Uncovered (Dev and Lee Book 4) (41 page)

The good thing is that Chevali doesn’t let it bother them. They come back with a great offensive series that ends when Aston executes a brilliant play-fake and finds Strike uncovered at the Sabretooths’ 40. The room goes quiet as the cheetah dodges a tackle at the thirty-five, another at the thirty, and then flat-out races the Sabretooths cornerback to the end zone. Well, I say “races” because they’re both running in the same direction, but Strike gets to the end zone fifteen yards ahead of anyone in a blue and gold uniform.

The announcers can’t stop playing the video back of the run, and the room is still silent, so we hear all of it. “Look at that! That’s not bad tackling, that’s just incredible running! And look at him hit fifth gear here!”

“I don’t think anyone else
has
that gear, Tom.”

“That is what he brings to this team, if you can stand the headaches.”

“And he’s been well-behaved so far for the Firebirds.”

Peter shakes his head, the first one around me to talk. “Jesus Fox,” he says.

“We almost got him, you know,” Travis says. “Haggling over draft picks and Lion Christ I wish we’d given up the second-rounder.”

“They’re still behind,” I point out.

“And we weren’t that close to getting him,” Peter chimes in. “Not everyone was on board.”

“It’s only a point.” Travis is responding to me, I think.

I don’t say anything, because as fun and relaxed as the discussion is, and as much as I feel like I’m fitting in here, I’m aware that I’m still being interviewed. But I think,
one point can make a lot of difference
.

The announcers show the Sabretooths sidelines. “Looks like they’re still arguing over the coverage,” one says. “But with zone coverage you have to make the tackles after the catch, and Strike is just too good.”

“Sometimes you do the best you can and it doesn’t make a difference.”

Amen, I think, as Dev trots back out to the field. The Firebirds have some swagger on defense now, even as the Sabretooths try to match the big play. Gerrard, particularly, looks ferociously motivated, running and leaping for the ball carrier. Even if he doesn’t end up getting the tackle, he affects the play. He grabs Dev and Carson between snaps, barking commands at them, and his excitement is infectious: the Sabretooths get one first down and then have to punt. The corners are sticking to the receivers, the line is getting good pressure, and the linebackers are everywhere they need to be. Even without me in the stands, without knowing I’m watching, Dev is playing great.

I wonder if this is how my father feels about me getting a job with the Dragons, and then, hopefully, the Whalers. Or if it’s how he would feel if I did something he was really proud of.

The Firebirds get the ball back on their thirty, and now the conversation in the meeting room stays low, because it’s a good game and because people want to see if Strike will get the ball again. He catches one pass, but doesn’t break loose, and then Ty catches one to the outside and it looks like Chevali’s going to score again.

But the Sabretooths are fired up on defense, too. The middle linebacker, Polecki, bursts through and sacks Aston, and that leads to a third and long, which leads to Aston heaving a pass downfield for Strike.

The Sabretooths are ready. The corner and safety both run along with the cheetah, pushing him off his route, and for a moment it looks like the corner is going to get to the ball. But Strike jumps too, and they get tangled together, and the ball drops harmlessly to the grass.

One guy yells, “Dammit, get that!” I see him looking up at the prop bet board; I guess he bet on the interceptions.

Conversation in the room picks up as the Firebirds punt. I keep an eye on the screen, and I think everyone else does too, as the Sabretooths’ kick returner, a swift fox, sheds a tackle. And dodges another. The announcers get excited as the room goes quiet. “He’s almost in the clear!” the announcer says. “Only the punter to beat!”

And the Firebirds’ punter, an otter, isn’t fast enough to tackle this fox. The Sabretooth plants, jukes, and is around him in a moment, leaving the otter spread out on the ground watching that black-tipped tail stream into the end zone.

“Amazing!” shout the announcers.

Smatterings of applause break out, which I don’t join in with. A jaguar jumps up and down and points; following his finger, I see a prop bet on kickoff/punt returns for touchdowns, and the lemur reaching up to circle in red the word “Sabretooths” under it. Hal catches my eye and wags his swift fox tail. I bow in his direction, and he comes over.

“Still a long ways to go,” he says. “We can do this.”

Twenty-one to thirteen. Almost at the end of the third. The Firebirds get one more offensive sequence, but nothing comes of it, and they kick the ball back to the Sabretooths as the fourth quarter starts.

By this time, the room is a little louder, and there’s a haze of beer breath all around. I’ve limited myself to one beer just to make sure I keep my composure, but it feels friendly and congenial, and I hardly even feel like an outsider, except I keep looking over at Jocko, worrying about our bet and his attitude. It was bad enough working for Paul at the Dragons, where he casually dropped “faggot” references all the time, and then after I came out, was mostly worried about harassment. If I have to work for this guy and he keeps insinuating that I find players hot, or that I’m blowing Morty or whoever just to keep my job…

Travis and Peter say they’ll talk to me later and walk over to the prop bet board to talk to one of the guys there. Jalili comes back to stand next to me and Hal, and the two of them talk while I watch the Firebirds on defense. And so I’m not sure if they notice it immediately, not until the announcers mention it, but I see the play right away.

Fisher’s grappling with one of the offensive linemen, a tapir, I think, and he gets thrown to the ground. It looks like he lands on his shoulder, but when he gets up, he staggers and drops to one knee again.

The play is a run for short gain, and only after it do the announcers mention Fisher. “Looks like he was shaken up on that play,” one says.

“He’s just back from a concussion.”

“And the Firebirds are making a substitution. Number 72, the polar bear, is going to come in for Fisher Kingston, and he’s getting applause from the Chevali fans.”

“Great player, legendary career.”

Fisher doesn’t even raise a paw to the cheers. One of the trainers tries to help him off the field, but he’s walking fine and he almost throws the guy off him. “And he does not look happy about being taken out of this game,” the announcer says.

“Would you?” his partner says.

“Oh, you’d have to drag me out. Kicking and screaming.” They both laugh.

“We’ll see how this affects the Firebirds on defense…”

“Hope he’s okay,” Hal says.

Jalili turns to me. “You know him?”

I nod. I wonder if I should call Gena. Fisher’s still standing there on the sidelines, so he’s not unconscious or anything. “Yeah, I…” The game is still going on. “I’m gonna call Gena. Just real quick.”

Hal nods approvingly and explains to Jalili while I step back into the food area. I try to find an angle where I can still watch the game, but there are people in the way, and I don’t want to be talking too loudly.

“You should be here,” is the first thing Gena says.

“I just saw Fisher,” I say. “Is he okay?”

“He looks okay,” she says. “But you know as much as I do, I think. Maybe more. Are the announcers saying anything?”

“No.”

“He’s still standing up, so I’m not going to worry. They’d call me if anything—”

The crowd around her roars; in the other room, cheers erupt. Gena’s yelling, “Oh yeah!” and I hear her sons screaming beside her.

“What happened?” I scramble to look at the TV.

“Go watch the game,” she says. “I’ll call you after.”

Chapter 22 - Fumbles (Dev)

Fucking amazing is what happened. The defensive line had the white-tailed deer stopped, but he kept fighting forward for that one more yard, and Carson just poked the ball out of his arms and grabbed it. They tackled him right away, but we’re all leaping on him and jumping up and down as we race back to the sidelines.

“That’s what we need!” Coach yells, and smacks Carson on the shoulder. “Let’s get back in this thing!”

The offense goes out and we are just buzzing. I know it’s the fourth quarter, but I am so caught up in the game that it doesn’t register that it’s going to be over soon. I feel like we’re going to keep playing for days and days. Everyone on the sidelines is pacing, staring out at the field, yelling, “C’mon! C’mon!”

I don’t see Fisher at first, and then I spot the orange and black striped tail, lashing near the end of the bench. He’s sitting with his head down, not even watching the game.

I walk over to him, walking in front of where the stags are. Someone there calls half-heartedly, “Hey, faggot-ass.” It’s easy to pretend I don’t hear him as I make my way down to sit next to Fisher.

“Hey.” I nudge him.

“Leave me alone,” he growls.

“Look, you did great out there. You helped us stay in this game.”

“I should still be out there.”

I listen to the rhythm of the crowd’s cheers, the swell of the roar and the dying down that means we got some yards, moved forward. “Don’t shut out the game. Didn’t you tell me to enjoy it, because who knows if it’ll come around again?”

“I
know
it won’t come around again. Not for me.” He growls and shoves me away. “So go watch the game, go play. Leave me alone.”

I stand there for a moment, looking down. “Fine,” I say, and walk back to Zillo and Gerrard and Carson.

Zillo is pumped. He went in for me briefly in the second quarter and he’s hoping to get back in. “But this is the most amazing thing ever,” he says. “This game…this feels incredible. You know?”

“Yeah. I still can’t believe it.”

I look at Gerrard. He’s savoring this too, following every movement on the field, pumping his fist. Even Carson is animated, if less vocal. When we stall, and Charm runs out to kick a field goal to bring us within 21-16, we still yell and cheer and mob him when he comes back to the sidelines.

And I look up at the Chevali section again as I run out. If it’s not Lee up there, at least I know he’s watching somewhere.

(And maybe it is. Maybe it is.)

So are my parents, so is Caroll, so is Brian, so is Argonne, so is Machaine. The people I love, the people I don’t love so much, and all the people in between, they’re all watching me and there are eight minutes and twenty-four seconds left on the clock for us to pull out a miracle.

Most importantly, though, this is my game, my team, my moment. If I’m not doing this for anyone else, I have to have the confidence to do it for myself. I don’t want to end up like Fisher, head down on a bench because I feel like I didn’t give it my all (even if in Fisher’s case I think he’s wrong).

“We can do this,” I say to Gerrard, and he flashes me a feral grin.

Of course, they run. They run and run and run, and they march down the field and one minute, two minutes, three minutes tick by. “We need more pressure!” Gerrard shouts in the defensive huddle. “This is it! There’s no next week. You need to make a stand now!”

Five minutes to go. We stop them on first down at the forty. They’re close enough for a long field goal, and they might try it. Second down, they run to my side and the jackrabbit tries to block me. I shoulder him out of the way and drop the otter for a loss of one. We’re too focused for more than cursory congratulations, even though they’re taking their time lining up. It’s third and long, and Gerrard thinks they’re going to pass. “Short,” he says, “so you guys come in.” He motions to the safeties. “Take 88 and 85 and let these guys,” he motions to me and Carson, “rush the passer.”

Eighty-eight is the tight end; eighty-five is the jackrabbit. “Watch him,” I say to Pace, who’s taking my side. “He likes to hop and change direction.”

“No problem.” The jaguar claps his paws together. “I’ll shadow him.”

“You guys stay on the wideouts,” Gerrard says to Norton and Vonni as the offense comes to the line. The play clock is down to twelve.

We get into our set. Gerrard looks at the offensive set and shouts nonsense syllables that mean that he was right and we’re sticking with the play. Pace and I trade places to make it look like we’re adjusting to the offense. The jackrabbit looks between us. His hind foot stomps, just once, and he’s trying to hide it, I think, but I still notice. I run to Pace and talk into his ear, facing away from the offense. “It’s going to him! Stick with him!”

“Got it,” he says as I back up, staring at the jackrabbit.

When the ball’s snapped, Crais jumps away from me, which is fine, because I leap right past him. Pike’s bulk as he pushes forward hides me from the quarterback until I come around him, and by then I’m a yard away. He’s got his arm back to throw, but hasn’t released the ball.

Later, when I look at the footage, I’ll see that McCrae still has the ball because Pace is right behind the jackrabbit, ready to jump on any pass; later, I’ll identify the flash of white on the other side of the wolf as Carson. But in that moment I see nothing but the navy blue uniform with the gold 10 looking big as a target.

McCrae brings the ball down and tries to dodge me. I’ve got a lot of momentum, but not too much. My arm flies out around his stomach, my helmet lowers when I’m sure I’ve got him, and we go crashing down together. I knock the wind out of him and crush him to the ground, and though my own ribs creak, I think maybe his will, too.

The crowd’s silence is the first thing I notice as I start to get up, but it’s not a complete silence. The little red section of Chevali fans is screaming, almost loudly enough to fill the stadium. I stand up and see a white uniform with red numbers streaking down the field, a gold and black tail flowing behind. Two blue uniforms are chasing, but they’re not going to catch him. Carson runs into the end zone, spreads his paws, and lets the ball fall out of them as he does a U-turn, coming back to us with his arms out.

A moment later, he stops short and runs back to the end zone to pounce on the ball. I laugh and join the rest of our team running down the field to mob him as the P.A. says, mutedly, “Touchdown Chevali. Carson Omba, fumble recovery.”

I reach Carson, or at least the pile of people he’s at the bottom of, and I leap on it as he’s struggling to get back to his feet. We pull him toward the sideline, and when I get close, he throws his arms around me, still holding the football. “Half of this is yours!” he yells. “I almost threw it away!”

“It’s yours!” I yell back, watching the replay on the Jumbotron. The ball didn’t pop up clean; it bounced, and Carson snagged it on the run and never let go. Amazing play.

Gerrard comes up and smacks me hard on the back. “You got the sack!”

That’s the cue for the rest of the defense to come up and mob me, having already given Carson his due. I’m buffeted back and forth, slapped on the back and shoulder-bumped, and only as I’m laughing and looking up at the sidelines do I see the 4:14 ticking down on the clock and realize that the game’s not over. Not only that, we have to go back out, because Charm just kicked off and Crystal City has it on their own twenty-four.

We’re only two points up. All they need is a field goal, and they have plenty of time to get it. “Come on,” Gerrard says. “Let’s go out there and hold on to this victory.”