Over the Middle: A Sports Romance

by Lauren Landish

  "Yeah, I'll be fine," I reply, shaking out my hands. "Just got the jitters, you know? I mean, I'm not the one with the only question being if he gets a first or a third round draft pick. You've got your ticket punched, it's just a matter of how big a contract you land."

  Duncan, who a year ago would have made a smart ass comment, instead smirks and shakes his head. "You'd be surprised."

  I cough and shake my head in disbelief. Duncan Hart, feeling the nerves? No fucking way. "What the hell are you talking about? You've got it made."

  "We'll see, won't we? Come on, let's go get warmed up."

  We go out onto the grass of the field, where I can already see the scouts and some of our coaches standing around. I know a lot of the scouts' work is to get the inside scoop from our coaches about our real playing abilities. Pro Days and workouts can show some things, but video tape and interviews with coaches are still a favorite tool. Of course the scouts know the coaches will try to give the sunny side of things, but still, they talk.

  I know what they say about me. Good reads, decent feet, but his receivers make him seem better than he is.

  The worst two things, for me at least, are what's probably keeping me from being a second or third round lock for the League draft. First, that my arm is supposedly weak. Yeah, I can't heave the ball seventy fucking yards, but I'm not a six foot four, two hundred and forty pound freak with a cannon for an arm. I'm six two, just on the short side for a pro quarterback, and I'm two hundred and fifteen pounds. I have to be more mobile, and that means I can't just set up and fire bombs. And I've worked hard on it, I can throw harder than ever, but more importantly, I can put the ball on a dime if I get a chance. Still, when teams are looking for monsters who have cannons for right arms, my gun show isn't quite getting the attention I think it deserves.

  But what’s more troubling is my off the field reputation. With the League's main offices more worried about sponsor deals and family friendly images, a guy who likes to party and has gotten into a few fights off the field isn't the type the League is interested in nowadays.

  Okay, sure, I like beautiful women. It's one of the great things about going to Western, you can't throw a rock in any direction without hitting one who loves a guy with a surfer dude look like me. My last girlfriend, before I broke up with her, was half Filipina. Beautiful caramel kissed skin, a butt you could bounce quarters off of, and she knew how to please her man. I had a hard time breaking it off with her, but I just wasn't into her the way that I knew she was into me. And as much of an asshole as I can be sometimes, it just wasn’t fair to keep seeing her.

  Doesn't matter now, I've been single for the last half a year, since the ninth game of the season. Now I need to focus on this Pro Day, and after doing my throwing demonstrations and nailing my interviews, I’m hoping to end it with a good performance.

  While I take a moment to collect myself before the run tests, Coach Bainridge, our head coach, comes over. "How's it looking, Coach?"

  He’s has always been a guy that I can talk to. He sort of took me under his wing, let me pick his brain… he’s been around the game long enough to know a little about everything. He can watch game tape of me and tell me every flaw I make on the field, and he's helped me be a smarter quarterback.

  "We're just getting started, Tyler. You light it up on the QB drills, and you'll be fine."

  There's something in his eyes though that says differently, and I take a deep breath. "Cut the shit, Coach, you always did before. What's the deal?"

  He rubs his day's worth of stubble, he never does shave on game days, I guess this fits too, and licks his lips. "They're not really asking a lot of questions about you, Tyler. A lot about Duncan, some of the teams are wondering what Joe Manfredi can do with his numbers, but the League thinks they've got their QB situation pretty well settled. Unless you can really light it up here, you may not get a call at all. I'm sorry, son."

  I shake my head and check the knots on my cleats. "Guess the only thing to do then is go out and kick a little ass. All right, I'll get ready."

  "And with pick number thirty-two of the seventh round, San Francisco selects... Adrian Granger, of the University of the Great Lakes."

  The player's lounge inside the Adams Pavilion has been mostly empty for hours now, as Joe Manfredi gave up during round five. Duncan, who got selected yesterday with the big first round pick that I’m honestly happy he got, stopped by with his girlfriend Carrie about two hours ago to see how I was doing. I won't give up my seat though, and as the last pick is handed out to Mr. Irrelevant, I let my head drop. My eyes are burning, I haven't even blinked in what feels like twenty minutes, and I convince myself that the tears that are in my eyes are because of that. Yeah, that's it. I just need some Visine and I'll be good.

  I hear someone coming up behind me, and I see Coach Bainridge bringing a drink over from the table. He hands it to me, and before I take a sip, the smell hits my nose. Scotch, and from the oaky aroma, not rotgut shit either. "This is against university rules,” I say, pretending that I care.

  "You've broken a few in the past five years," Coach B says somberly, taking a seat on the couch next to me. "Besides, you're over twenty-one, and you aren't officially part of the team anymore. Drink up."

  The scotch burns, but helps calm me down. When I'm finished, Coach sits back while I look for the words. It takes me longer than I thought it would, I'm normally a quick tongue. "So what now?"

  He sips at his drink again and crosses his legs, leaning back and giving me an appraising look. "Depends on you. You've got four options, from my point of view."

  "I'm listening."

  "Well, first, you can give up football. I know your major isn't exactly great, you picked it based off of keeping your football eligibility than getting into a Master's program, but you've got the personality. You could make a good life doing sales or management using your game skills. You're a natural leader, you could do well."

  I think about it, then shake my head. "No, Coach. I love the game too much to just walk away. I don't want to be that guy, twenty years from now at the class reunion who is balding, wearing a polo shirt that is too small, talking about those good old days with my gut pushing over my belt."

  "Ouch, but too accurate," Coach chuckles, then sips at his drink again, polishing it off. "Option two is to go into coaching. You've got the brains to make a good coach, and I could get you a slot as a graduate assistant next year. It's not a lot of money at first, but you could work your way up.”

  I think about it. Xs and Os... "No, but it's tempting. I'm not saying never to coaching, but... there's still a player in me. I can play pro ball."

  "That's what I thought you'd say. Well, that brings me to your other two options. The first is the phone call I got about an hour ago. Toronto of the Canadian League wants to offer you a contract, contingent on you not being signed with a team in the States. The Canadian League had their draft day a little before the League's, and while nobody drafted you because they didn't want to waste a pick on a guy who had a shot at an American team, they did pick you up on their 'notice list,' which is like a supplementary draft that they have up there."

  An offer? That sounds good. "What are the terms?"

  "Not bad. They didn't give me a dollar amount, they want to talk with you personally, but they said upper range for a quarterback in their league. Of course, upper end for them and upper end in the USA are two very different numbers.”

  “What do you think, Coach?"

  He thinks for a moment, then shrugs. "It's got to be your choice, Tyler, but here's my thoughts. The League's stacked with quarterbacks right now, so unless someone goes down with an injury, your chances of getting more than a third string or a scout team slot are small. But, Canadian ball, the game's a bit different, the field's different. You're going to start with more money than a scout teamer or practice squadder, but there is a much lower limit up there.”

  "But I wouldn't be banned from the League," I muse. "I mean, guys have
gone from Canada back to the US before. Good ones, too." I think about it. "When does Toronto want to talk?"

  "Quickly. The Canadian season starts in early July, and runs until the weekend after Thanksgiving when they run their championship game. They'll probably let you walk for graduation, but you're going to be going straight from graduation to training camp."

  "That's not a problem. I'm not hurt, and with what Coach T's been putting me through, I'm in the best shape of my life. And like I said, it's not a prison sentence, it's just a season or two in Toronto. I can light up the field up there, and get an invite to a League team if everything goes right.”

  Coach gives me a grin, and slaps my knee. "All right. Let's go to my office, we can make that call back to Toronto."

  Chapter 2

  April

  "Miss Gray, would you come into my office, please?"

  Oh hell. One year on the job with the Toronto Fighters, and I've already been called into the General Manager's office more often than I should, and most of the time it’s not good.

  It's not that I don't try, I really do. I know I'm just the lowest level of administrative assistant on the staff, but that doesn't mean I don't bust my butt. It's just that I don't have experience in the sports world, at least not football. I don't know what pro athletes want, and a lot of the players aren't very patient with someone like me.

  About half of my screw ups have been someone telling me something, and I’m too shy to ask them what they really mean. Like my first big screw up, with a right tackle from the States who I was supposed to shadow and help out. How was I supposed to know that 'two honey chickenheads' meant get the man two groupies from the crowd after the game and not a bucket of chicken nuggets with honey dipping sauce?

  "How can I help you, Mr. Larroquette?"

  The General Manager looks up from his blotter, where he’s reviewing some paperwork, and gives me a terse smile, which is actually pretty warm for him. He's not the most friendly of people to work for. He's not a jerk, he's just... cold, I guess. "Have a seat, April. How are your parents?"

  He might be cold outwardly, but Mr. Larroquette is up to date on just about everyone who works for the Fighters. "My father's treatments are progressing, sir. The doctors still won't give me a straight answer, but Daddy's still hoping. Mom... well, she has her days, sir."

  The GM gives me a supportive look, and I know that it’s partly my parents' health problems that have let me keep my job so long, even after so many screw ups. "We just signed a new player from the States, I'm turning you over to him as his personal assistant."

  "I see, sir." I don't know what else to say. This is my third player I've done PA duties for, and the other two I lasted a combined month between them. And while the Fighters aren’t a baseball team, three strikes and I'm out, regardless of my family situation. "Who?"

  "A rookie quarterback, he finishes his university classes in two days. Of course that means his timeline is going to be short. We start the season in one month."

  "I understand, sir. You want to make sure he’s able to focus fully on football."

  The GM hums like I've told a decent joke and leans back. "Not at all. We sent him our playbook the day we had him sign his contract, so he's had plenty of time to learn our system, which isn't that different from what he played. It's not his football playing that I’m worried about. I'm worried about him keeping his nose clean.

  Oh hell. Chickenheads and honeys again. "That doesn’t sound good."

  "Not at all. Especially with the amount of money that we signed him for. It's the biggest rookie contract we've handed out... ever."

  "He must very good."

  "He is. Coach Blanchard and I both agree that he can be the key to a very deep run at the Cup this year, especially with our holes on defense. Miss Gray, I cannot stress this enough. Tyler Paulson must stay out of trouble, and stay happy here in Toronto. I don't need to deal with anymore issues from immigration because American players get into trouble with the Mounties or the Toronto police."

  The name hits me like a punch between the eyes, and I blink, stunned. "T..Tyler Paulson?"

  "Yes, Tyler Paulson. Originally from San Diego, California. Why, are you a fan?"

  The GM's question is asked in jest, he knows I don't know a lot about football, but when I don't answer, his expression grows more serious. "Miss Gray?"

  I know I'm blushing, I can't help it, but I swallow the lump in my throat and continue. "Well… if it’s the same Tyler, he and I went to summer camp together when we were kids. I'm just surprised, that's all."

  "Good. Then you at least have a way to break the ice. Miss Gray, I don't want to put any extra emphasis on this, I know you’re under stress, but this assignment... I need you to get the job done. You understand?"

  "I do, sir. I’ll do my best."

  “I know you will. Just remember to be forward with him, and don't let him steamroll you. I can deal with someone who's too forward — I can't help you if he just rolls over you like the others did. I'll send you an e-mail with his information, you can start getting some things for him now. Good luck.”

  As I leave the office and retreat to my desk, nervously searching for my keys, I think about what has just been dropped into my lap. Tyler Paulson… after all these years.

  The Pacific Ocean thunders in the distance, but we're a few hundred meters inland, along a patch of trees that I didn't think would grow so close to the ocean. I thought pines and big trees like this would hate all the salty air, but they tower above us, as tall as anything in the London area where I live.

  "So what kind of tree is that, Pocahontas?"

  Rolling my eyes, I don't turn around at the voice behind me. I don't know trees, except that pine trees make good Christmas trees. "I told you to stop calling me that, Tyler."

  Tyler catches up with me, walking next to me on the trail. Summer camp is supposed to be full of outdoor adventures, but so far, the majority of it has been 'nature walks,' and not a lot else. I guess I can't complain, I mean this whole thing is being paid for by my grandparents while Daddy goes through another round of chemo. The doctors say that they're sure they're going to get it this time, and he'll be cancer free. I hope so, his hair is all gone, and without it, he looks sad all the time. I want to see that black brushcut again, and not the coppery dome he's currently sporting.

  "Come on, you know I'm just joking," he says, taking my hand. We stop on the trail, and I'm caught up in his cute face. Unlike all the other boys in the camp, he's already starting to mature, his cheeks losing the chubbiness that almost everyone else still has. "I just think it's really cool that you're part Indian."

  "First Nations, Tyler. I prefer the term First Nations," I remind him, but still I smile a little. He may ask all sorts of questions that make him look ignorant, but there's nothing in them that makes me think he's trying to be a jerk or anything, and he's kinda cool to hang out with, for a boy. Actually, he's really cool to hang out with, which is why I like talking to him so much. "I don't wear a sari, and there's no dot on my forehead."

  Tyler smirks and taps me in the forehead with a dusty finger. "Now you do."

  I push him away, laughing despite myself. He's just so cute, darn it! "Your mouth is going to get you into trouble some day."

  "Maybe," he answers as we start walking again. As long as we stay between the two camp counselors, high school students who are working this for a summer job, we're free to go our own pace, which I think is best right in the middle. We’re away from the kids up front who want to treat the walks like some sort of workout and the guys who are gawking at the lead counselor Missy, who likes to wear tight khaki short-shorts, and the group of kids in the back, who are either struggling to keep up, or just want to bring up the rear. In the middle you get privacy, and a chance to just enjoy yourself.

  "Maybe?" I tease. "Tyler, you've already got like... five people here who hate you."

  "Not worried about them," Tyler says with a chuckle. "I'm worried about what you th
ink of me."

  I feel fresh heat on my neck, and I know it's not because of the summer sun, most of this trail is shaded before we reach the beach. "I'm still thinking."

  Tyler gives me a look, and I can see that he's anxious, not the cool collected guy he is with everyone else. "Really? Because, like, the camp barbecue is tomorrow, you know."

  I know, I know. And as a big part of it, the counselors are insisting that everyone have a 'date' for the party. Something about social skills or something. But I've never been good with social skills, even back home in Canada. I hang out with my friends and play some basketball, that's it. I'm not one of the cool kids, and I certainly never hang out with the Cutie-Pies or the Princesses. And now the cutest guy in camp is telling me he wants me to be his date for the barbecue. Why?

  "I know Tyler, but... well, why me? I'm not exactly pretty like Gina Hernandez is. She's already got boobs."

  “No one cares about Gina,” Tyler replies with a look on his face and I have to agree. Gina’s not the nicest girl, but I don't mind her that much, she just doesn't know when to drop a joke. “I’m asking you because you're kinda cool to talk to, you know, for a girl."

  "You just like the fact I can start a fire without matches," I reply, thinking back to both the good and bad of that. It was fun, but once it became public knowledge that I'm part First Nations, the jokes started. I really don't like the jokes. In Canada, so many people are at least part First Nations that we don't even think about it, but here in California, it's enough of a difference that somebody felt it was worth a joke, and everyone else ran with it. Tyler's the only person though that makes the jokes not feel bad, though, which is why I don't mind them from him.

  "Actually, I liked the fact that you're like, the only girl who isn't afraid to go out and body board in the surf. I know the water here is colder than San Diego, but I love it too much. You get out there right with me."

  "It's why I'm wearing my swimsuit underneath," I reply, showing him the strap of my suit. "You know, us girls can't just jump in the ocean in our shorts and a t-shirt like the guys."