “Thanks for the blanket.”

“Don’t mean we’re engaged,” he says. “Just, you looked a little twitchy and I always like having a blanket when I’m getting sick.”

“I hope it’s just a scratchy throat,” I say, though my head feels thick and warm. My memory is thick and sludgy, too, and it takes me a moment to bring back the conversation with Peter. “I might’ve gotten you an invitation to come watch the championship. With the Yerba guys. They asked me up and said I could bring you.”

“Well, that’s right nice.” He looks up from the laptop, smiling, and flicks his tail. “Lessee…” He rattles off a couple names and asks if they still work there.

I shake my head. “No idea. So you want to come?”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks.”

He goes back to his writing. I watch the mesmerizing back and forth of the basketball game, all different species working together, passing and shooting the ball, until a commercial comes on for a truck that isn’t Dev’s model or color but still reminds me of him, of standing in that parking garage and listening to the engine rev up. I turn away and look at the swift fox, tapping away at his keys.

“Okay, so what do I do now?”

He doesn’t look up from his typing. “Want to get your car?”

I think wearily about driving all the way back, seeing Dev’s apartment building again, driving back here alone following Hal’s car. “Not really.”

“Okay then. What do you usually do?”

“Wait for Dev to get home. Go shopping. Watch college games, or movies. Play video games.” Call Brian. Write up documents to a court case that has nothing to do with me. Jerk off to porn or memories of my tiger or both.

He pauses his typing for a moment, but still doesn’t look up. “Wouldn’t recommend the first, and if you’re getting sick, you shouldn’t go out, and there’s no college games on and I don’t have a game console.” He nods toward the shelf of DVDs. “I’m not really into the game. You can throw something in if you want.”

I peer at it and force myself up out of the couch to stumble over to the shelf. “You have a lot of sports movies.”

“Uh-huh.” He’s typing again.

“And a little chick flick section. That’s so cute.” He doesn’t respond. “Is that just for you to impress the ladies, or is it your secret shame?”

“It’s out on the shelf, ain’t it?”

I chuckle and then cough, and then curse myself because it hurts. I don’t want a chick flick anyway, so I grab a basketball movie I haven’t seen and kneel in front of his entertainment unit. I figure out the DVD player okay, but I can’t figure out anything else about it. It seems like everything’s in the wrong place and I miss our system at home.

“I’ll get it from here,” Hal says, tapping a remote next to him.

The basketball game’s back on. “You can wait ’til the game’s over if you want,” I say, and close my eyes.

Chapter 14 – Focus (Dev)

Hoffridge University, an hour south of C.C., loans us their field and equipment for practices. There’s students and media buzzing around every time we take the field, so Coach and Steez keep some plays back, out of the spotlight. The defense as a whole takes extra unofficial practice on alternate evenings from the offense. Gerrard’s extra practice philosophy is catching on with the whole team, and though we’re exhausted after three full days of this, everyone feels pumped up.

I’m doing a pretty good job of keeping my focus. It sucks that I’d just gotten used to living with Lee, but for the first three months of the season and the two months of pre-season and practice before that, he’d been living in Hilltown, so it’s not like it’s a big deal that he’s not around. Going home to a hotel and not to the apartment makes it easy to keep that out of my mind. Charm helps, in his own way, but it’s still hardest at night, when I pick up my phone to call him, hold it for a moment, then put it down again. He doesn’t text for the rest of the week, and though I think about texting him every night, I’m worried about what it might start if I do, if I might be scratching at scabs and pulling out fur. The searing anger and hurt from the flight out to C.C. lingers in my memory, dulled now by time and distance and football. If I reach out, I might end up frustrated and angry again, and I can’t blow off steam by taking him to the bedroom afterwards. So I have to let it go for another week.

Steez is happy with us when we break practice Sunday. We can tell because he only grumbles a little bit about the things we’ve been doing wrong, and our list of plays he wants us to focus on is down to about five. So we head to a bar to hang out, because it’s the offense’s night to practice, and we’re all exhausted anyway. All except Fisher, who hasn’t been allowed to work out, and is still on edge about whether he’ll be able to play or not.

They closed the bar for us to hang out in—it’s a popular college bar, and there are muzzles pressed against the window, cameras going off, sometimes with flashes. We ignore it; our media guy Vince will let us know if there are any real media around to talk to, and we’re just supposed to be relaxing tonight. I chat with Zillo and Gerrard for a bit, and when Gerrard gets up to go home early and Zillo gets drawn into a conversation with Marais, Gerrard’s backup, I go sit with Fisher.

He seems mellow, talking to one of the defensive linemen who’s been here three years—came over from Pelagia like Fisher did—about how the league’s changed. When I sit down, he laughs and says, “But Dev here don’t remember those days.”

“I saw ’em on TV,” I say.

“Yeah, wasn’t the same. Eh, Wook?”

Wook, a shaggy brown bear, downs half a pint of beer in one swallow and then belches. “Sure wasn’t,” he says. He sets down the empty and gets up. One paw goes briefly to the gold cross hanging around his neck. “Hey, I’m gonna go see what Brick’s doin’.”

“Okay. Catch you later.” Fisher raises a paw as the bear ambles off. “He’s a good guy,” he tells me.

“I know he’s great on the line,” I say, trying not to think about why he chose to walk away right when I walked up. I know there are at least a few other people on the team who have a problem with me, but at least they don’t make waves over it. And he’s not talking to Colin, so I’m not that upset about it.

“He played against…” Fisher goes off into a football story, which normally I’d be all over. I listen patiently until he lifts his beer, when I break in.

“Hey, you’ve been through—wait, should you be drinking beer?”

He sets the glass down hard and licks his lips free of foam. “What? Because of the concussion?”

“Well, uh…”

“I don’t have a concussion,” he says, a little loudly. “In fact, they might clear me to play in a day or two.”

“If they haven’t cleared you to play…”

“Are you my doctor?” I just stare at him. “Well? Are you?”

“Fish—”

“Because if you’re not my doctor, then keep your fucking medical advice to yourself.”

I’d really like to just walk away at this point. I mean, really. My claws are extended and I have to force myself to pull them back in. “I wanted to ask you about Media Day.”

“Can I drink my fucking beer while you ask me?”

“Yes. Fine. Whatever.”

I wait while he orders another one, and then he turns toward me, a smile lifting his whiskers. “What do you want to know?”

“Well…do you have to answer all the questions? I mean, I’ve seen your Media Days on TV, and it looks like you answer all the questions, but they’re always cutting in and out. Can you ignore the ones you don’t feel like dealing with?”

Fisher shrugs. “It’s just a press conference, really. You call on the people you know, and you call on some of the weird ones to see what they’re going to say. Give ’em the same bland answers and you’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I rub my paws together.

“You’ve already dealt with all the gay stuff,” he says. “What do you think they’re going to ask you?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t want to be ‘the gay football player.’ I just want to be a football player.”

He snorts. “Good luck with that.” The bartender brings him a beer and he drinks right away, not even looking at me. “They will sniff out any angle they can use to ask you the most inane questions, and when you just hand ’em an angle on a platter like that…well…”

“I know.” I sigh. “So just be bland?”

“Like you always do. Unless…” he grins, “unless you wanna put on a show.”

I snort. “Thanks, Fish. Enjoy the beer.”

I walk away wondering whether I should call Gena and tell her he’s drinking. I’m sure he’s only having the beer now because she’s not around to smell it on his breath when he gets home. But fuck it, it’s not my problem, and his snide little comment about putting on a show makes me even less inclined to worry. Let Gena talk to Lee about it. Seems she’d rather talk to him than me or Fisher anyway.

Out of perversity, I go sit near Strike, who is by himself. I know that he tends to drive people away with his attitude, and I’m one of the few people on the team who can stand to be with him for long periods of time. Not that he looks unhappy, sitting at a high table against a window, leaning back into the curtains. He looks like a monarch surveying his people, pausing every now and then to look down and play with his iPhone.

He greets me with a smile as I come up. “Anyone sitting here?” I ask of the obviously empty seat next to him.

“Help yourself.” He taps his iPhone. “How are you liking the phone?”

“Oh, it’s great.” I don’t want to show him the cracks in mine. Less than a month and I’ve already broken it.

“Check it out, I got this game for it. It builds mental fitness and reaction time.” He shows me some game with interlocking pieces that you have to identify quickly before they explode.

“Cool,” I say.

“You can get it on yours, too,” he says helpfully.

“I’m okay for now. Let me know when you can get UFL ’09 on them.”

“Ha.” He grins. “You joke, but it’s probably not too far out. Not drinking?”

I shake my head. “Not really in the mood right now. Trying to keep loose.” Also I don’t want to get over-emotional in front of the whole team, and it’s hard enough to keep a rein on my emotions when I’m sober. I point to his glass. “You are, though.”

“It’s just a gin and tonic.” He brushes his fingers along the glass. “Game’s far enough away that I can have a drink. It’ll be purged by Sunday.”

“Okay.” I sit quietly, resting one arm on the table, looking out at the team. Every so often I’ll catch a smile from someone, or a wave, or just a look. But nobody wants to come over here and talk, not with Strike next to me, and that suits me fine.

“What’s on your mind?” the cheetah says.

I drum fingers on the table. “I’m not sure. I’d like to be able to get through the rest of the week just playing football, not talking to anyone about my life or any shit like that.”

“Really?” He turns to face me, grinning. “You know, if you want to build up your image, you need to talk to people.”

“I guess,” I say. “But I don’t particularly want to do that.”

“Oh.” He turns his whole body now, leaning across the table. “I thought that’s what you were doing with the commercial. Oh, tiger, listen, you have to work on your image. That’s a five million dollar difference right there.”

“Between what and what?”

“Between the contract you’ll get as a good football player and the contract you’ll get as a good football player with a good image. Like with all the fur dye and everything I do, you know? Only don’t you start dyeing your fur.” He laughs. “It’s expensive if you want to use organic chemicals that won’t wear out your fur.”

“The dyeing thing is not me,” I say, with maybe a little more snap than is necessary. “I know I’m gay and all, but—”

“Whoa.” He leans in a little closer. “You know what the dyeing is about, right?”

I frown. “I know it’s not about being gay.”

He laughs again, but differently this time. Maybe I’m just imagining it, but the laugh sounds a little nervous and condescending all at once, kind of like he’s wondering,
W
ait, do they really not know?
Or maybe,
W
ait, do they think I’m gay?
“Look, I like you, so I’m telling you this, but don’t spread it around. It’s not about me. It’s just keeping my name in the news.”

I stare at the red and gold designs drawn around his eyes, down the bridge of his nose. “There’s not a better way to do that?”

“There’s a lot of ways to do it,” he says. “I got this idea from that warthog in the basketball league. But he just changed the top of his head.” He rubs between his ears. “I thought, why not change all of it? And now, before every game, people want to know how I’m colored, what it looks like. I’ve done modeling shots for GQ, too. Me!”

“You’ve got a good body.” I regret saying that right away, but he doesn’t take it as a come-on.

“So do you. So does everyone in this room. But they picked me. And so lots more people saw me and know my name.”

“But they just think of you as that weird cheetah who colors his fur.”

He taps the table. “But they think of me. Sure, you gotta back it up on the field, but how many of my Firebirds jerseys you think they’ve sold?”

“Uh…” I shake my head. “I don’t know. Where would I even find that out?”

He grins. “You’d get your agent to ask the front office. Number one Firebirds jersey the first half of the season was Aston’s. Number two was Jaws. Number three was Marvell.”

“Makes sense.”

He holds up three fingers. “In three weeks with the team, they sold more jerseys with my name than they sold of Aston’s all season.”

“New player,” I say. “Lots of fans already have their number 12.”

“You’re not doing too bad with sales yourself,” he says. “Though not as well as I would have thought. Talked to your agent about that?”

“Not really.” I haven’t talked to Ogleby at all in the past week other than to tell him that I’m not doing any non-sports-media interviews. He’s certainly never mentioned jersey sales to me.

“Might be the gay thing,” Strike says. “You were in the top fifteen of players on the Firebirds when I checked. Might have gone up. It usually spikes after you make a really good play in a win.”

“Sure. I’ll look into it.” I scratch the table with one claw. “But the jerseys don’t actually make you any money, do they?”

“A little,” he says. “The point is, they make money for the club. You know the owners aren’t just trying to put a winning team on the field, right? They want to make money. That’s why I wouldn’t be surprised if Yerba goes after you in the off-season.”

“They need a linebacker, I guess.”

“They need someone who can attract the gay community. You know how many jerseys you’d sell? How many people would come to games or come out to Whalers events? It’d be epic. If I were gay, I’d be signing with Yerba or I would’ve stayed in Port City.”

My claw scratches deeper into the table. I picture a frenzy over the beginning of each game, not because they think I give them a better chance of winning, but because I’m gay. Lee would be so proud. My chest tightens. “I like it here.”

“Oh, sure. This club is tremendous. Coach has a great rapport, the front office doesn’t fuck with you every week, locker room is super mellow, and we’re winning games. Best trade I ever asked for. And they have really loose curfews. It’s great. Hey, are you going to look up Keith? Or is Lee coming out?”

“Lee’s not coming out.” I retract my claw and look at him. “Hey, you said something about tantric meditation…”

His expression becomes serious. “You can’t just start meditating because you miss your boyfriend.”

“No, I—” I back off instinctively and then say, “Wait, why not?”

“Well, it’s a discipline. I mean, would you shoot baskets in your back yard and then go try out for an FBA team?”

I frown. “Are you competing against anyone with this meditation?”

“I’m just trying to say, it takes a long time to get good at it. You’re not going to properly sublimate your frustrated energy if you’re just starting it this week. You’re much better off looking up Keith, or heading over to the West End and going to one of the clubs there.”

“Oh,” I say, “is that where they are?”

He shrugs. “I have some gay friends. There are terrific restaurants there. I don’t care if the waiters think I’m cute, and they know not to hit on me.”

“Makes sense.” I slump back in my chair. I guess I’ll just jerk off a lot this week, then.

“Hey, you know what else would help?”

I perk up my ears. “What?”

“There’s a restaurant around the corner. Totally organic vegan. They make the best tofu burgers.”

I slide off the chair. “You know, I think I do want that drink after all.”