by S. J. Bishop
"Sorry, Mason," I said. "I blew that pass."
"Damn right, you blew it!"
The rest of the team stood watching. Some of them looked bored. They were used to me and Mason at each other's throats. Coach was already making his way over.
"I knew it was a mistake letting you back on the team this season," Mason spat. "How much have you had to drink today, anyway? Enough to drown a cow is my guess."
"Fuck you, Mason!" I yelled, my temper finally flaring. "I haven't had a drink in almost a year and you know it!" I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I could hear Caden in my head telling me to count to ten. Slowly, I did as my sponsor would have instructed if he were here instead of in Boston gearing up for his own first game of the season. By the time I opened my eyes, Coach Allen had joined us.
"What's the problem?" Coach asked.
"He's drunk," Mason grumbled.
"I am not drunk," I replied, fighting to keep the edge out of my voice.
Mason addressed Coach Allen. "That's what he said every time he bothered to show up last season."
"You're one to talk," I yelled. I felt my control slipping.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, except there's a certain video floating around the internet showing you smoking something that I'm pretty sure wasn't a cigarette."
Mason took a step toward me, and Coach jumped between us.
"Cut the crap! Both of you," Coach Allen said. "Mason, to the locker room."
"Fuck, Coach!" Mason hollered. "Why should he be lead quarterback? I was here last season. All of last season. And didn't miss one damned day of summer training."
"It's my decision to make, not yours. Any more out of you and you can skip practice tomorrow, too. Jax will be joining you in a minute."
Mason walked off grumbling, and I bit my tongue. What the hell could I say anyway? Everything Mason had just said was true. When he was gone, Coach turned to me.
"Now, you," he said, shaking his head. "I went to bat for you, you know that, right? The owner wanted you gone."
"I know that," I said, barely able to meet his eyes.
"I know you're clean, but you've gotta start playing like it. No more missed passes. No more fumbles. If you get on that field next week and there's even a hint of the kind of trouble you had last season—"
"There won't be."
Coach stared hard at me for a minute. "I'm counting on it." He took a deep breath and let it out. "I know it was hard for you after your dad died. Then the whole thing with Penny." He sighed. "You've had a rough year."
Referring to the last twelve months as "a rough year" didn't come close to cutting it. I still remembered the last game of the season. It was the worst game of my life and the last one my father had ever seen. The disappointment in his eyes when I'd stumbled drunk out of the locker room afterward still haunted me. I'd never had a chance to set it right. The drunk driver who had taken his life was behind bars. I'd tried to hate him, but every day when I looked in the mirror, I knew it just as easily could have been me who killed someone's father... or mother... or sister. How many times had I driven drunk? The last one had been the day of my father's funeral when I'd driven myself to rehab and stayed for three months.
Coach Allen was still talking, but I realized I had no idea what he was saying anymore.
"...Penny's just not right for you. She never was. She’s slept around and everyone knows it. She’s a washed-up model, and you are in danger of being an almost washed-up quarterback. You're better off without her."
I nodded, trying not to show my irritation. My divorce had been highly publicized. I wasn't eager to talk about it. Our relationship had been sunk the second I went to rehab and she didn't. I’d known I couldn't make her get treatment, but I'd hoped she'd come around. Instead, she'd drawn out the divorce as long as possible, squeezing as much as she could out of me before it was finalized two weeks ago. A bitter "fuck you" to my moving on when she still couldn't.
"Coach, I appreciate—"
"All you've got to appreciate is that you're never gonna get your head back in the game while you're still dealing with all this baggage. I know what I'm talking about. Where was I just two years ago? Broke. Wiped out from my own divorce. Now I've got a rich, beautiful wife, and I'm back on top. But none of that happened for me until I let my baggage go."
Maybe Coach had a point. Maybe part of my problem wasn't Penny or even my dad. I'd gone through the twelve steps, but there was still one person from my past I couldn't let go of. The one person I'd failed to seek out and ask for forgiveness. I wondered where Treena was now. Seven years was a long time. I knew her father was in New York coaching the Giants. He was one of the more well-known coaches in the NFL and made the papers every week, but they never mentioned Treena. Why would they?
"Thanks, Coach. I'll work on it."
"Good. Now get down to the locker room, and tomorrow when you show up, I expect you to be playing like you belong here. This is the goddamn NFL, not some backwoods swamp. Start acting like it."
2
Treena
I opened the door to my new station and stepped inside. Immediately, I was hit with the steady buzz of energy found in any police station in any major city. Denver had been no different. Except, of course, in Denver I hadn't been a homicide detective. It was a thrilling feeling to be here. I still remembered the field trip I'd taken to our local police station in fourth grade when I'd been introduced to the life of fighting crime. I'd gone home and proudly declared to my father and sister that I was going to be a policewoman when I grew up.
I walked briskly toward the front desk, keeping my head high. My old captain had warned me that I might run into problems here. A woman in a man's world was never an easy place to be, especially when that woman had beat out other cops with more experience for this transfer.
"Treena Walker," I told the young male officer behind the desk, flashing my badge. "Reporting to Captain Murphy." He pointed me toward a door at the back of a large room filled with cops at their desks. Suddenly, they all seemed to be staring at me. I told myself it was my imagination, but as I made my way through the room, I felt their eyes on me. Three men in uniforms huddled together, whispering as they glared at me. I didn't pass one woman as I walked to the office in the back.
I knocked on the door.
"Open!" a man shouted.
I turned the knob and stepped into Captain Murphy's office, closing the door behind me. The room was just big enough to hold a massive oak desk that took up a third of the space. Papers were strewn all over it. A computer sat off to the right; more papers surrounded it. Captain Murphy looked up, fixing me with dark brown eyes and a cold stare. His receding hairline placed him somewhere in his mid-forties. He wore a brown suit and a tie with a mustard stain on it.
"Treena Walker," he said, leaning back in his chair and surveying me. I was wearing dark blue pants with a matching blazer and a crisp, white dress shirt, an outfit I had agonized over for the last week. I wanted to make sure I fit the new role I was playing. My long blonde hair was secured in a high bun, and only a touch of makeup had been applied to my face. I waited for Captain Murphy to speak again.
"Well, welcome aboard," he finally said. "Good luck on your first day here." His lips curved up into a smile, and I felt myself relax just the tiniest bit. "You're gonna need it." Great. He thinks he's funny. Captain Murphy picked his desk phone up and pushed an intercom button. "Can you come in here, please, Keith? Detective Walker has arrived." I didn't much care for the way he said "detective," as if it was all a big joke, but I held my tongue.
A second later the door opened and a man of thirty with dark brown hair and even darker eyes came strolling into the room. He looked at me with critical eyes. I could see him gauging and dismissing my abilities as a cop. When he turned to Captain Murphy, he wasn't even trying to hide the smirk on his face.
"Detective Treena Walker, meet Detective Keith Anderson. Your new partner."
I exte
nded my hand toward him. His six-foot frame seemed to tower over me as I waited for him to shake my hand. He looked at me like I was toxic, and when he finally took my hand, it was only with the fastest, lightest grip he could get away with. I felt like I had leprosy.
"Pleased to meet you, Keith," I said.
He shot an irritated look to Captain Murphy, who smiled at him and said, "Show her the ropes, Keith. Go on and make her feel at home." Somehow, I didn't think the look they exchanged indicated that "home" was meant to be like the warm and inviting apartment I'd just rented here in New York.
Anderson turned with a huff, opening his mouth just enough to breathe and said, "It's Detective Anderson." Then he walked out of the room. I stood there another minute, uncertain about whether I should follow, until Captain Murphy yelled at me to hurry up before Anderson decided to go home and call it a day. I wasn't sure whether or not he was joking, so I hustled after Anderson and caught up to him beside a desk with a mountain of paperwork and a blank nameplate.
"This is yours," he said, indicating the wooden slab.
"Thanks. I appreciate your—"
"And this," he said, lifting the mound of paperwork off the desk and flinging it into my arms.
"What's this?" I asked, trying to keep my voice light. I didn't want to make a bad impression on my first day. Anderson smiled. It almost brightened his face—almost. There was a dark shadow hanging over it that made his smile seem withered somehow. Like his lips were nothing but a layer of skin to hide the real, evil smile that lurked deep inside him.
"This," he said, "is paperwork. You're gonna be doing a lot of it when you're a real detective." I noted the insult and had to bite my tongue to keep from yelling. I knew that every eye in the room was on us. On me. If I started shouting now, they'd think I was nothing more than a crazed woman susceptible to temper tantrums. Hell, they'd probably think I was on my period and tell Captain Murphy I was unfit for duty.
"Is this all?" I asked, making my voice sugary sweet and smiling back at him. The smile dropped from his face. He took a half step toward me.
"You think you're real cute, don't you? Just because your old captain is a fan of your father's and was able to fast-track this promotion because of your old man—"
"My father had nothing to do with my becoming a detective," I told him. Deep down, I was bothered to know that might not be entirely true. Two years as an officer was awfully fast to make homicide detective. And my old captain had been a huge fan—and friend—of my father. But still, I was good at my job. Damned good. "My score on the detective's exam was perfect. The first one in my department's history. Did you know that?"
"I did. So?"
"So, I've got as much right to be here as anyone," I said, forcing my voice to stay even and measured. "Besides, I thought we were partners."
"I can't be partners with someone who doesn't even know how to do paperwork." He stepped over to another desk with a nameplate that read "Det. Clive Morrow" and grabbed a stack of papers almost as high as the first one he'd given me. The bald man sitting there raised his blonde eyebrows in surprise and followed Anderson with his eyes as he walked around the room, gathering paperwork from almost every desk before returning to me.
"There," he said when he was through. He handed me a stack of papers so heavy it could have sunk the Titanic. "When you're done with that, come find me. There's always more paperwork to do. It's all part of being a detective." He smiled and walked away as random giggles echoed around the room. This had to be, without a doubt, the worst first day on a job, ever.
3
Jax
The locker room usually felt like home to me, but stuck down here alone with Mason sucked every ounce of joy from it. It felt being in a prison, except prison was probably better because at least there you had windows. The only consolation was that my locker, number fifty-five, was at the opposite end of the room from Mason's two hundred-one. We glared sideways at each other as we both changed out of our uniforms.
"Hey, Jax," Mason called. "What do you say we go get a drink after this and bury the hatchet? I'm buying."
"Piss off, Mason."
He cackled loudly, sounding like a hyena. It stung my ears and made me move faster. I pulled the padding from under my jersey and was out of my spandex and into my jeans in about two seconds.
"Hey, Jax," Mason called again. "What's a drunk man's idea of a balanced diet?"
I tried to shut my ears to the coming punchline, but it was useless.
"A beer in each hand." Mason cackled even louder this time. "Hey, Jax, what's the difference between you and a sofa? The sofa doesn't keep asking for a Jack and coke!"
I slammed my hands against my locker, making my fifty-five number plate rattle. "Shut up!" I yelled. Mason started toward me, his arms outstretched.
"What are you gonna do about it?" he asked.
"Mason, I'm not going to fight you. It's not worth getting kicked off the team."
"I'm not worried about that."
"No shit. But if you start something with me now, Coach will bench you for tomorrow's practice too."
"Not if I talk to Tim. Tim fucking loves me, man."
Shit. Tim Hewitt. Owner of the Jets and possibly my least biggest fan. It was just bad luck that he and Mason were pals. I turned away from Mason, hating that I was beat. I took a deep breath and let it out. Mason inched closer to me, but he was still several feet away. He opened his mouth again just when my phone rang. I looked at the number.
Crap. Could this day get any worse?
Mason took a full step toward me now, and I decided to seize the phone call as my opportunity to dismiss him. "What, Penny?" I asked holding the phone to my ear.
"Jax... Jax, baaaby." Her voice was heavy, and her words were slurred.
"You're drunk."
"Newp. Not drunk, just toasty." Her laugh was throaty and strangely maniacal. If she was calling me now, she must be extra "toasty. "
"Is there something you need, or did you just want to gloat some more about getting to keep the house?"
"Newp. Just thought I'd give a courtesy call. I'm dumping all your football stuff in the trash. In one, two, th—"
"Fuck! Penny, don't!"
I pictured my trophy room. I knew I should have taken my Penn State Player of the Year award when I'd moved out. I'd left it in the house, along with most of my things, because up until the divorce was finalized, I kept thinking that somehow I'd get the house back. After all, I'd bought it before Penny and I were ever married. Leaving my stuff there had made me feel like I still had a claim on it.
"Just don't touch anything. I'm coming over right now."
"Too late," she said, and I heard a crash. "Fuck! Penny, if you destroy my stuff, I'll fucking kill you, you hear me?"
She giggled into the phone and hung up. I didn't even take the time to change out of my jersey. I grabbed my keys and made a beeline for the exit.
"If you want that drink later," Mason called after me. "Just let me know. Sounds like you might need it."
4
Treena
I set aside what was maybe one-tenth of all the paperwork Anderson had given me. I stared at the next pile and felt my stomach grumble. A soft shadow passed over the glaring white papers, and I looked up to see a woman with long chestnut hair pulled back in a bun. She had dazzling blue eyes that could leap across the room and knock your pants off if she swung them in your direction.
"You know, Keith's not all bad," she said.
"Detective Anderson? Yeah, I'm sure he's a real pussycat."
"Only if you rub him the right way and feed him tuna," she said. Her mouth broke into a grin that I found infectious. She was the first friendly face I'd seen all day, also the first woman wearing an officer's uniform.
"I'm Emily Hope," she said, extending her hand. I shook it. Her grip was firm. The practiced handshake of a woman working alongside men.
"Treena Walker," I replied.
"Yes, I know. I heard you'd arrived and though
t you could probably use some cheering up right about now. The guys in this department are good, but they can be a tough group to break into. Especially if you're a woman. Believe me, I know." She was talking quietly so that only I could hear. I saw a few of the other officers and detectives glance at us, but they didn't seem to pay us much attention. Just two women chatting it up. Nothing important.
My stomach rumbled again, louder this time. "Wanna grab some lunch?" I asked.
"That's what I came over to ask you," Emily said, still smiling.
We walked to a small café she knew about, not far from the station. "It's mostly just a coffee and sandwich shop, but most of the fellas don't come in here. They'd rather do burgers or hot dogs. This place is a little too dainty for them." I looked around the room with its lavender paint and freshly laundered tables. The smell of garlic and peppers wafted through the air, hitting my nostrils like a freight truck and making my mouth water. I thought the guys at the police station probably didn't know what they were missing.
"So, how long have you been with the department?" I asked as we sipped our coffees.
Emily scrunched up her face, thinking. "I joined the academy right after I graduated high school, then transferred here right after, so... about seven years now, I guess. How about you?"
"Two, going on three. But this will be my first in New York."
"Wow," she said. "That's what I'd heard, but I wasn't sure if it was true. That's awfully fast to be a detective. I've tried the exam twice just in the last year, but I keep blowing it." Her smile downturned slightly. Now probably wasn't the right time to tell my new friend that I'd gotten a perfect score the first time around.
"I'm sure if you keep at it, you'll pass. I can always help if you need a study partner."
"Thanks. I might just take you up on that. Every time I take it, I think I've got it nailed. But I'm not even close." Our waiter brought our sandwiches, and we sat quietly for a few minutes, eating our food. "So what made you transfer to New York?" Emily asked between mouthfuls of her cheese sandwich.
