I'm standing with Coach Thibs for most of practice as he gets to work with Carlson. I've barely given the kid the time of day all season so far. He was just some scrub underneath me, but now, I'm forcing myself to focus on him, watch him as he sets up, drilling, running routes, trying to step up to the first team offense level.
About fifteen minutes after passing drills start, I watch Carlson try a flag route, but his cut step is sloppy, and if he does that in the game this weekend, it won’t be pretty.
"Carlson!" I yell after the play is over, pulling him over. He's trying hard, I can see that, but he needs to focus. "All right, you’ve gotta make sure—make all of your steps razor sharp, got it?"
"I am," Carlson says, and he's sucking wind. He doesn't run this much in practice, normally, and he's nervous. "He's just too fast."
"You're bigger and stronger, so if you stick him at the line, then make your cuts sharp, you'll get the separation you need. Like this.”
I turn to Coach, who's looking at me, intrigued. "One more time?"
Coach shrugs and turns to Tyler. "Run it again!"
"Watch me," I say, lining up in slot like Carlson is supposed to. The defensive back, a senior named Joe Manfredi, who also has some potential pro-level skill, is giving me a look like I'm crazy. Today is Tuesday, full contact day, and that rule applies whether you're wearing a helmet or not.
The ball is hiked, and I grab Joe's shoulder pads before he can make contact with me, snapping him down and to the side, knocking him just enough off-balance to give me half a step on him. I take off, losing that half-step quickly as my tennis shoes don't grip the turf as well as cleats, but I cut hard anyway, turning just in time to catch Tyler's pass. I turn to go upfield when I get hit from the side to land painfully on the turf, seeing Joe looking down on me.
"Good route," Joe says before offering me a hand. "Think you can get Carlson to do that?”
"We'll see."
"You what, Coach?"
"You heard me, Duncan. For four days, you've worked your ass off with Carlson, telling him every hint you can think of," Coach Bainridge says. It's already five thirty, we have a primetime kickoff in an hour, and I feel like I've just been smacked in the head. "I've been watching. You've taken the comments, you've cut out the trash talk, but most of all . . . you've tried to be a good teammate."
It's what I want to be. It's what's stopped me from calling Carrie. I have to prove to myself that I can take this step alone. She's never been far from my thoughts, and my sleep has been spotty at best, but I have to make this step if I'm ever going to be the man she deserves.
"I . . . I want Carlson to do a good job, that's all. I want the team to win."
Coach studies me for a minute, then reaches beneath his desk, pulling out my jersey. "Here. I notified the AD and the game crew. Your suspension is reduced to the first half only. I know you haven't practiced, but you're still the best tight end in the conference. Think you can get suited up and join your teammates for warmups?"
I can't believe my luck, and I catch the tossed jersey, turning and running back to the locker room. One of the equipment managers must have gotten the message as well, because my gear is sitting there, my pants already prepared, my helmet gleaming. "Holy shit."
"You gonna sit there and curse, or get your shoulder pads ready?" Tyler asks behind me, and I turn to see him giving me a smile. "Bainridge won't tell you this, but a group of us went to him and asked him to let you play today."
"Why? Who?"
"Why? Because we need to win, and you help us do that. Who? Everyone, Carlson included. Now go get ready."
I quickly get my things together and run down to the trainer's room, wishing for the first time all week that Carrie was there. Instead, I find Chelsea Brown. "Hey, Chelsea, can you help me with my hands?"
"No elbow?" She asks, and I shake my head. There's no time for it, and Carrie's words echo in my brain.
“Just the hands. Besides, you guys know that I've only worn it as a crutch for a while."
"Okay," Chelsea replies, grabbing the tape. "So they're going to let you play?"
"The second half. But I want to be ready in case."
Chelsea starts wrapping my hands the way I like, running the pre-wrap over my wrists but leaving the backs of my hands bare. She does my left hand first, then my right, and she kind of lingers like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t. I don’t give it a second thought.
I give her a quick thanks and rush back to the locker room to grab my helmet and gloves, getting up to the field just as the team starts group warmups. The sun is almost down, and the lights are bright as I run out, dazzling me for a moment, and I feel the familiar rush of adrenalin. I hear a surprised roar from the crowd, but this time, I don't care about it. I'm totally focused on the team and take the rearmost position in the warmup lines.
We run through things, and I continue to coach Carlson throughout. We rehearse a move I showed him, something Coach Thibs borrowed from the Western Judo Club, and we finish warmups. Going back inside, Carlson stops in the tunnel, grabbing my shoulder pad. "Hey."
"Yeah?"
"Thanks, Duncan. For everything this week."
The first half of the game is tough. Western's hanging in, but the Silverados have a very stingy defense. Carlson's fighting his ass off, but he's just not able to hang in there, and with the offense unable to get anything going, the defense is getting tired. The breakthrough happens with five minutes left in the second quarter, when the Silverados hit a deep pass that puts them up by a touchdown, and then, just before halftime, he nails an amazingly long field goal.
The horn goes off, and the team runs back into the locker room. After his few words to the team as a whole, Coach Bainridge comes over to me. "You ready to go in?"
"Whatever you need, Coach."
He nods, then drops his bomb. "I want you on special teams too. They're burning us on kickoff and punt coverage, and I need someone who can form a blocking wall for the runners. Can you do it?"
Special teams. The suicide squad that is normally made up of second-stringers or crazy dudes who don't care about their health. If running routes and getting tackled is like getting into a minor car accident, special teams is like a car accident on the freeway going high-speed.
"Get me out there. Whatever you need."
Coach nods again, and the trembles start. I haven't felt the trembles since high school, and I know what they are. I'm not scared. I just want to get on the field, to play and fight and win.
One minute left. No more timeouts. We're down seventeen-thirteen. We need a touchdown, and it's seventy-two yards away.
"All right, guys, this is where we make ourselves famous," Tyler jokes in the huddle, looking around. I look around, too, and see my teammates. They're exhausted, beaten up, and just a little way from crumbling. We need to get fired up, and Tyler's trying.
He calls a run play, risky at this point in the game, but the Silverados aren’t expecting it either. If we toss it to the outside, we have a chance to gain yards and still get out of bounds.
I pop the defensive end before releasing to the outside. I see the defensive back coming on a collision course with our running back. I lower my shoulder and crash into his side, my body already aching from blocking on punts and kickoffs, but I don't care. The guy is blasted off his feet, and as I go tumbling down with him, I see our runner scamper for eight yards before running out of bounds, stopping the clock.
"All right, all right!" Tyler yells when we reform the huddle. Forty-nine seconds left. "That's what the fuck I'm talking about!"
"Tyler," I groan, and I'm feeling something grating in my elbow. I don't care. They'll have to chop off my arm to get me out of the game right now. "Let's close it out. I don't have two minutes left in me."
Tyler pulls me up and looks me in the eye. "Think you can do it, Touchdown? Or do we get Carlson in here?"
I nod. "I got this. After this, though, nobody calls me Touchdown.”
"You catch the ball, and I'll make sure of it. Don’t fuck this up, Duncan.”
"See you in the end zone."
We line up, and I can see the defense running through their schemes, adjusting to our formation.
I release quickly, praying that our right tackle can give Tyler enough time to get the ball off. I cut out on a flag route, turning my head to see the pass already in the air. Tyler's let it go just a little long, and I urge my tired legs to go just a bit faster, to cover the space a bit quicker.
It's on my fingertips, and I pull it in, knowing that my hectic pace sent me off-route. I'm in the defensive back’s zone now, and he's closing from behind fast, the free safety coming up fast on my left. I juke, spinning off one guy to feel the other hit me.
I bounce, refusing to go down. No fucking way, not with everything on the line. I run, as hard as I can, my arm screaming from that last hit but my fingers refusing to let go of the ball. I've been sitting on my ass nearly all week, and I'm tired, forgetting how much football hurts.
The goal line is only ten yards away . . . eight . . . five . . . two . . .
Someone hits me from behind, and I reach out with everything I have, praying I'm close enough. I can only hope the ball doesn't tumble from my fingers as I reach, pulling my knees up to prevent the ball from being blown down from an early touch.
I hit the ground and hear a whistle. The wind's been knocked out of me. I can't do much more than move my head, which is jammed into the turf enough that I can barely breathe. I turn my head to the side to see the side judge standing, his arms over his head signaling the touchdown, highlighted against the bright glare of the stadium lights and the black of the night sky beyond. It's the best touchdown I've ever scored, even if it's not the prettiest.
Twenty-four seconds left, and we're up, nineteen to seventeen. Someone pulls me to my feet, and I see it's Tyler, who's grinning. "How's it feel, hero?"
I look around, seeing the stadium still exploding in cheers, and my chest is heaving, I'm so winded. I hope I'm in better shape next game, or I'll die by the third quarter. "I need some fucking Gatorade."
Tyler pounds me on the back, laughing. "Done. And then?"
"I want to call Carrie."
Chapter 12
Carrie
I wake up on Sunday, and I'm feeling good. I'd caught the game on television, and I have to admit that I cheered when Duncan caught his touchdown pass.
I'd kept up to date with what he was doing, even if I was intentionally keeping myself away from football. Coach Taylor could tell Thursday that something was up, and he told me what Duncan had been doing. I prayed, as I slipped off to sleep on Saturday, that he'd call me soon.
Waking up Sunday, I know that I need him. My arms ache, and more importantly, my heart aches as I think of him, the sight of him hugging his teammates after his touchdown. The talking heads after the game were, of course, heaping praise on him, saying that perhaps the half-game benching helped him.
My phone rings, and I'm excited, thinking that perhaps it’s Duncan, but my excitement fades when I see that the number is a landline, although one I don't know. "Hello?"
The voice on the other end is a bit stuffy, officious, but unconsciously so, like someone who has been doing it for so long, they don't even realize it. "Miss Mittel? This is Lawrence Friar, Vice Dean of the Academic Board."
Vice Dean of the Academic Board. The Honor Committee. They're one of the staples of Western, and one of the reasons I'd selected the school. Modeled after the successful and long-running boards in the Ivy League and at the military academies, the Honor Committee has one purpose: to eliminate cheating. Even the athletes aren't exempt. An athlete at Western might get tutoring, might get easy classes, but they do have to turn in their own work and take their own tests.
"Good morning, Dean Friar. How can I help you?"
"There's no easy way to say this, so I'll cut straight to the point. Miss Mittel, there's been an accusation of cheating."
"Oh no! Well, of course, I'll be happy to help the Board in any way I can. Who is the accusation against?"
"It's against you, Miss Mittel. Would you mind coming to the Board offices?"
I'm shocked. What the hell is going on? "Of—of course. When?"
"As soon as you can would be best. We’d like to clear this up as quickly as possible."
"Y—yes, of course. Me too. This must be some sort of misunderstanding."
"I hope so, Miss Mittel. Please, as soon as you can."
I roll out of bed and grab the nearest set of clothes I can find, pulling on some jeans and a t-shirt. I walk across campus, trying to figure out what the hell could have caused someone to level an Honor charge against me. I mean, I make sure to list all my sources for all my papers, which I know is the biggest thing that people get rapped for by the Honor Board.
The Board has its own separate building on campus, a small, octagonal building that's made of granite, with a peaked roof that gives it an intimidating air, and the only windows are narrow slits on the upper floors. Frankly, I've always thought the Honor building looks like a cross between an old-fashioned jail tower and a rocket ship and has a sort of Gothic intimidation that would be complete if they would put the stocks or a gallows out front. I walk up to the heavy front doors and pull, finding them locked. Before I can think that perhaps I just got punked, the intercom next to the door buzzes. "Miss Mittel?"
"Yes, the doors are locked."
"I'll be right down."
I stand at the front of the building, feeling my nervousness grow with each second that passes. I start shifting back and forth, not sure what is going on, but I can't help my jitters. Finally, just when I'm about to hit the button on the intercom again, the heavy doors unlock, and the door opens up. They're bigger than normal doors, at least ten feet tall, and I see as they're pushed open that they're thick, too. In fact, if there's ever a zombie attack, the Honor building is a very good place to take cover.
"Miss Mittel, I'm Dean Friar. Please, come inside."
He’s probably a little over fifty years-old, with a big shock of white hair on top of his head that looks slightly curly, like maybe he should be the sort of man who always keeps his hair short in order to keep it under control, but he doesn't. He's probably been in academia his entire adult life and cut his teeth on the wild days of the seventies.
"Dean, I would love to know what this is about. I mean, I've never cheated on anything in my life." Now that I have someone to talk to, my jitters stop, but my nervousness doesn't. If anything, I'm getting more nervous by the second.
"I understand, but we need to go through the process. Follow me, please."
We go upstairs, where I see Professor Vladisova sitting in a conference room. There's only one conclusion that comes to mind—my organic midterm. "Professor? Do you think I cheated on the test?"
"You left the test room for several minutes," the Professor says in her heavily accented English, tapping a paper in front of her. "You come back in, sit down, and rattle off the rest of your questions at nearly impossible speeds, scoring them perfectly. Too perfectly, in fact."
"What?" I don't know what to say other than that. I'm being accused of cheating because I answered the test questions too perfectly?
"The Professor suspects that during that time you left the room, you looked up course materials," Dean Friar explains, gesturing me to a seat. "Now, this is just a preliminary questioning. Maybe we can clear this up. If so, then no formal paperwork will be started against you. It's also why I called you on Sunday. I hope we can clear this up without any disruption to your academic schedule. I've been doing this for a long time, and I don't like disrupting the lives of good students."
"Thank you, Dean. Professor, I swear to you, I didn't cheat on the test. I studied the night before, and those last questions, I noticed they were lifted almost totally word for word out of the book. Since I had just studied them, I was able to answer them quickly, that's all."
"Is it true that you l
eft the test room with your cellphone?" Dean Friar asks. He's taken a seat at the table, his fingers folded in front of him, and I suspect that somewhere, something is recording what we're saying.
I nod. "Yes. I got a text message from someone, and it seemed important, so I stepped out to call them back. I explained I was still in the middle of a mid-term—they'd forgotten. After saying goodbye, I went back into the test room and went back to work."
"So you deny using the phone to look anything up?”
I nod my head vigorously. "Dean, if there were any benefits I got from that phone call, it was that I was somewhat distracted and got my out of my own way with the answers. I was kinda in another frame of mind after getting the call."
Dean Friar nods, then looks over at Professor Vladisova. "Is there anything else to your suspicions, Professor?"
She nods, and taps the paper in front of her again. "This. I was made aware of Miss Mittel's cheating by another student. I have a written statement from that student saying that she saw Miss Mittel using her phone for cheating purposes during the test time."
"What? No way!" I yell, caught off guard. "Who is making up lies like that?"
"The complaint came from Miss Brown, who was sitting behind you in the test. She says she saw you pull your phone out to access the Internet multiple times."
"No! She's lying! I—" I try to defend myself, but the name just hits me in the gut. Chelsea? Why is she saying I cheated? What the hell is going on? "The phone stayed in my pocket until that message. You even noticed the first time I pulled it out."
"This can be easy to clear up, then. Miss Mittel, does your phone have Internet capability?" Dean Friar asks. "I mean, not everyone has a smartphone, but many do."
"I do, sir," I reply, taking it out. "Here, take a look at my logs. I didn't access the Net the entire time. I only had the one text message, and then a phone call."
Dean Friar nods and turns on my phone. He swipes at the screen for a second, then turns it back around, handing it back to me. "Would you mind unlocking it?"
Over the Middle: A Sports Romance Page 10
