by Tracey Ward
WIDE OPEN
Offensive Line Series
By Tracey Ward
WIDE OPEN
Offensive Line Series
By Tracey Ward
Text Copyright © 2016 Tracey Ward
All Rights Reserved
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author, except as used in book review.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events or incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to places or incidents is purely coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
EPILOGUE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
KURTIS MATTHEWS
SCOUTING REPORT
Position: Tight End
Height: 6-3 Weight: 243 Age: 25
Born: Wayne, N.J.
College: Florida State University
High School: Wayne Hills High School
Draft Declaration: December 26th
Awards
SENIOR YEAR:
First Team ACC All-American
John Mackey Award
JUNIOR YEAR:
William V. Campbell Trophy Winner
First Team ACC All-American
John Mackey Award Finalist
SOPHOMORE YEAR:
John Mackey Award Finalist
Records
N/A
CHAPTER ONE
KURTIS
February 15th
Charles Windt Stadium
Los Angeles, CA
I’m hunkered down on the line.
We’re third and nine against the Cardinals.
Diaz takes the snap from Lefao, falling back to hide in coverage. I break through between linebackers looking to blitz, slipping past them with ease, and I’m running toward the end zone. All I need is the ball. All I need is for Diaz to look up and find me.
Coverage is coming. I’ve been spotted and I can’t stay open forever. I glance over my shoulder, my breath hard and fast in my ears, echoing inside my helmet over the thunder of feet on the field. Through the chaos, Diaz spots me. He hesitates, scanning the line, checking for other options. He’s wasting time. He always did.
Duncan Walker – covered.
Tyus Anthony – never made it out of the line of scrimmage.
I’m his only option, but even I’m about to disappear if he doesn’t make a fucking decision soon.
Finally he sends the ball my way, arcing it high. Too high. He’s trying to get it way ahead of me to avoid an interception from the looming linemen. I have to hurry to get to it in time, running for all I’m worth. A gasp goes up in the stadium, followed by a mournful groan. The fans; they think I’ll never catch it. It looks too far for me to reach, but I never have a doubt. I can feel it in my hand before it gets there.
It drops into my outstretched palm, balancing precariously on my fingertips. I wobble it, dancing it into my hand before pulling it in tight against my chest just as a Cardinal plows into me. He reaches one arm around my waist to try to drag me down. His other arm is at my chest, clawing at the ball, trying to knock it loose. I spin in his arms, a risky move that could tangle our feet, and it almost does. I almost go down. The important thing is that he does. His arms slip away as he stumbles and falls to his knees. I keep on twisting out of his grasp until I’m facing the end zone again. Until I’m free. Fifteen yards fly by in a flash and then I’m there.
Touchdown. Game over.
They scream my name in the stands. The team mobs me. They hug me, hit me. Love me. They’re my brothers. My family. I’ve never felt so good in my entire life. Never been happier. It is without a doubt the biggest, brightest moment in my career. Possibly my life.
Three dark years later, and it still is.
“Kurtis.”
I freeze on the empty field, my shoulders falling heavily as the façade slips away. The roar of the crowd fades. The scent of stale beer and victory escapes on a labored exhale. The faces of my family disappear so swiftly I feel physical pain in my gut, like I’ve taken a hit I never saw coming.
Coach Allen stands at the entrance to the tunnel. He looks frail inside his dark, heavy coat. It’s another illusion. A new deception I’ve conjured on the field, because no matter how old or shrunken Coach Allen may appear, the man gets stronger with every passing year. I’ll be dead and buried some day and he’ll still be here, standing on the sidelines orchestrating the stars.
“Coach,” I reply gruffly, my breath coming quick and shallow from my run down the field.
He looks me over, his blue eyes sharp as an eagle’s. “What game was that?”
“Cardinals.”
“The winning touchdown?”
I nod once, not the least bit ashamed. It seems like an act of hubris to stand on a vacant football field and replay the greatest moment of your life to an audience of no one, but when your moments are few and far between, you find that it’s something else. Something bigger than ego. Stronger than fame.
It’s self-preservation.
“It was a good game,” he tells me, honest and unsmiling.
“It was my best game.”
“To date.”
“Right.”
He reminds me steadily, “It’s the off-season. You shouldn’t be here.”
“I’m not practicing.”
“You’re on the field running drills.”
“I’m not in uniform.”
“It’s a gray area at best. Dangerous ground. Especially now.”
I bristle, frustrated and trapped. “Yeah, I heard about the documentary.”
“They’ll start filming in April. All of our noses need to be clean.”
“I bathe in bleach, you know that.”
“I do,” he agrees quietly. “But I also know how dirty the past can be. It gets dustier every year. Fainter. It’s a tricky thing when you bring it out into the light. It never looks exactly the way you remember it. A lot like that play.”
I frown, confused, but then it dawns on me. I close my eyes, immediately remembering. “I spun left, not right.”
I run through the play in my mind again, trying to remember it the way it really was. The way it felt. I can’t conjure it now. It’s too old, too confused. I want it too much.
I open my eyes to tell Coach Allen that he’s right, that he’s always been right about me, but when I look for him he’s gone. The black mouth of the tunnel yawns wide and empty.
I’m alone.
CHAPTER TWO
HARPER
April 7th
Charles Windt Stadium
Los Angeles, CA
I stretch my legs out, teasing my frigid skin with the weak warmth of the sunlight slowly cutting across the stadium. Capris wer
e a poor choice. Spring is here, but summer is a long way off, and I feel it here in the shade. I feel its absence all around me.
The eastern half of the bowl is in full exposure and probably ten degrees warmer. It taunts me. Mocks me and my shadowed position in the western half. Travis and I sat here on purpose, putting our backs to the rising sun to keep it out of our eyes, but as a shiver rushes through me I think I’d take a burned out retinae or two for a little heat. I actually miss the humid mornings in Ecuador, and that is not a thing to miss. That and the bugs. The drug cartels.
On the field in the half-light is the entire Los Angeles Kodiak team; yellow, orange, and white flashing across the impossibly green field as they run sprints over and over again. It’s the first day they’re allowed to start off-season workouts and they’re getting an early go at it, same as the New England Patriots. Same as our sister team following them in Foxborough, Massachusetts. It’s the official start of the new season, meaning today is the first day of the Road to the Ring.
This documentary crew, this team that I’ve formed and led for the last four years, won an award for exposing a water contamination cover up in Minnesota. We spent a year in South America following the rise of a new and horrifying drug making its way across the borders and into the hands of children. I’ve been to the White House, I’ve hugged the First Lady. She congratulated me on being a role model for young black women everywhere. For being driven, empowered. A speaker of truth.
I wonder what she’d say now if she saw me sitting in the stands of a football field mildly entranced by the curve of a man’s calves. They flex and ease under tanned, taught skin, liquid like water. Powerful like steel. They’re mesmerizing.
“Harper.”
I blink rapidly. My surroundings snap back into focus, Travis’ eyes waiting patiently for mine. “Yeah, sorry. I zoned out.”
“You look tired.”
“Ouch, asshole,” I chuckle.
“The truth hurts.”
“So does getting slapped. Remember that.”
“You’re not sleeping, are you?” he asks seriously.
I hesitate, squinting up at the pale blue sky. Thin clouds wisp by, stretched to their limits until they’re nothing but a delicate lace against the atmosphere.
I admit quietly, “No, I’m not sleeping.”
“You can’t do this shit again.”
“I don’t do it on purpose.”
“Are you going to take something this time?”
“Yes.”
Travis hesitates, choosing his words carefully, but I know what they are. I know what’s coming before he opens his mouth. “Are you going to lie to me again?”
“No,” I answer immediately. I lower my eyes to his, holding them earnestly. Promising him the truth as much as I’m able. “I will not lie to you. I swear.”
He watches me for a long time. He’s gauging the weight of my truth, the value of my word, and I would be offended if I didn’t know I deserved it. If I hadn’t wasted it’s worth only a year ago.
“You’ve gotta learn to ask for help, Harper,” he says for the millionth time.
“I know.”
“You know it because you’re smart, but you’re proud too, and knowing a thing and acting on it aren’t the same.”
I unconsciously rub my right wrist, erasing an ache that isn’t there. “I don’t want to get into this again. Not today.”
“Believe me, neither do I.”
“Good.” I gesture to the clipboard sitting in his lap. The pages flutter in the cold breeze, begging for our attention. “Can we get to work? Who are we looking at?”
“We want to spotlight Trey Domata for sure,” Travis tells me as he puts a check beside the name. “He’s the quarterback and the team captain. He was a big deal during last year’s Draft. Kind of an upset. People love him. They’ll want to hear from him.”
I crease my brow thoughtfully. “He’s part of a duo, isn’t he? Or a trio? He does advertising with some other players.”
Travis flips his roster to another page. “Colt Avery and Tyus Anthony. A running back and a wide receiver. They do those naked Dairy Queen commercials. They’re the heart of the offense and the reason people think they can win the Super Bowl. We should spotlight Avery and Anthony too.”
“What about the defense?”
“I picked a few guys based on playing time. The ones with the most experience. I think we should talk to one more, though. A newbie to the team last year. Sam Linden. He was hurt in the middle of the season but has been clawing his way back. His would be a good perspective to get on film. Sort of a race to get back on the field. Get another go at the ring.”
I scan the field for the names he’s told me. I spot Domata easily enough. He’s one of the only men on the field in a red shirt. He and two others, the backup quarterbacks, are clearly marked with the color, warning everyone to keep their hands off. No hurting the talent. They’re too important to the game, I guess. Avery is close by. His helmet is off, his handsome face flushed and smiling as he runs. Anthony is harder to find but eventually I spot him as he pulls away from the thick of the herd. He’s smaller than the rest. Shorter, slighter. Faster. He blows them all away. The only person even close to keeping up is Avery but he’d never catch him. Anthony is far too fast.
When the team comes to a halt they stop to laugh and slap shoulders encouragingly, nearly knocking each other down. The defense is in the weight room lifting, it’s only the offensive line outside right now, and there’s something about them. Something familial. I expected them to be a team full of frat boy types, but they remind me of a military unit. More of a brotherhood. All of them swarming together, swirling like a solar system in perfect harmony. They’re drawn to each other.
All but one.
It’s the man with the calves. He strays naturally from the swarm like their gravity can’t hold him. Like he’s pulled by the weight of another star, one no one else can see. He drifts slowly into the shadows, his hands on his hips and his head of dark hair bent down low. Exhausted. Guarded.
“What about him?” I ask Travis, pointing at the dark star on the edge of the field.
Travis looks, squinting through his black rimmed glasses. His face clears when he realizes who it is. “Kurtis Matthews. You don’t want him.”
“Why not?”
“He’s not good with the press.”
“We’re not the press.”
“Yeah, I know, but to him anyone asking questions is an enemy. The guy is silent as the grave. He has been ever since the end of his rookie year.”
“What happened?”
“No one knows. He won’t talk about it. He was hot shit with the Kodiaks, they almost made the Super Bowl, same as last year. Then suddenly at the end of the season he was traded away to Montana. The deal was shit too. It was like they were desperate to get rid of him.”
I watch him walk slowly, circling nothing. Moving like he’s afraid to stop. “Is he a bad player? Why’d they take him back?”
Travis snorts. “Hell no, he’s not a bad player. He’s one of the best, but he was pretty much benched in Montana because the team didn’t have the offense to use him. You know that Draft upset I told you about? The one with Domata?”
“Yeah.”
“Matthews was part of that deal. The Kodiaks traded away their star running back, Duncan Walker, to get a first round Draft pick and Matthews. They were lucky it worked. They landed Domata as the QB, got Matthews back as their tight end, and it turns out hiding behind Duncan Walker was this stellar talent in Colt Avery. Throw Anthony and his speed in there and suddenly the Kodiak’s have an offense that’s made for making the playoffs. No one saw it coming, but everyone is watching them now.”
“But nobody knows why Matthews was traded away in the first place?”
“Nope. Not a clue. He was a partier his rookie year. Ran around with a whole entourage, drove fast cars, tore through women. He was in Vegas every other weekend blowing through the city. Then all
of a sudden, poof. Nothing. He falls off everyone’s radar, moves to Montana, and refuses to talk to the press anymore.”
Kurtis runs his hands through his thick hair, leaning back as he pushes it off his forehead. I catch a glimpse of him in profile; strong jaw, dark stubble, aquiline nose, a barrel chest bulging against his sweat soaked t-shirt. He’s large and beautiful. Dark and brooding. He’ll be incredible on camera.
“Add him to the list,” I tell Travis, watching as Kurtis walks to the line again, joining the crowd only when he has to. The whistle blows, sending them running. “I want to talk to him.”
“You won’t crack him,” Travis warns me, but he makes the note.
“Who said I want to crack him? I just want to talk to him.”
“Right.”
“He’s been close to the Super Bowl twice and come up empty handed. He’ll have some good insights into what that’s like.”
“That’s a solid reason. I totally believe you.”
I glare at him. “You ‘totally’ do not.”
He grins. “You’re right. I don’t.”
“Whatever. Put him on the list.”
“I did, but you’ll have to get it approved.”
I groan, rubbing my hands briskly up and down my frozen legs. “I can’t believe I have a babysitter.”
“Content Consultant,” he corrects me.
“She’s a babysitter, bought and paid for by the NFL because they don’t trust me.”
“Well, you don’t know shit about football.”
“You do. Why couldn’t you be my Content Cunt?”
“Consultant.”
“That’s what I said.”
Travis chuckles. “The good news is you’re not bitter.”
“Bitter that they hired another woman to look over my shoulder and try to run my show? What’s to be bitter about?”
“Because you know they want us for our name,” Travis tells me simply, acknowledging the truth we both see but have never given a voice. “They want us to shoot it, they want our name attached to the project to give it some depth, but they want things done their way with their people. And that’s what Carmen Kelly will do. Jump through their hoops.”
