"Mom refuses to acknowledge it. She just asks if my bedroom at the apartment is comfortable or not. Dad . . . he's totally avoided it. You know how it is. There's a part of them that knows, but it's like Schrödinger’s Cat. As long as the question isn't answered, their daughter both is and isn't sleeping with her boyfriend."
"We were raised totally different. Maybe just because I'm a guy. I don't know, but I can guess. Carrie . . . I love you."
"I love you too. And thank you for the present. I was actually a good girl and waited until Christmas day to open it, too. It's beautiful."
"Are you wearing it now?" I ask, and Carrie nods. "Show me?"
She reaches into her shirt and pulls out the white gold necklace with a gleaming emerald chip in the center. The chain is a simple link chain, and the emerald is small. I didn't want to overwhelm her with a huge stone, and besides, it fits Carrie's personality. "I wear it next to my skin always. All right, I’ll let you go grab something to eat, Duncan. I love you."
“Goodnight, Carrie. Love you.”
She hangs up, and I close my computer and go downstairs. It only took us saying the L word once, and after we did, neither of us can stop. The restaurant for the hotel is open until midnight, and while I'm not looking for anything heavy, a good Caesar salad or something might do the trick until tomorrow's team breakfast.
When I get downstairs, I'm crossing the lobby when I hear someone call my name. "Duncan! Wait up, son!"
I stop, shocked. Turning, I see Dad walking quickly across the lobby, a huge smile on his face. "Duncan! Good to see you!"
"Dad? What are you doing here?" I ask, confused. "Aren't you supposed to be back in Cali?"
"I realized that this is going to be your last game in college, and well, I also realized that I couldn't get another chance to see you play college ball, so I made the trip down. I know it's a bit of a surprise, but I was kind of hoping . . . well, I was kind of hoping you'd be willing to have dinner with me."
“Um, sure . . . I guess. I was just going to get a salad here in the restaurant."
We go to the restaurant, where the wait staff seats us immediately. I'm wearing my Western track suit, which gives us pretty much carte blanche in service, and as we sit down, I notice that Dad's looking at my arm. He's looking thinner than before, showing his middle age for the first time. "How's the elbow? I read about your injury."
"I'll make it. I've already scheduled the surgery for December 30th. That'll give me just over eight weeks to rehab for the Combine, but I'll probably pass on that for a Pro Day at school in March, if I can."
Dad hums and looks over the menu. The waitress comes by, and I order a chicken Caesar while he orders the pork chops with hummus. After the waitress leaves, I take a sip of my water. "So when did you get into town?"
"Just a few hours ago," he replies, giving me a shrug. He sounds different too, it seems. Nervous, or just stressed. I wonder if Tawny's left him. I mean, I didn't even get a chance to meet her yet. "I just closed a deal, but I wanted to make sure that I got here in time. Duncan, I know I haven't been the most attentive father, but I do care about how you're doing. It hurt that you didn't at least give me a call when you got injured. I only found out because of cable sports."
"No offense, but you haven't exactly given a damn about my playing for about the past six years or so. I was talking about it with Carrie the other week, and I realized the last game of mine you ever saw was my freshman year in high school. You didn't even go to the Shrine Game."
Dad nods, then sighs. "I know. It's been tough, that's all. It's why I need your help."
"My help? What the hell type of help could I give you?"
Dad looks around, and leans in closer. "Duncan, I haven't exactly been honest about my finances. After the Cupertino Mafia started really going lawsuit happy, I got hammered in a lot of deals. To finance this most recent one, I had to take out some loans."
"Okay, big deal. You've done that before."
He shakes his head and sighs. "These weren't with a bank, Duncan. The banks won't extend me any more credit. Between maintaining Tawny's lifestyle, my own image, and everything else, I'm tapped to the gills. And this deal, it might not pay off for six months or more. So I went to some men I know in San Francisco. They loaned me the money, on a few conditions."
"What conditions?" I ask, a sense of dread washing over me. If he’s broke, what the hell have I been paying for my lifestyle with for the past year or more? Credit cards that aren't getting paid? Wishes and rainbows? Unicorn piss? What?
"These men, they made a deal with me. They put a very large sum of money on the Sunshine Bowl, and if their bet pays off, then my markers are wiped clean. If not, they collect. Everything."
I sigh, shaking my head. "You're fucking kidding me."
Dad shakes his head now, his eyes intense. "Duncan, I mean it. Everything. The house, the cars, everything that isn't paid in full already. The banks are screaming for my neck, and the San Francisco men are only going to give me the money to get them off my ass if they collect on their bets. So I need you to help me out. Western needs to lose."
"You want me to throw the game?" I ask, horrified. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"
"Son, I'm not saying you need to really throw it . . . just, don't do as well as you might," he says. "You already have a banged up elbow, so just don't go as hard as you might normally. Think about it. An injured performance won't hurt your pro prospects, and you can take it easy, reduce your chance of injury."
I don't know what to say. Seven years of ignoring my football, and now he wants me to throw a game? Never mind that if I do, and it's discovered, I get banned from the game forever. I shake my head, trying to comprehend how I ever called this man my father. "Excuse me. I need to go."
The waitress is approaching the table, so I stop her and ask for my salad to be sent to my room. Dad starts to get up, then stops when I point at him, gesturing down with my finger. I leave the restaurant and go out into the lobby, leaving the hotel and sitting out by the pool. I need someone to talk to. There are so many thoughts whirling in my head. Thankfully, my phone is in my pocket, and I pull it out, dialing from memory.
"Hello? Duncan?"
Carrie's voice is a balm to my mind, and I let out a shuddering breath. "Yeah, it's me. Sorry, I know we just got off, but I had to call."
"Aww, how sweet," Carrie purrs. "What's up? You sound troubled."
"I just ran into Dad," I say, finding a chaise lounge chair and sitting down. The pool is lit right now, the water swirling in patterns of light in the night, casting weird little swirling beams all around. "He says he came to watch the game."
"That's a good thing, isn't it?" Carrie asks. "So why don't you sound happy?"
“He wants me to throw the game. Apparently, he owes a lot of money to some men in San Francisco . . . and not exactly the sort of men who wait to collect their debts."
Carrie hums, then clucks her tongue. "Let me ask you—in your entire life, what has remained pure, unsullied?"
"You," I immediately reply, and Carrie's warm hum helps me relax a little.
"Thank you, but I'm hardly pure, and in the grand scheme of things, you haven’t really known me that long. What else?"
"Football," I answer, seeing what she's trying to say. "It's always been pure."
"Then keep it that way. Duncan, you're a man now that you weren't even six months ago. You're a man that I'm proud to love. Be that man. You know what to do."
I do. I know exactly what to do. "Thank you, Carrie. I . . . I think I should go do that now, and go get some sleep. Thank you."
"Sleep well. I love you."
"I love you too. Good night."
I go upstairs, to the fifth floor of the hotel. There are ten rooms per floor in the hotel, and this one is just for the coaches and university staff. I go to room 503, Coach Bainridge's room, and raise my hand, knocking. "Yes?"
"Coach? It's Duncan Hart. I have to talk to you about something."
My elbow's killing me. I swear, every drive, I'm getting hit in the arm at least once. The defensive ends are even using the elbow against me when I try to block them, pushing my left elbow across my body to torque it, putting more pressure on it. It's not a dirty move. It's the same move I use to get a linebacker or defensive back off me to run routes, but it still hurts all the time.
If there's any saving grace, it's that my biceps tendon isn't getting strained. Most of playing tight end is pushing, not pulling, and my triceps and chest are more important than my biceps for that. Still, the biceps is used when I catch, if anything, to pull the catch in and to cradle it against my body.
"How's it feeling?" Tyler asks, sweat dripping off his face. Two minutes left in the second quarter, and it's still a tight game. We're playing Georgia A&M, and they're a tough bunch of Southern boys. To our disadvantage, they are also used to this heat and humidity, and we're not. December, and it's still eighty-two degrees and nearly ninety percent humidity. What the hell? At least it's not trying to play them in August.
"I'll live," I hiss, flexing the arm. I took a punch to the elbow that last play, and I'm aching. “Let’s just play.”
I line up in slot and square myself for the jarring impact I'm going to need to deliver. GAM has been playing me man to man all night, making me use my arm as much as possible.
The ball snaps, and I yank, pulling the cornerback forward with my right arm. He doesn't expect it, and I'm off, running ten yards before crossing with our split end and turning to look for the pass. I've got a step, and Tyler puts it in my hands perfectly. I take off up the field, just inside the sideline, and cut back when I see the GAM safety coming on a pursuit angle. A juke move, and I'm past him, angling across the field for the last ten yards and going in untouched for the touchdown. I toss the ball to the ref and exchange shoulder smacks with my teammates.
"That's what I've been looking for!" Tyler yells. "Damn right, baby!"
"Let's keep it going next half," I respond. "I want the damn record. What's this bowl's record for TD catches?"
"Fuck if I know. But we'll go for it anyway."
Unfortunately for us, GAM isn't as accommodating as we'd like, and after a short three and out drive by us to start the third quarter, GAM starts to eat up the clock by grinding out yardage in short, brutal chunks, three and four yards at a time. Their linemen have that farmer strength, big 'hosses' that can grind it three and four yards at a time over and over and over. They pound it out for a touchdown, and we're behind again, with ten minutes left in the fourth quarter.
"Well, there goes the TD record," Tyler jokes as we start off our next drive at our twenty-three. "Time to give the D a rest and grind some ourselves."
"I'm not grinding with you, Tyler. Just 'cuz Carrie's at her parents' house . . . I'm still not grinding with you," I joke back, and everyone laughs before growing serious.
Tyler calls a swing screen pass to the flat. He tosses the ball to the back, and I clear traffic. I collide with a linebacker, and my elbow pops inside again, pain exploding through my arm, but we get the yards we need.
I'm shaking my arm when the huddle re-forms, and Coach Bainridge sees it. He sends in Carlson to give me a rest and to bring in the next play, and on the sidelines, he pulls me aside. "How is it?"
"It'll hold together for another few minutes," I reply, looking at the game clock. "I'll make it."
"Sit out two plays, shake it out, and then get back in there," Coach says. I nod and kneel, focusing and catching my breath.
After the two plays, Coach sends me back in, and we're looking at third and seven. Carlson’s doing his best, but he's not quite there yet. Give him a year, maybe. He's still young.
In the huddle, Tyler's happy to see me. "Glad you're back. Think you can catch something?"
"You throw it, I'll catch it."
I drift out into the flat, just beyond the first down marker, and go up for a high pass, stretching out to catch the ball, only to get upended by a linebacker who hits me in the legs, flipping me over to land flat on my back. I hang onto the pass, though, and it's just enough for the first down.
"That one hurt," I groan as I get up off the ground and get back to the huddle. We run the ball once, taking the ball to the fifteen, but more importantly, starting the clock again. Coach's plan is simple. If we punch it in, we're not going to give GAM enough time to get the points back. We end it now, one way or another.
A minute and thirty-one seconds left. I drop down hit the defensive tackle in the side while our guard and tackle pop out on the old power sweep play, taking us down to the ten. Third and two, and the clock is still running. Twenty-seven seconds left.
The ball snaps, and I smack the defensive end in the shoulder before releasing and starting my route. The linebacker sees me coming, and he's going to stick with me. We're jostling, at the limits of what the refs will allow before they call pass interference, but with less than a minute left in a bowl game, they're letting a lot more go than normal.
I turn my head back, and Tyler's scrambling, the pass rush starting to get to him. He rolls out to his right, and I cut back, reversing course to try to give him options. The cut gives me just enough space, and Tyler sees me, letting the pass go just as a big defensive end nails him in the back. The ball's a wounded duck, wobbly and high, but there's no other choice. I go up, reaching, my left arm screaming, but it's on my fingertips. I pull in, still on my feet, by some miracle, and cut upfield. Four yards, two men in front of me. They go low, I jump . . .
Somehow, I don't know how, my body clears the goal line. With eleven seconds left, Western has taken the lead, up by two.
I get up off the ground and hug my teammates. Tyler's getting up himself, and I tap helmets with him. "Good throw."
"Bullshit. Great catch."
We go over to the sidelines, everyone quiet while we watch the kickoff after the extra point. The Georgia A&M team elects to not try anything stupid on the kickoff, and they have one desperate Hail Mary pass that falls short before the final seconds tick off, and we've won. Tyler turns and hugs me as the team celebrates. "Thank you, man. It's been a hell of a four years."
As the team celebrates in the middle of the field, I find myself exchanging high fives and handshakes with dozens of people. I have no idea who they are, but it doesn't matter. We're happy, and the only thing that could make my mood better is if Carrie were here with me.
"You did it, Duncan," Coach Thibedeau says, yelling even though he's only a foot from my ear. The noise is so overwhelming. "You came through. Now, the focus goes to you."
I shake my head and clap Coach on the back. "Never again, Coach. Never again. Now, the focus is on Carrie."
Coach claps me on the shoulders again, grinning. "Let's get you back to Western first, get that surgery done."
He moves on, and we go back into the locker room. After I get my gear off, I put my track suit back on and go back out to the field. There's a sense of nostalgia already, looking around at the grass. Regardless of whether I get drafted, or if my surgery is successful or not . . . my amateur football career is over.
I sense someone coming up behind me, and I turn, seeing Dad standing there, looking at me with pain in his eyes. "Why, Duncan? It was just one play, one game."
"Because it was the right thing to do. That's more important than the money."
He goes to say something, but a couple of men in suits call out. "Mr. Hart. Winston Hart."
He turns his head and goes pale. The men come closer, taking Dad's arms. "Mr. Hart, Mr. Salvatore would like to speak to you about your business loans. If you'd come with us."
The mobsters lead him away, and as I watch my father get led out of my life—maybe forever now, I don't know—another person approaches. It's Coach Bainridge, who's just completed the last of his press interviews. "Duncan."
"Coach. Guess you saw that."
He nods, watching as my dad disappears into a side tunnel of the stadium. "Coach, you didn't have to trust me. E
ven after telling you last night, I could have thrown the game."
Coach nods and pats me on the shoulder. "The player I had at the beginning of the season, I wouldn't have. The man you are today, I trust."
We walk off the field, and Coach laughs softly. "You know, I'm going to have to send someone to clean out your locker. You're going to be in the hospital. Is there anything in there that you'd be embarrassed to show?"
"Not that I can think of . . . but if there are any phone numbers or pictures in there, can you just burn those?"
"Wise decision."
Chapter 20
Carrie
After six hours of sitting in the hospital waiting room with nothing but a book to entertain me, I know one thing for certain: I hate hospital waiting rooms, and reading The Silence of The Lambs is not the way to relax in one.
"Miss Mittel?"
I look up and see the surgeon, Dr. Lefort, pulling off his little cap. He's not covered in blood, so at least that's a good thing, right?
"Is he all right, Doctor?"
My face must be too easy to read or something, because his smile is immediately comforting. "He's fine. In fact, if you want you can go see him in about fifteen minutes, he's in recovery. Just give him some time to finish getting everything cleaned up and a shirt on. After all, I can't be guilty of encouraging the delinquency of college students."
I blush and chuckle, shaking my head.
Dr. Lefort smiles. “Anyway, you can go back in a few minutes. A nurse will come get you."
"Just a minute, Doc. How'd the surgery go?"
He nods. "Good. The anterior band tear wasn't as bad as I feared, and the bicep tendon's still there. If he wasn't an athlete, I'd have passed on the tendon, but you know how Duncan is. He's got bigger biceps than most people, and he puts more stress on them."
It's a long five minutes, but when the nurse finally leads me back to the recovery room, Duncan's there, looking a lot more perky than I thought he would. "Hey, beautiful."
"How are you feeling?" I ask, coming over. Duncan's arm is in a splint, and it will be for a few days before he shifts to a sling when he's not doing rehab.
Over the Middle: A Sports Romance Page 15
