We get the kickoff, and jogging out to the huddle, I'm off balance. Normally, I'm the guy who's settled down while the defense are the ones who are pressed out of control, but this time, I'm the one bordering on the edge, seeing red, and we haven't even started.
"Duncan? Hey, Duncan!"
"What?" I ask, growling. "Just get me the fucking ball," I hiss, going up to the line. I drop my hand down and look across to the Clement defensive end, sneering. "You're my bitch."
"We'll see," the end sneers back, and suddenly, the ball snaps. I'm caught off guard. Isn't the play supposed to be on two? The end fires off the line and plasters me, driving me back and down to the turf before I'm barely out of my stance. Tyler, who was expecting me to release to the outside, is forced to throw across his body to our split end on the other side, who at least caught it for a three-yard gain. "You’re gonna have a long fucking day, boy."
The words are no joke, as at halftime, I have no catches, and I've spent more time on my back than I have since freshman year. Jogging down the tunnel to the locker room, I'm pissed, and we're losing, fourteen to ten.
"Duncan, you okay today?" Tyler asks me after Coach Bainridge gets done chewing out the offense's collective asses. He's quiet, and the long streak of dirt on the front of his shirt shows that he's not the only one who's taken a few hits out there so far. "Seriously, you sick or something?"
"Or something," I say, and Tyler nods. He opens his mouth, and I hold up my hand. "Don't ask."
"I won't, but I need to know. If you're fucked up, I need to check down faster, go to the other options," Tyler says. I feel kinda bad for him. His stats are nearly as horrible as mine, and our only touchdown is because our special teams ran back a punt to the four-yard line, so close a child could have punched it in for a touchdown. "Do I need to check down?"
"You do what you need to do,” I say, still pissed. "We'll take care of it in the second half, okay?"
"All right," Tyler says, but I can see he's not convinced. He moves off and starts a discussion with Coach T and some of the other guys for the rest of halftime while I stew.
The second half starts, and our defense stuffs the Clement offense for a three and out, so we're ready to go soon. Going out to the huddle, I can see it in the eyes of everyone in the huddle. They're not confident in me, and it pisses me off more.
I line up, ready to go. Tyler’s called the same play that got me injured in the Green and White Game. The problem is that my route is a crossing route right over the middle of the defense, supposedly at a depth that is too deep for the linebackers but too shallow for the safeties to jump on things. If I run it right, it's a great seam route. If the linebackers are on it, I can get laid out, especially if the pass is high.
The ball snaps, and I cut across the middle. Tyler takes his three-step drop and releases the ball, just a little high, but you expect that with a pass over the middle of the line. I go up for the ball. It's still a few feet from me . . .
I get blasted in the chest and chin, throwing me to the turf so hard and fast, the wind is knocked out of me. I look up to see Nick Hostler grinning at me, but he takes off before I can do anything, and I realize that Tyler's pass has been intercepted and we're scrambling to stop the free safety who caught the ball from doing anything.
My sights are on Nick Hostler, who's trying to block for his teammate. I charge at him, but he's too far ahead, and the Clement safety goes in standing up for a touchdown. I see the ref raise his hands, and I can't hold it back any more. "Touchdown? What the fuck do you mean touchdown?" I scream into his face. "Were you so fucking blind you missed the pass interference?”
"Back off, 83," the ref says, giving me a warning. He's a home ref, even if he is paid by the conference, and he's not going to throw a penalty on me unless he has to, not after we already gave up a touchdown.
“That’s bullshit!” I scream. “You’re fucking blind!”
The ref tosses his penalty, blowing the whistle, and I feel hands pulling me back, but I don't care. I lose my cool, going at him even more, and it’s obvious to me even while I’m yelling at him that I’m not even mad at the missed call. I’m pissed that things in my life aren’t going how I want them and looking for a scapegoat.
The ref throws another flag, blowing his whistle twice, and I’m ejected from the game.
I stare at him, ready to charge, fighting against whoever is holding me back, when Coach Thibedeau comes around and throws a cup of water in my face. "Duncan! Get a fucking hold of yourself!"
I stop, shocked. What the hell did I just do?
"Get to the locker room," Coach Thibs says, his voice gentle now that I'm at least a bit under control. "You got ejected. You're not allowed on the sidelines. We'll talk about this after the game. Coach Taylor?"
"Yeah?" Coach Taylor says, and I see he's already there, probably ready to physically escort me from the field if he needs to. Hell, he was probably one of the people holding me back.
"Walk Duncan back to the training room. And make sure he's calmed down, okay? Just . . . ditch your gear and calm down."
The fans, for the first time in three years and four games, are booing me as I leave the field. I cringe, and I feel like running, but my pride keeps me walking as I reach the tunnel, even as I feel some joker spray me with a cup of ice and probably Coke, since the stadium doesn't allow beer. I feel Coach Taylor behind me, but I'm empty. I don't feel it any longer. I just make my way to the training room, unstrapping my shoulder pads as I walk.
"You need anyone to talk to?" Coach Taylor asks when I pull my gear off and sit down on the padded training table.
“I’m fine.” But I don't feel that way. “I’m just frustrated. You're not pissed, Coach?"
"Oh, I'm pissed, but remember, I'm not a football coach. Besides, you're talking to the man who got so fired up and pissed off for an event that I head butted an Atlas Stone and knocked myself out. So I can kind of understand, even if I don't like it. Chill out here, and I'll have someone check on you later."
I lie back on the table, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out where I had been for the past three days, when the door to the training room opened again. I look over, my heart catching in my throat when I see Carrie before I sigh and put my head back down. "Sorry, nice guy Duncan isn't here. The asshole just got done making an idiot out of himself."
"Actually, it was me who came down here to apologize," Carrie says softly. "I shouldn't have spoken to you that way when you came to get taped up. I screwed up your mental mindset—threw you off."
There's a part of me that wants to agree with her, to shift the blame. But I look at her face, and another part of me, perhaps the stronger part that might actually be a decent guy, speaks up instead. "No, Carrie, you don't need to apologize. I've been this way for days. And it's all my own fault. All you did was tell me the truth."
"What happened?" she asks, coming over and hopping up on the table next to me. "Seriously, you looked ready to burst a blood vessel out there."
"I was," I say, sighing again. “It’s been a lot of things, but what you said, when you were pissed off at me in the Bangkok House, I've been kicking myself about it ever since. I guess I finally realized that I'm too much like my father. Then I saw him at breakfast today, and it didn't go well, and then . . . well, I was just a time bomb waiting to go off."
Carrie stops, looks into my face, then puts a hand on my shoulder. “We've known each other since June. That's what, almost four months now? I don’t think you've ever said a thing about him. I think this is the first time I've ever heard you use that word in a conversation, in fact. Lots of momma jokes, but nothing about your father."
I nod. "I don't talk about him often. He and I . . . we don't get along very well. Probably has something to do his lifestyle."
“What kind of lifestyle is that?”
I chuckle darkly. "Check it out yourself, but I'll save you the creepy research. Winston Hart is one of the bigger venture capitalists in Silicon Valley, nev
er the public figure, but high enough in the group of investors that he has swing, before he cashes out and takes his money elsewhere. He's worth . . . well, put it this way. I'm not here on scholarship, and my apartment in the Vista Apartments is fully paid for by him. He probably doesn’t know or care what it costs. It's his way of showing familial relationship."
"Not a very affectionate father, I take it?"
"Not a very affectionate man," I say. "I mean, he’s in town today for business, and he didn't even know about the game! I think he was surprised I’m even on the football team. And well, let's see . . . since I was born, he's on . . . yeah, wife number four. And for three days, those two words have been swirling around in my head. Seeing him just brought that out more."
"What words?"
"Side piece," I whisper, uncovering my eyes and turning my head to look at Carrie. "Carrie, I know I can be a bastard. I’m selfish, and maybe even rotten to the core, from time to time."
Carrie swallows a pained expression, then nods and looks at me calmly. "But?"
I sigh. "Maybe the past four months . . . I'm starting to change. Maybe . . . I don't know. I just know that I'm sorry. I'm sorry I treated you without the respect that I really feel for you. Seeing my dad reminded me of what I don’t want to be."
Carrie surprises me by leaning over and giving me a kiss on the lips, soft and delicate, and when she lifts her head, she's smiling. "Then maybe I should give you a chance to make it up to me. But it's going to be your last chance, Duncan. Pick me up from my dorm at seven tonight. You only played half the game. I think you've got enough energy to take me out for dinner."
I'm smiling, and I reach up to stroke her hair. "Why?"
"Maybe because over the past four months, I've come to like you. And if you're willing to make the effort to become a better man, I'd like to stick around and see who that man could be. From what I've seen so far, he's going to make a name for himself. He’s going to be a better man than his father, at least from what I've heard."
I nod, and Carrie gives my hand a squeeze. "All right. Let me go tell Coach Taylor that you're not destroying the place, and go help clean up with the aftermath of the game. I hate to tell you, but I think we just lost our first game of the season. Clement's kicking our asses right now."
I sigh and sit up, nodding. "Guess I have something else to make up for.”
"First test of this new man you want to be. I'll see you at seven."
I'm waiting quietly when the team starts filtering in, all of them glaring at me. Nobody comes into the training room, though, dressing and walking out without a single greeting. I understand, and I wait quietly, not even saying anything when the trainers start hauling their gear into the room, nobody speaking to me until Carrie carries a bag over her shoulder. She holds up her fingers, telling me the bad news. 27-10.
I nod, and she puts her stuff away, her eyes full of emotion, but before she can say anything, Coach Bainridge is in the doorway. "You're suspended from the team for the time being,” Coach says, his anger burned out at least for a while. "Come by my office Tuesday to discuss what happens next. I need that long to calm down and figure that out myself. Now go get dressed and get out."
Great. Great game.
Chapter 8
Carrie
After getting suspended from the team, I wasn't really expecting Duncan to arrive for our date. I mean, if anything is a mood killer for an athlete, it's getting at least temporarily tossed off the team. But, it wasn't until five thirty that I realized that in the four months we'd known each other, I had yet to exchange phone numbers with him. He knows where I live, but that's because it's listed for every player and intern, at least those who live on campus. He knows the dorm building, but not the room number.
So I am surprised when, at six fifty-four, I hear the now familiar sound of a Kawasaki motorcycle pulling up into the parking lot of the dorm, and I stick my head out of my window to see Duncan getting off his cycle. "Hey!"
"Hey!" Duncan calls back, waving. "You coming down, or am I coming up?"
"I'll come down!" I call, closing my window. I make sure to lock the door when I leave, and I head down the stairs and out the doors, a skip in my step. I feel like a cloud has lifted off me—maybe because of the way his face lit up when he waved, maybe because of the memory of our kiss in the training room. I don't know what it is, but when I reach the parking lot, I'm happy.
It looks like Duncan is too, especially when he sees what I'm wearing. "Jeans and a jacket? What, is your dress still dirty?"
I laugh and shake my head, wrapping my arms around his neck and giving him a quick peck on the lips, surprising me, but in a good way. "Not at all. But, last time we tried the classic dinner date thing, and that certainly didn't work. I was thinking, maybe tonight . . . we could just get away from it all for a little while? Besides, I didn't know if you'd show, and you don't have my phone number!"
"You're right. I don't. We'll have to remedy that, won't we? But I like the outfit,” Duncan says, wrapping his arms around me. It feels good, and my heart speeds up a bit in my chest. “Where do you want to go?"
"I don't know," I reply, looking over at his bike. "But that looks like a two-seater, and I was wondering, maybe you could teach me how to ride that thing?"
Duncan's grin is all the answer I need, and he takes me by the hand, leading me over to the bike, where he unlocks the seat and pulls out another helmet. "I keep an extra brain bucket in here, just in case," he tells me, looking sheepish as he hands it over. “Climb on, and be careful about the vibrations."
"The what?"
"I put a sport suspension in this thing," Duncan says as he climbs on, helping me on after him. It's a weird lift of the leg, but I manage it, and I find that in order to keep my balance, I have to lean against his back, and I naturally wrap my arms around him, enjoying the scent of his leather jacket. "Handles bumps well, but the engine vibrations can go right through the frame and up the seat. You can guess where they go next."
"So, you're telling me that the throttle won't be revving just the bike's engine while we ride?" I ask, leaning back to put on the helmet, which I find is just a bit big, but not too bad while Duncan laughs. “I bet you designed it to do this, didn't you?"
"Nope, but I'll try to keep it under control,” he says as he glances back.
I lean in and whisper in his ear. "Say that again."
"What?"
"Keep it under control. It's . . . sexy, coming from you."
Duncan looks back at me, his eyes twinkling, and pulls his helmet on. "I knew there was a reason I wanted to ask you out. Come on, let's go find some fun."
Duncan starts his bike, and I can feel exactly what he means, as even with my legs on the back pegs like Duncan points out, I can feel the power of the bike's engine rumbling between my legs. We ride off, Duncan taking it easy at first so that I can learn to adjust on the curves and turns, but I can sense that he really wants to unleash the bike's power, and I pull myself in tighter, holding onto the amazing torso that is in front of me.
I can't see much. Duncan's back and shoulders are so wide, so everything is caught in side glimpses that slide past too quickly to really do much more than hold on, but as we continue, I realize I'm becoming more and more turned on. Duncan's body in front of me, the throb of the engine between my legs, the smell of the rich leather of his jacket in front of me, but most of all, the knowledge that his strength is keeping us safe and secure. Even if he wants to rev the bike up to a hundred miles an hour, I feel safe holding onto him.
Duncan slows, and we pull off the road into a parking lot, and I see that we're at a miniature golf center, of all places. I can't help it. I laugh. "Fun?"
"Sure," Duncan says, taking my hand. He helps me off with my helmet, then helps me off the bike's saddle. My legs are a little shaky getting off, partly because of the throbbing itch between my thighs, and partly because I just wasn’t used to riding a bike. “Sorry."
"No," I get out, laughing again
and leaning against him. "You warned me, and besides, it was one of the most fun rides I've ever had."
"I thought you hadn't ridden on a bike before."
"Wasn't talking about bikes," I purr, and Duncan stops, brushing the hair out of my eyes. "What?"
"You've shut me down for four months, except for some flirting, and now you're dialing it up to eleven."
I stop and look him in his eyes and put my arms around his waist. “Because I've seen you at your worst now, and you've been through hell, and yet . . . you still apologized for your behavior. You showed up tonight, and I half expected a depressed, down in the dumps guy who I'd have to spend the night comforting for his issues—if you showed up at all. Instead, you showed up with a smile and a wave, like you really want to spend time with me."
“Of course I do," Duncan says, stopping when I hug him tighter, and he wraps his arms around me, holding me close. “That’s exactly why I’m here.”
"I know," I say softly, pulling his head down for another kiss. I didn't tell him, but the idea of kissing him has gotten more and more attractive to me since our shared kiss in the training room, and as our little pecks grow more and more, I pull him in, our tongues tasting each other, his hands so powerful on my back. Finally, I pull back. "Come on, let's go have some fun. It's been years since I played putt-putt."
We go inside, and I see that there's more than just golf, but a decent-sized arcade center, pizza, the whole nine. "Wow, and you've been here before?"
"Yeah," Duncan says with a laugh. "I like to sometimes get away, and it's fun. Not at all like when I was growing up, you know?"
"Not really," I say honestly, taking his hand. "But I'd like to find out. Where do we start?"
We start with the arcade, where I find out that Duncan is actually a crack shot, at least with a light pistol. His hands move amazingly fast as he shoots down horde after horde of zombies, his eyes flickering side to side. "How'd you get so good at this?" I ask after my forearm cramps up and he's still firing away. "Jesus, watch out!"
Over the Middle: A Sports Romance Page 7
