Uncovered (Dev and Lee Book 4) (40 page)

“Yeah. Yeah.” Fisher shakes his head. “That was another playoff game, back in Highbourne. Goddammit.”

“S’okay.” Brick punches his shoulder. “Just remember what team you’re out there playing today.”

Fisher swats his arm away, hard. “I know who we’re playing,” he snaps, and walks off toward the Bolt-Ade cooler.

Brick and I look at each other. “What the fuck was that about?” he says.

I look at Fisher, at the big number 75 on his back. He doesn’t come back over to talk to us. “Maybe he’s not all the way back from his concussion,” I say.

“Should we tell someone?” Brick hesitates. “I’m s’posed to tell the senior guy on the line, but…that’s Fisher.”

“What about your line coach?”

Brick glances over at the other bear, huddling with Steez and the defensive coordinator, and lowers his voice. “He told us all this concussion bullshit was, uh. Bullshit.”

A little ways away from us, Pike and Kodi stand watching the game. Pike turns and meets my eyes as though he can hear what we’re talking about. “Fuck,” I say. “Let me go talk to Gerrard.”

I try to make my way over to where Gerrard is, but as I’m walking, something lands behind me with a wet impact. Someone behind me curses, and up in the stands there’s a yell of “Fuckin’ faggot!”

My chest tightens. When I turn, there’s already a blue-coated security tiger heading toward a clump of deer, big stags whose antlers just shed. Their crowns are bare and their eyes are staring daggers at me.

Zillo and Brick come to stand around me, and we just watch as the security tiger is joined by a ram, asking questions of the people around them. They pull two of the stags away, and the others yell obscenities while the rest of the crowd stays quiet.

When they’re gone, there’s a small smattering of applause. The remaining stags glare at me, but then Gerrard’s there at my side. “Come on,” he says. “We’re going back out.”

I know I was supposed to talk to him about something, but I forget what until we’re out on the field and I see Fisher take his position on the line.

A few plays later, Brick comes back to the huddle with me. “Don’t let it rattle ya,” he tells me.

“I’m fine. How’s he playing?” I indicate Fisher.

“Good.” Brick doesn’t need to turn to see who I’m pointing at. “Picking up his blocks, keeping it clean.”

“What’s going on?” Gerrard looks between the two of us.

“Some fuckhead threw beer at Dev,” Brick says.

I cut in. “It’s nothing, security took him away. Fisher’s acting weird.”

“He’s playing okay?” Gerrard directs that to Brick, who nods. “All right. Get back up there, just play. I’ll talk to someone about it.”

Brick nods, and heads back to the line. Gerrard turns to me. “Stick on 85,” he says. That’s the jackrabbit. “Looks like a run formation but be ready if they throw.”

They don’t, not this time, but the jackrabbit has obviously had some time to think about the last series over on the sidelines—or else he was getting ribbed about it. As we’re getting back to the line of scrimmage after a three-yard run, he calls to me, “Don’t think you can catch me, faggot.”

The twinge of fear of discovery, the reminder of my difference and isolation, is surprisingly faint. Maybe it’s because I’ve put aside all the gay stuff to be just a football player, and I know I’ve got fifty-two teammates who’ll back me up. Whatever it is, I think about what Lee told me, to give as good as I get. With a glance toward the red-shirted fans, I say, “If I catch you, I get to kiss you.”

“Jesus Hare,” he says. “Keep the fuck away from me.”

“Like hell.” I line up across from him and stare.

His foot stamps on the next down, and I prepare to cover him. But when the center snaps the ball, the wolf drops back five steps. The jackrabbit zigs and zags, and I run to keep up, but the play was never going to him. The wolf cocks his arm and heaves the ball downfield a moment before Fisher flattens him.

I turn in time to see the fox catch it, number 83, and shake Vonni off him, speeding into the end zone with little trouble.

“TOUCHDOWN SABRETOOTHS,” screams the PA. “McCrae to Bridger for sixty-eight yards!”

The Jumbotron shows the ball floating down just in front of 83, the fox putting his arms out and snatching it out of the air. Vonni turns and leaps for the ball, but it’s perfectly placed and there’s really nothing he can do.

“That is the fiftieth touchdown between McCrae and Bridger,” the PA announces, and while the crowd roars approval, we are treated to a montage of the other forty-nine touchdowns.

“What the fuck are you guys doing up there?” Vonni yells as we come back to the sideline. “Get some pressure on that wolf. You’re killing us!”

We know it’s just game-day frustration boiling over, and most of us snap out half-hearted “we’re pushing, we’re trying.” Fisher, though, flares up. “I almost got to him,” he snarls. “Knocked him down. Made him think about next time.”

“That doesn’t do me a fucking bit of good now,” Vonni snaps.

It looks like Fisher might go after him, so I grab his arm and Brick puts himself between the two of them, and by that time we’re at the sidelines and the defensive backs coach takes Vonni and Norton aside with the safeties.

Coach greets the rest of us with a “Good effort” and a nod, keeping his eyes on the field for the extra point. The Sabretooths have a good solid kicker, and though our guys jump bravely toward the ball, the kick goes through. Coach and the rest of us exhale, slightly disappointed, and the old wolf turns a little more attention to us. “Great work on the line. Keep it up.”

It’s hard to feel like we’re doing good work when we’ve just given up what felt like an easy touchdown, but Coach’s words give us a little energy. Fisher seems okay, so I don’t worry about him, though I don’t see Gerrard go and talk to Coach privately at all.

This series, I make sure to stand away from where the group of stags was, and spend a little more time watching the Sabretooths’ defense. The two coyotes at linebacker look as determined as we are, flying all over the field, near the action everywhere. Yates, who plays my position, is second-year like me, but was a third-round pick (not seventh) and played for a top ten Division I school (not a middling Division II school). And the middle linebacker, Polecki, has been in the league five years and played on the University of Lakewood national champions, as well as the Sabretooths last championship team, his rookie year. I don’t know where the media ranks him as far as linebackers go; I think Gerrard is better, but Polecki and Yates together…they’re really good. They and the cougar who plays strong side linebacker have the kind of rapport that Gerrard and Carson and I have now, and even though our offensive line is pretty good at opening holes for Jaws, the coyotes and cougar close the gaps really fast.

Jaws manages to squeeze through one for a fifteen-yard run, and then Aston finds Ty for a seven-yard gain, and we cross into Sabretooths territory. On the sidelines, we get excited, yelling encouragement at the offense and at each other. Aston tries to hit Strike in the end zone, but the Sabretooths corner, playing great coverage, knocks the ball away. There’s a short pass to Ty again, and Polecki drops him after five. They expect a pass on third and five, but instead Aston gives to Jaws on a delayed draw, and the wolverine finds lots of room to run. He gets down to the twelve before Yates drags him down from behind.

From there, the drive stalls. Another shot to Strike, broken up. Another run, stuffed. A short pass, not enough for a first.

“I got this one,” Charm says. He stomps out to the line and backs up his words with a straight, true kick to put us on the board.

It’s 7-3 at the end of the first, but we feel good. They’re not running away with it, and we’re keeping it close. At the break, I take Gerrard aside and ask about Fisher.

“Let it be,” he says. “If it’s going well, don’t mess with it.”

“You sure? He doesn’t seem okay.”

“He’s fine enough to play. I kept an eye on him. He knows his assignments.”

“What if he gets hurt?”

Gerrard’s ears go back. “You know him. How do you think he would feel if we made him come out of the championship game, especially when he’s playing well?” He doesn’t need me to reply. He already knows the answer. “Would you come out of this game, if you were in his place?”

I shake my head. “No fucking way.”

“All right. Don’t worry about him. Concussions go away. That ring on your finger doesn’t.”

“Right.” Of course that makes sense. And the reason I didn’t go to a coach myself is that I didn’t want to be the one to yank Fisher out of the game. If I would take myself out, in his place, then I wouldn’t have hesitated. But this is a championship game, maybe the last one Fisher will ever play in. It’s only three more quarters. I can’t ruin that for him.

The second quarter gets interesting. We’ve been feeling each other out, running conservative plays, and now the coaches try to take each other by surprise. I stick mostly to the jackrabbit, abandoning him to help stop the run when needed. They don’t run to my side a lot, but the two times they do—once with Runningwater and once with Hob—I bring down the runner before he gets more than a few yards. They do try the long bomb again, but whatever adjustment Vonni and Norton were given works well.

Fisher, maybe still embarrassed or worried about his slip, doesn’t talk to me or anyone. He listens to the coaches and otherwise stands by himself on the sideline, drinking Bolt-Ade and watching the game. I don’t go up to him because I’m afraid of what he might say.

And I still find myself looking at the Chevali fans for support, at the fox in the tenth row. It’s not Lee, I tell myself. Only maybe it is.

The other yahoos in the stands keep pretty quiet, even when Charm gets another field goal before the half to make it 7-6. Guess when their team is winning, they don’t care so much who I fuck. On the field, the jackrabbit lobs a few more “faggot” bombs my way, but those don’t bother me as much, strangely, because I know he’s just trying to get into my head. When I do tackle him, he shoves me off him and stalks away.

“You owe me a kiss,” I yell, loud enough for my teammates to hear.

“Fuck off!” he yells back, and our side bursts into laughter. Brick slaps me on the back and even Fisher, I think, smiles.

At halftime, Coach is all fire and brimstone, but a nice kind of fire and brimstone, if that’s possible. “We’re holding our own!” he shouts. “We’re showing these guys how we play football in Chevali! We gotta keep doing what we do, clamp down and stay focused, and I promise you we will prove everyone who doubted us wrong!”

We cheer, and then meet with our individual coaches for our specific adjustments. Steez doesn’t have much to say. “Good work on 85, Miski,” he says. “Omba, good work holding the edge.”

Carson nods. Steez turns to Gerrard. “They make good adjustments. Probably try to run more to weak side, delayed run to strong side. Maybe switch up matchups. You see something you don’t like, call time out.”

We talk a little more about strategy and plays, and then he lets us go. “Five minutes,” he says. “Back on field.”

I sit next to my locker and think about my phone. I could just reach in, look at the message. It would take ten seconds. We’re supposed to have our phones off, but nobody would notice or care.

But I don’t know that I want to do that. The fox in the Chevali section could be Lee. Probably he’s not, but maybe he is. I’m playing well, and if I find out for sure it’s not Lee, that might upset the game. So I won’t mess with it.

Chapter 21 – Fitting In (Lee)

I’m sure nobody else sees it. But when Dev comes out onto the field and looks up into the stands, I have to look away from the TV. God dammit, I should be there, no matter what. I should be supporting him. But he knows that I do, even if I’m not there in person. He knows I’m watching.

And then, in a rush, I remember that my presence isn’t necessarily supportive, that he probably now associates me with tension and Equality Now and Brian and people who make him think about being gay when all he wants to think about is football.

Not that I think it’s right for him just to think about football. But I’m tired of going round and round that particular post. So I take a deep breath and a drink of beer, and continue talking to Jalili and some of the Whalers’ scouts.

We’ve been discussing college prospects, which is kind of like playing Battleship in reverse; we all know where the ships are (the college players), but we can’t tell each other what the Dragons (me) and Whalers (them) are planning to guess (target in the draft). So we have to focus on the players and their performances, and make only hazy general references to where they might fit in well.

“He’s one of the better centers I’ve seen,” I say about one prospect, just as an example. “But I’m not sure how well he’d do with a quarterback who improvises a lot. Word from the coaching staff there is that it takes him a while to learn the blocking schemes, so they have to keep it simple for him.”

“We hear the same thing,” one of the scouts says. “So is there a team where you think he’d be a good fit?”

I think about the teams in the league with steady QBs. “Port City’s where I see him going,” I say. “They need to think about a center once Shalick retires, and they run a pretty conservative offense right now.”

The scout nods. “Fits with what we’re thinking, too. What right guards have you been impressed by?”

And on and on. I know the east region best, so it’s that scout, one of the bears, who spends the most time talking to me. We compare notes while the game is going on, and miss the occasional play because we’re getting so involved in discussions. After a while, I forget that I’m interviewing.

Peter circles back to check on me every now and then, sometimes just a glance if I’m involved in a conversation, sometimes coming over to ask if I’ve gotten a chance to talk to some other person and taking me over to them whether I have or not.

And Jalili comes to talk to me when I’m free, so as a result I haven’t gotten to check on Hal much at all by the time halftime comes around. I keep an eye out, and he’s usually talking to someone in the room. Once I see him come out of the side room putting his phone away. He meets my eye and grins, so I know he was talking to Pol.

Jalili mostly is excited at the prospect of another non-football player on staff. She talks about all the things there are to do in the Yerba area and asks me about Hilltown and Chevali. It turns out we have a good deal in common: she likes the theater and goes on and on about the last show she and her husband went to. She’s also active in gay rights, so I assume she has a gay brother or something, but it isn’t that simple.

“I have a couple gay friends,” she says, “and it’s just so ridiculous that they can’t get married the way I did. I mean, what’s the difference?”

“Exactly,” I say. “It’s just so hard to argue when the logic is so…”

“Illogical.” She laughs and I join in, the short kind of laugh that indicates a small joke in a larger, less funny matter. “So you’re right in the middle of it.” She nods at the screen. “You and that tiger. How’s it been going?”

I can’t help but read that question personally at first. A moment later, I place the frame of context around it. “Surprisingly pretty well. People are willing to let him play. He gets shit talked at him on the field.”

“Not from our players, I hope.”

“I don’t think so. But you know, football players talk shit about each other all the time anyway. So it’s just something else for them to latch onto.”

She has a little tic of shaking her wings when thinking. They make a leathery rattling noise. “You feel like the culture’s changing?”

“A little. Slowly. But that’s how things change, until they change fast.”

The TV shows the section of Chevali fans at Sabre Field. Jalili looks up, nods, and shakes her wings. “So tell me. Why aren’t you at the game?”

“Oh, it was a big ordeal, and I had the chance to come up here. I’m just looking out for my future career, and this was a good opportunity.”

She folds her arms across her chest so that her wings spread out like a black dress. “You know that anyone here would understand ‘I have to go to the championship game’ as a reason to postpone the interview.”

“I guess so, yeah.” I flick my ears.

She studies me. “Okay. Well, I won’t ask any more. I just hope you’re doing okay.”

“I’m fine,” I say. “Glad to be here.”

“Hope to see you back.” Jalili unfolds her arms. “Not that I have any say in it.”

I grin. “I hope to be back.”

That’s when Jocko comes over and asks Jalili to excuse us. She mouths “Good luck” at me as she goes, and I flick my ears in reply.

“You’re lookin’ smart so far.” The game’s just gone to the half at 7-6, Sabretooths.

I glance at the halftime show, which is all fog machines and blue lights and some singer my father used to listen to. “It’s a long game.”

He nods. “So tell me about your work with Morty.”

I talk for a while about our work on the Dragons, going back over some of the things I talked about on the phone with him. He nods, arms folded over the Whalers logo on his t-shirt, asks a few questions here and there. “What else did you do for Morty?” he asks when I’m done.

“What else? Um.” I frown.

His dark eyes fix me again. “Like, after hours.”

Oh, fuck. Seriously? “Morty usually just went home to his wife,” I say, with stress on that last word.

“Uh-huh. They still together?”

I’m pretty sure he knows the answer before he asks. “Split up this year. I think it was because he was working too much.”

If he didn’t know, he doesn’t react to it. “He made a big deal outta recommending you.”

“Because of my football knowledge.” I tap my head again. “Nothing else. Him and his wife, that was just about him working too much.”

“Hey,” Peter says, walking up to us. “Who’s working too much?”

“Just talking about Morty,” Jocko says. “I ain’t heard much from him since I left the Knights.”

“Wait, you worked with him?” I wonder why he didn’t mention that before. Maybe he didn’t want me asking Morty about him.

Jocko nods. “Scouts in Kerina. I left to come here in ’02. Morty took the job at the Dragons a year later.”

So I tell them about Morty and the Dragons and how I told him about Dev and he told me I could come work with him at the combine if Dev got an invitation. This is the first time I see Jocko smile, and Peter laughs out loud. “He really said that? ‘If he comes, you can come too’? He pulled the ‘League of Their Own’ crap on you?”

Jocko shakes his head. “He loved that fuckin’ movie. It came out in what, ’92? He was still talkin’ about it in ’01 at the Knights.”

“That’s hysterical.” Peter’s ears cup forward. “I’m gonna tease him for that one.”

“Wasn’t he going to be here?” I’d forgotten until just now.

“Here?” Jocko’s eyes widen. “Why?”

“Yeah, the Dragons haven’t officially let him go, so he’s watching with them. Damn loyal bastard.” To Jocko, Peter says, “We’re talking about bringing him over.”

“No shit.” Jocko scratches his muzzle. “Heard he was a director now too. What position we hiring for here? You forget to tell me something?”

“You’ll find out when you try your key card tomorrow,” Peter says with a bland smile on his slender muzzle.

“That’s okay. I got one of yours.” Jocko grins back.

“You heard about Dex, right?”

“Yeah—oh!” Jocko’s eyes light up. “Oh, Morty’d be awesome for that.”

“For what?” I say.

“Consultant on Player Development.” Peter scratches behind one ear.

Jocko breaks in. “Dex is pretty good, but he’s moving on to do some private thing.”

“Private consultant to college athletes. Basically he’ll go around to college programs and advise their top players on what to do to make themselves more attractive to pro teams. Between the colleges and the agents, he’s going to triple his salary.”

“Needs it, too. Laci picked up another charity.”

I think about Morty’s divorce, and maybe I’m not the only one. “Hey, how’s Alexa?” Jocko asks.

“She’s good. She’s with her mom today. How about Kim?”

“Spa.” Jocko waves a paw out at the door. If I knew the area, I could figure out whether it was toward the city or the ’burbs. “Guess today is one of the hardest days to get an appointment, but she got in with her sister and they’re doin’ the whole fuckin’ day up there.”

“Jocko married money,” Peter tells me. “Kim’s dad invented…well, you tell him, Jocko.”

The bear coughs. “Thanks, asshole. It’s just a surgical procedure, and he founded a company that makes the things.”

Peter nudges me, a grin still on his long muzzle. I ask, as innocently as I can, “What things?”

He coughs and unfolds his arms, sticks his paws in his pockets. “Well, uh. Prosthetic enhanced claws.”

The fox points at the TV. “You ever see any of Kika’s videos from this last year?”

“Yeah. Oh, wait.” I remember now the claws she had, how they lit up and blinked in patterns. “I thought those were just Press-On Claws.”

“Nah, these are way beyond that. They bond with the keratin and they’re durable as all shit.” Jocko seems less embarrassed when he’s talking about the technology. “But the cool thing is that felines can use ’em. You know, they can’t use the press-on kind because they don’t retract. But these things, you can bond them and shape them to the claw, and they’re non-fucking-reactive so they don’t irritate. They’re kind of hot shit.”

“Hot shit enough that he’s making bank.” Peter shakes his head. “Hey, game’s starting up again. What do you think they’re going to do different?”

We talk about the adjustments both teams should make. I think the Firebirds should open things up. They’re not getting to Strike, but it looks like they’re not letting that bother them. They need to keep pushing so they get that one big play, because all that frustration is worth it when you get a touchdown. Peter says he thinks they should use the tight end more, and Jocko says the Sabretooths need to just pound the running game. “Firebirds D-line is a little soft on the weak side,” he says. “You got Fisher, but he’s past his prime and he’s just back from a concussion. Then you got Partchan, whatsisname, Brick, he’s good but he’s green. I think they’re afraid of Fisher.”

“They got Miski that side, too,” Peter says.

“Yeah.” Jocko looks at me. “He’s playin’ pretty great right now, but I’d still run at his side. I mean, Omba’s kickin’ ass on the other side, so it’s kinda pick your poison, right?”

“Totally agree,” I say. Dev’s good, but Carson’s more experienced. We watch as the Firebirds come out on offense. They march down the field looking pretty good, and then Aston has a ball tipped over the middle. One of Crystal City’s coyote linebackers leaps and spears it with a paw, and the crowd screams. He dodges and darts past Firebirds, but Aston, of all people, dives for his legs and wraps him up, saving the touchdown.

“That is what Polecki brings to this defense,” the announcers inform us. “Always in the right place at the right time.”

“Bad luck,” Peter says, patting me on the back. Jocko seems about to say something, but gets pulled away by a colleague.

“It’s a long game,” I say, to cover my worry. I’m saying that a lot, and realizing that it’s getting less and less true every moment.

The Chevali defense takes over deep in their own territory, and Dev and his teammates hold the Sabretooths to three yards on the first two downs. Then Crystal City comes out with a four-wide formation, and the jackrabbit and cheetah both line up opposite Dev. Norton, the Firebirds corner, lines up next to Dev and I see them talking about the formation.

“This is new,” Peter mutters as a pudgy leopard comes over to stand near us. Director of Player Personnel, I remember, and his name is, um. Shit.

“Farrel, right?” He lifts his beer and takes a sip, and I remember his name—Travis—just as he says, “Pulling out new formations, huh?”

I haven’t studied a lot of film of the Sabretooths. “They don’t have a four-wide?”

“They do, but…” Peter shuts up as the play starts.

I’m watching Dev, as usual, so I see him try to shadow the jackrabbit and get cut off by the cheetah. Norton races behind Dev to keep pace with the cheetah, and the jackrabbit springs into the air, catching a perfectly placed pass from McCrae. It looks like a sure touchdown, because Pace ducked down to follow the cheetah too, but Dev makes an amazing recovery, pivoting almost as fast as the jackrabbit and speeding upfield. I don’t think the rabbit notices him until he’s at the five, and then he dodges fast—but because he’s running up the sideline, the dodge takes him out of bounds.

“Ni-ice,” Travis says. “That boy can play.”

“Dev or Crais?” I say, because the announcers are gushing with praise for both of them.

“Well, both. That was a great play to spring Crais on the outside, but Miski—phenomenal reaction. Just incredible. Can’t teach that shit.” He looks over my head at Peter.

The fox looks back. “Lee already wants to come work here,” he says. “You don’t have to compliment his boyfriend.” They laugh, but it feels like they’re covering up what they’re really thinking, and that’s got to be something like making Dev an offer to come here. Maybe their interest in me is just to entice Dev to come here.

If that’s the case, then I really shouldn’t tell them how things are between us. I laugh inwardly with a little bitterness, and then shake my head and tell myself to shut up. They’re interested in me, whether or not I come with Dev. They talked to Morty. The interview’s going pretty well, even with Jocko. I think.

As good as it was, Dev’s great play only delays the inevitable. Hob, the sleek quicksilver otter, darts through the Firebirds line and into the end zone two plays later, and they kick the extra for a 14-6 lead.