Over Time

by Kyell Gold

  “Oh. Well, like I said, anytime. Did you ever meet Lee?” I can’t remember if Zillo was at the Christmas party at Gerrard’s.

  “Just saw him for a minute at the Hellentown dinner.” We both go quiet as I remember Colin yelling at Lee there, and I’m not sure what he’s thinking of. “But yeah, I’d like to meet him.”

  “He might come to Gerrard’s workouts. So you’ll see him then.”

  He chuckles and elbows me. “I told you, I’m comin’.”

  I lower my head. “Didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Nah, it’s cool.” He takes a drink. “I never had someone nag me about getting better before.”

  “Not your family or anything?”

  “My dad just thought it was cool that I was playing. My folks are old hippies that way.”

  “Coaches?”

  “Oh, sure, coaches.” He waves a paw. “But they nag everyone, right?”

  “Didn’t realize you wanted personal attention.” I grin and elbow him. “You made it to the league. Weren’t you a star in college?”

  “Enh.” He sets his elbows on the table and cocks his ears. “Like I said, Candleton isn’t a high-profile program. The coaches had a real team spirit philosophy, since most of us weren’t going to be drafted. Still, three of us got to go to the combine and I blew away the numbers there. I got drafted in the fifth round, and the other guy from Candleton, a right guard, went sixth.”

  “Seventh.” I hold up a paw to his and he slaps it. “But look, you can play for sure. I’ve seen you. Don’t you believe you can?”

  “I thought I’d get a shot with Gerrard, you know, coyote bonding and all. Then they moved you over…I was pissed about that, but I’m over it.” He frowns slightly. “Why you wanna help me, anyway? What if Gerrard sees I can be better than you?”

  “Then I need to step up my game.” I take a drink, trying to hide the fear that this coyote will replace me, that nobody else will want me, that I’ll be out of football in a year. “That’s what happened with Corey.”

  “True.” He pats my shoulder. “I don’t think I’m as good as you. Not yet.”

  “I think you can be.” I point a finger. “Just wait ‘til I’m gone, okay?”

  “No promises.” He leans back in the chair and his tail wags. “You really think I can be as good as you?”

  “Well, different. You’re a coyote, so you have to play to your speed and smarts. But hell, yeah, I mean, I mainly got where I am by studying hard. And, uh…” And having Lee push me, inspire me. “Lots of practice.”

  “Mmm.” His eyelids droop down. “You think I can be as good as Gerrard?”

  I snort. “You think I can be?”

  He laughs. “Yeah, I dunno. That guy’s driven.”

  “Sure is.” He hesitates, and I remember the couple times he’s mentioned knowing something about Gerrard’s private life. I don’t want to press, though, and after a moment he goes on. “I never had the fire in me like he has. Colin has it too, this like giant chip on his shoulder to prove to everyone he can make it. He’s gonna be really good.”

  Much as I hate the idea of bigoted fuckhead hypocrite Christian Colin doing well, I can’t disagree. So I just don’t talk about him. “Fisher’s the same way. Can’t imagine not playing, can’t stop chasing one more title.”

  Zillo nods. “I love the game, but you know, I think I could hang it up if I needed to. I’d hate it, I’d miss it, but…I’d find something else.”

  He looks at me, asking without asking, and I wonder. What motivates me? Could I hang it all up if I needed to?

  “Not me,” I say. “I need a title. A lot of people believed in me—and didn’t believe in me.” I tap my chest. “Starting with me.”

  “Yeah.” He grins. “I see that a bit. Some guys it’s money, you know?”

  “Some guys it’s fame.” I think of Lightning Strike and his last words to me. They weren’t about winning. They were about people knowing who he was. “I didn’t always have that. Not the fame thing, the motivation thing.”

  “What turned it on for you?” His ears are up, and he’s curious now.

  I start being evasive like I always am when people ask me about my relationship, and then I look into his eyes. Zillo’s a friend, and he knows about Lee, and I have no reason to lie. “Lee did it. I’d kinda bought in to all the stuff everyone said, about how I’d never make it playing football, not from a Division II school. He said I could be more. Then he made me believe it.”

  He gets a smile, and with the paw he’s using to lift the beer, he points a finger at me. “That,” he says, “I would go gay for.”

  While he’s drinking, I chuckle, and then I feel Lee beside me and I feel obliged to say, “It doesn’t really work that way.”

  “Yeah, I know.” He looks abashed again. “Sorry, I mean, I know this shit, but I just don’t always remember it. Didn’t mean nothing by it.”

  “I know you didn’t.” I toast him with my own beer. “You’re a good guy, so don’t worry about saying the wrong thing out of habit. Around me, anyway. It’s cool.”

  “I know. I appreciate it.” He sets his glass down. “Maybe I’ll pick up some new habits, too. Anyway, I just meant it’d be nice to have someone who cares about me like Lee does about you. Not in a lovey way, but, like, someone who cares about making me better.”

  “You can make yourself better.”

  “Yeah, I know. So could you.”

  I have to laugh at that, and he does too, and we chill a bit longer until we’re good to drive on home. I promise him we’ll get together again, for the workouts with Gerrard if not before.

  On the way home, my stomach rumbles. I call Lee to ask how he’s doing with Fisher and Gena, and to see whether I should come over for dinner. “Yeah,” he says. “Fisher wants to talk to you. It’s going okay. I’m mostly taking care of house chores. Gena and Fisher were talking and he got angry again and broke a picture. Gena won’t call anyone about it, even that Firebirds guy who called me. And Fisher talked to his agent. Have you?”

  “I had an e-mail from him this afternoon. He said he was going to file the paperwork with the players’ association and that he’d get back to me within a couple days.”

  “Good. I’m anxious to hear what he has to say.”

  “Me too.” I smile just from hearing his voice. I tell him about drinks with Zillo and Charm, and he asks if I got his offer letter from Yerba yet. I say I’ll look when I get home.

  We stay on the phone while I park and head up to the apartment, and there’s a note from the courier that they needed a signature and they couldn’t leave the envelope. So I tell Lee I’ll pick it up on the way over; it’s five-thirty and they’ll be open for another hour.

  Talking to him reminds me of my thinking that morning, of what he’d ask me to do about Gregory. Once I’ve gotten his letter, I take out my phone and call my parents from the truck. It’s not calling Gregory, but maybe the subject will come up, and then it won’t be my fault. I’ve been meaning to call them anyway to let them know I’m changing agents. That seems like a bit of a big deal.

  “Why change agents?” my father wants to know, so I explain all the problems with Ogleby and then he says, “Why wait so long to change? You never told us these problems.”

  “He gave me my first break,” I say. “I mean, when no other agents would take a chance on me—well, anyway, I felt loyal to him is all.”

  Dad thinks that’s all right, and he talks about one of the mechanics in his shop whom he kept around even though his performance was slipping. He retired when I was four or something. And then Mom gets on the extension and asks about Lee, and I tell her he’s fine, he’s spending the evening with Fisher and his family. “He and Gena are friends,” I say when Dad wonders why Lee’s hanging out with my teammates.

  “So now that there is this coyote,” Dad says, “will you play football?”

  “I was always planning on playing football.”

  “You do not have to film th
ese commercials that talk about your private life.”

  What? I’m racking my brains to figure out whether I talked to them about the Equality Now stuff—I don’t think I did—and then Mom chimes in. “They did not talk about his private life.”

  “I have not seen other football players filmed in…” Dad clears his throat.

  “The clothes are sports clothes,” Mom says. “They have to be tight.”

  “Or with his arm around a male wolf.”

  Mom doesn’t say anything, and I want to laugh. They think the Ultimate Fit and Strongwell commercials are gay activism, are distracting me? Perspective, I guess. Lee got mad at me because they weren’t activist enough. I clear my throat. “I got paid a million dollars to put my arm around that male wolf.”

  As soon as I say it, I know it was the wrong thing, because they both stay quiet. “You know, I’m getting a new agent. He’s going to get me some better deals.”

  “One million dollars.” Dad rumbles it.

  Mom steps in. “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Well,” I say, “Ogleby took fifteen percent or something, and then there’s taxes…”

  “We paid ninety-two thousand dollars for this house,” Dad says.

  “I’m not saying it’s not a lot of money. But you know, a lot of the guys are making a bunch more. That’s just the way the business is here.”

  “I know.” He pauses. “Perhaps you could help your brother.”

  “What?” I can feel the chill in my voice and I try to warm it up. “He’s doing fine with his law job.”

  “Alexi is having some health expenses.”

  “He never mentioned that.”

  “It is not serious,” Mom says. “Infants have seizures and it may be nothing. But there are tests, and the doctors recommend he stays in the hospital.”

  “How long—I mean, when did this start? Alexi seemed fine at Thanksgiving.”

  “After that,” Dad says. “One month ago, perhaps six weeks.”

  I hold the phone to my ear and can’t think of what to say. Off to my left, a half mile from the highway, a large white building with a red cross on it catches my eye, and I imagine Gregory’s family in there. Alexi’s my nephew, even if right now he’s just a little white bundle of crying and eating. “But you said it’s not serious?”

  Mom comes back on. “The doctors say that many infants have seizures and often they stop before they grow up.”

  “Usually they stop.” Dad’s tone is casual. “The doctor says even if they do not, they are easily controlled with medication.”

  “All right.” I shake my head. It’s still a little weird to process. “I’m not playing football for a couple months, so…keep me posted.”

  “If you could spare some money for hospital expenses,” Dad says again, “I am sure Gregory would appreciate it.”

  On the face of it, that sounds reasonable, but when he says Gregory’s name, I hear again the sneering voice saying, “Devlina,” and the click as he hung up on me. “Lee’s father wants me to invest my money,” I say. “And Gregory just yelled at me on the phone. I don’t think he’d want my gay commercial money.” As soon as I say that, it sounds harsh, and I feel bad. “But yeah, if he asks me for help himself, then sure.”

  They’re quiet. “I will talk to him,” Mom says after a moment.

  “Say, what case has he been working on lately?”

  The quiet lasts longer this time. “A pro bono case his company assigned…” Mom trails off.

  “Lee told me,” I say. “It’s okay, I’m not playing football anymore. Did you guys know what this case was about?”

  “Gregory tells us only that it is a faith-based group under attack, that his company assigned the case to him.” Dad has that sharp, loud voice that indicates that he’s getting defensive.

  “Lee told us,” Mom says, more gently. “He asked us not to tell you. He cares a lot about you.”

  I think Dad makes a grumbling noise there, but I ignore it. “I know,” I say. “He didn’t want me to be distracted before the big game.”

  “That should not matter.” Dad is softer. “Alexi is your nephew, Gregory is your brother, and they need your help.”

  “Yeah,” I say, “and like I said, I’ll be glad to talk to Gregory. Directly.”

  Both of them seem to know how difficult that’ll be, but I don’t think it’s unfair, and neither of them accuses me of that. I’ve arrived at Fisher’s, so I tell them I need to go, and I’ll talk to them soon. It’s only as I’m walking in the front door of Fisher’s house that I realize that neither of my parents told me what they think about Gregory’s case.

  7

  Signs (Lee)

  When I pull up outside Fisher’s, I call Gena to let her know I’m here. She meets me at the door, looking more together than she was yesterday. “Fisher slept in,” she says, which explains it. “He just got up an hour ago.”

  “You want me to make up lunch? Anything else I can do?”

  She laughs. “You’re not a live-in maid. Come on in. You can keep me company for a little while.”

  So we hang out in the kitchen and talk about little things: Dev signing with Fisher’s agent, the news that morning about the new president’s first actions in office. I guess I missed the inauguration while I was sick.

  Fisher shoves open the kitchen door as we’re starting to make up sandwiches. “Gena—” He stops and stares at me. “What’s he doing here?”

  “He’s helping out around the house.” Gena shakes her head. “I mean, he and Dev are—”

  “I’m visiting,” I say. “Just getting a little bit of time to visit Gena before I move to Yerba.”

  He grumbles and walks toward the refrigerator. “Is Dev here, too?”

  “No, he had a thing to do this afternoon.”

  Gena and I look at each other as he rummages in the fridge and then takes out a plate of leftovers. He heats it in the microwave, watching the plate turn, while the numbers count down to zero and Gena and I curl our tails and examine our claws. I know I should be thinking about a way to bring up Hal’s article, but in the tension of the moment, my throat is dry and none of the words in my head sound right.

  When the microwave beeps, Fisher takes the plate out. He finally faces us and says, “I haven’t decided yet.” Then he walks out the door.

  It’s a little scary watching Gena’s shoulders sag. “I thought you talked to him about me last night,” I say.

  Her voice is small and she stares at the floor. “I did.”

  “Oh.” I don’t know what to say. “He might’ve just for—he has a lot on his mind.”

  She walks over to the counter. “I’m going to start making dinner.”

  I ask if she needs anything, but she says she doesn’t, and so I guess it’s up to me to go talk to Fisher. I step out of the kitchen and sniff around the house, following Fisher’s scent back to his den. I don’t really get anything from him other than his regular scent, which feels aggressive and territorial here in his home. My fur prickles with a little bit of worry, but I press on. Nothing’s going to happen.

  At the den, I knock, and when he makes a grumbling sound, I walk in. He’s eating slowly from the plate on a large wooden desk, model trains on one wall, championship pictures in a glass case against the back wall. “What do you want?” he says without looking up.

  “I never really got a chance to talk to you one on one. I wanted to ask you a bit about the championships you won, and this year’s playoffs.”

  “Ask Dev.” He’s still angry, but simmering, and he hasn’t asked me to leave. “He remembers the games better than I do.”

  I ignore all the layers of that statement for the moment. “I’ve talked to him a bit. But he doesn’t have as much experience. I want to hear your perspective. I know you’re facing some tough decisions, but I thought it might help if you didn’t have to think about them, just remembered the good times for a little. Can you tell me how you beat Hellentown?”

  “I
don’t want to think about the Firebirds.” He picks up another bite of food. “Doesn’t look like I’ll be there next year, and I sure’s hell don’t want to think about them winning it all without me.”

  “Fair enough.” I sit in the chair, and he doesn’t object. “How about the Highbourne games? Any good stories from there?”

  He pauses, and then grins. And then he tells me stories.

  That keeps us occupied for about an hour, and though I enjoy the stories, I can’t find an entry to talk about injuries. There’s one point where he talks about a safety who was knocked out of the game, and I ask about the rest of his career. Fisher pauses and just says, “He did okay.”

  After that I take his plate back to the kitchen and find Gena in a better mood. She asks what we talked about, and at first I’m reluctant to bring up his memory loss. Then I think, hell, she’s been living with it, so I can at least mention it in an upbeat way. “He seems to remember the Highbourne games really well,” I say, rinsing the dish in the sink.

  “He should.” She smiles slightly. “He always said those years were the best of his career.”

  “Were they good for you, too?” Too late, I catch myself reacting to the tone of her voice and the slight emphasis on ‘he’ in the second sentence.

  But it turns out she doesn’t mind so much talking to me. We sit on the couch in the living room with a pitcher of iced tea and she curls her tail into a tight spiral, the kind I can’t do with all my fluff. Her voice stays low. “Well, of course the championship was wonderful. Both of them were. But…I told you about how he used to play around on the road?” I nod. “Those years were the worst. I found out about one of them, a gazelle…” She waves her glass. “And then there were others. He claimed he needed it to keep his focus, and I said he could either have his focus or his family, and we went back and forth on it.”

  “Clearly he made the right choice.” I sip the cool, slightly bitter tea.