Blitzed

by Lauren Landish

  I nod. "I guess that'll have to do, then. Is she at home?"

  Patricia shakes her head. "She took Laurie to Vancouver for the day. She heard through Dani that today is your last day in town, and she thought you might stop by. Troy, she loves you, I know that. She's running because she's hurt and scared. Give her time. Your love survived five years and the Atlantic Ocean. I think it can survive the Southern Division."

  I nod again. "All right. Listen, if I send you some packages, stuff for Laurie, can you hold onto them until Whitney's ready to let Laurie have them?"

  Patricia nods. "I will. I don't want to be a jerk, or to be a moocher like your father was, but what about, you know?"

  “It’s just some financial help. Whitney is, like you said, hard headed, and I know she’ll probably try not to accept it, even though she finally agreed that she would.”

  Patricia nods, then gives me a hug. "You take care of yourself, Troy. Oh, and one more thing. Don't sell the Silver Lake Falls house. Who knows, maybe you three can live in it sometime in the future?"

  I return the hug. "Thanks, Patricia. I guess I should go though. I gotta catch a United flight to Jacksonville. Movers already came by and packed up the basics I need. I'll still be living out of a hotel room for a few days though."

  "You'll do fine, Troy. Just remember what's important, and play with your heart. It'll lead them back to you."

  "Troy, it's good to meet you. I'm Eric Morgan, your new head coach."

  Coach Morgan is younger than my head coach on the Hawks, and while we've never met before, he's got a youthful, energetic vibe to him that at least partially lifts the cloud that's been over my feelings for the past three days.

  "It's good to meet you too, Coach. Thanks for coming to the airport."

  "Don't mention it," he said. "By the way, I also double as the defensive coordinator, so you and I are going to be working together a lot for the rest of the year. Did you watch any tape of us so far this season?"

  "Just a little bit—your pre-season game against the Dons. But it was the first pre-season game, so you know how that is. Everyone looks pretty rough."

  "Well, I'm not going to lie to you. We're still looking pretty rough on the defensive side of the ball. We've got a playmaker or two, and a scheme that I think you’ll like. But what I'm looking for is a leader and someone to energize my defense. I think you're that sort of guy. Now, if you've had the chance to listen to the media, they say we're in a rebuilding mode. I say that they're full of shit. We're going to turn things around starting in a week and a half. You're going to be leading that turn around on the defensive side of the ball."

  Well, it could be worse. I'm being handed an opportunity, and Coach is enthusiastic about me playing for him. "All right, let's see what we can do."

  "Great!" he says. We reach his Jeep, and he helps me put my bags in the back of the SUV, closing the gate before I go around and get into the shotgun seat. He starts up the engine, and we pull out and get on the freeway toward Jacksonville. "By the way, I know you're on a super-short timeline, so when we get to the stadium, I'm going to introduce you to your relocation assistance team."

  "My what?"

  Coach gives me a smile and a nod, knowing it sounds ridiculous. "Relocation assistance team, and please don't call them the RATs—they hate that. Until your first home game, you'll have a personal assistant, along with a real estate agent, et cetera to make sure that when you step on the field for us next Sunday, you're as settled in personally as you want to be. Are you thinking of renting or buying?"

  "I was thinking of renting at first . . . nothing too fancy but not in a bad neighborhood either. Think there are options?"

  "You're going to like it here in Jacksonville," Coach replies. "By the way, what do you want your hot name to be?"

  "My what?"

  "Sorry, my own term. Each of my signal calling linebackers has his own 'hot' name for when he calls stunts and audibles. I ask each guy to come up with two, so we can keep the other teams off guard. Of course, there's a bunch of other stuff you need to learn, but the hot name, that's all yours."

  I nod, my decision easy. "Two, you say?"

  "Yeah. Know what you want already?”

  Two names come to mind immediately. “Yeah. Whitney and Laurie."

  "Whitney and Laurie? Fine by me. Come on, let's get your paperwork squared away, let you meet the relocation team, and then we're having a team meeting and video session. You can meet your new teammates."

  My personal assistant is a nice guy, and while I think the real estate agent might be a bit of a bitch, she's also got a good reputation, according to my assistant. I send him off to get the first thing I need, a rental car until I can sign a lease or buy something else, along with a personal request for a child's size 'Cats jersey with my number. I find out that I get to keep number 51, which I’m glad for.

  Going into the video room, there's a little bit of stiffness and a faint air of hostility as I’m introduced to the guys. This defense knows what the media's been saying about them, and they know that I'm supposed to be brought in to turn around an underperforming unit. Hell, I'm the youngest starter on the defense, too, I find out. Shit, just what I need.

  "Okay, let's keep this short, guys. I know we're on a bye week and most of you would like to spend some time with family," Coach says, and I wince, trying to put my feelings aside for a little while. "You okay, Troy?"

  "Indigestion," I reply. "Sorry."

  Coach nods, and the video session starts. I'm lucky. The 'Cats defense is already a 3-4, so I don't have to adjust, and from looking through the play book, the schemes aren't all that different, just a few wrinkles that I can adjust to pretty easily. As we wrap up around seven, I pick up my playbook and go looking for my assistant to get a ride to the hotel for the night.

  As I sit outside waiting, I take out my phone. "Silver Lake Flowers, can I help you?"

  "Hi, I'd like to order a dozen roses to be delivered to an art gallery in town," I say, running with it. "Do you think you can do that today?"

  "Sure, we've got roses in stock," the florist says. "Where are you looking at the delivery?"

  "I think the place is called Lakeside Gallery. You know the place?"

  "Oh yes, I know where you're talking about. One dozen roses to Lakeside Gallery. Can I get the name of who the roses are for please?"

  "Whitney Nelson. Hand deliver only to her."

  "And who are they from?"

  "Troy Wood."

  "No fucking way."

  I get that sometimes. This time, though, I don't smile at the recognition. "Yes, Troy Wood. How much will that be?"

  The shop owner hums and bit, typing in his computer, then comes back on the line. "Nothing. Total charge, including tax, is zero dollars and zero cents."

  "Come on," I say, not wanting to play the fame game. "I'm serious. How much?"

  "Tell you what. Next time you're in town, you sign a Silver Foxes jersey for me, and we'll call it even. If you don't agree, I'm just going to hang up and deliver the flowers anyway. So you should say yes, and then you can give me a message to give to your lady."

  I know when to give up, and sigh. "All right, fine. The message is simple. Please call. That's all."

  "Please call, from Troy to Whitney. Okay, I think I can handle that. I’ll try and have them over there in an hour. If she's not there, do you have an alternate delivery spot or do you want me to try again later?"

  "Try again later. Thanks."

  "No problem. By the way, I don't know if it helps you, but that little stunt by the Hawks cost them six season ticket holders in town so far. Guess I'm going to be a 'Cats fan now. Kick ass down there, Troy."

  I hang up just as my assistant pulls up in a rental car. "Here you are. Also, I talked with the agent at the car rental place, and they said they do long-term leases and even sales if you're interested. I told them I'd ask."

  I look over the car, a Cadillac sedan, then nod. "That's fine. Let me try this for a few
days, and I can make a decision. In the meantime, let's get me to the hotel. I've got a playbook to learn."

  I feel a little strange in the new gear, and as I finish my stretches, I realize that for only the fourth time in my life, I'm wearing a new helmet and logo. From elementary school until junior high, I was part of the Silver Lake Hawks, my town's local Pop Warner team that of course modeled themselves off the nearby Seattle team. But the team was still a feeder system for the high school team, and starting in ninth grade, I wore the silver and blue SLHS on my helmet. Then I wore the green and gold of Clement University before going back to the real Hawk logo. Now, for the first time in nearly seventeen years of playing football, I was wearing black, without even a logo on the side yet that the team wears on their game uniforms.

  I look around at the ten sets of eyes looking toward me, their eyes full of doubt and questions as we line up for our first set of downs in practice. "All right, lets see what I remember from last night's study and today's meeting. Slant Fade Cowboy."

  The huddle breaks, and I look over at the scout team, a combination of third stringers and scout team players who are getting reps in. Still, they're pros, and I'm in the middle of a defense that doesn't know me or trust me yet. I need to make an impression and fast. When the quarterback gets under center, I call an audible.

  I see the line readjust. At least they remember one of my hot words, and as soon as the ball snaps, I loop around, me and the outside linebacker coming on an X-pattern stunt. He cuts in to blitz inside while I fade to the flat he was covering, where I see the running back drifting over for the swing pass. Our opponents this week love this so-called 'West Coast' offense, and I nail the guy just as his hands pull in the pass, dropping him for a four-yard loss. "Glad to be here."

  Practice continues, and by the end, I see confidence and wary acceptance by my new teammates as Coach cuts practice a little early. We're still on a bye week, after all, and we have plenty of time to start preparing for our next game.

  I'm back in the locker room when my cellphone rings, and I look, my heart stopping when I see Whitney's caller ID. "Hello. Whitney?"

  "Troy. Please don't send flowers. In fact, don't send anything. Please don't make this more painful than it is already."

  I sag onto the seat in front of my locker, trying to contain myself. "Whitney, don't cut me off. I lo—"

  The phone goes dead in my ear, and I’m tempted to try and see if my phone can break via hurling it into the concrete wall at the back of my locker, but I restrain myself when Coach comes by my locker. "Great practice out there, Troy. Defensive meeting in twenty minutes."

  "Yeah . . . thanks, Coach," I rasp, trying not to lose my composure. "I'll be there."

  He gives me a questioning look, and I wave it off. "Personal stuff, that's all. I'll be there."

  Coach nods. "Okay. If you need to talk to anyone, my door's open. Twenty minutes."

  He leaves, and I think. I need to talk to someone, and I turn to an old friend. Hitting my speed dial, I hope she's available. "Hello?"

  "Dani, it's Troy. Got a minute?"

  "For my second favorite guy in the world? Yes, I do," Dani says, and my mood lifts just slightly. "How's J-ville?"

  "Warm and sunny," I reply. "You'd love it here."

  "Well, you get me tickets sometime, and me and Pete will be there. How's things on the professional front?"

  "Good, but that's not why I'm calling. You're like a shrink, right?"

  "Not quite, but I have been accused of being a decent listener," Dani says. "Things not going well?"

  "Whit just hung up on me. I sent her some flowers, and I guess the florist just got them delivered. She—she sounded so cold. I need some advice."

  Dani's silent on the other end for nearly a minute, then she sighs. "You two . . . I swear, the only reason you two have had any chance at all in your relationship is because I've been around to play buffer between all of your screw-ups. First, her worries about you playing her before you two even date, then covering for that trip to the woods that ends up producing Laurie, being a friend to you both . . . I should be getting paid for this!"

  "You want my paycheck, just ask," I miserably reply, resting my head in my free hand. "Take it all. It's nothing compared to Whitney and Laurie."

  "And I don't have five years to bring you guys slowly back together," Dani says. "There's a little girl who needs her daddy. Okay, Troy, I'm not going to make any promises to you, but I'll talk to her. But you have to be able to accept that the answer might not be what you want.”

  "I can't do that. I won’t do that.”

  "You may have to. In the short term, however, harness your feelings. I remember the game when Whitney left us. You put it on that field, and even if she didn't see it, you wrote a love song in sweat, blood and touchdowns. It helped you survive the darkest days right afterward too. Do it again. Do it again, and I'll see what I can do."

  "Emotional content," I sigh, and I hear Dani chuckle. We've talked. She knows what I'm talking about and doesn’t think I’m losing my mind.

  "Emotional content. Keep your head up, Troy. I'm looking forward to seeing you play next Sunday. Pete's even bought Sunday tickets for it, so you better do good or else we just pissed away a hundred bucks."

  "Send me the bill."

  "Nah," Dani says, forcing a smile in her voice. "You pay me back by being the Troy Wood that I love and call my friend."

  "Five minutes, defense!" a voice behind me calls, and I run my hand through my hair.

  "Sorry, that's my signal. Gotta go back to work. Dani, thanks."

  Chapter 25

  Whitney

  It feels strange, I think, as I pull into my parking slot in front of the gallery. It's been a month since Troy left, but every day, I wake up and the first thing on my mind is wondering if he’s doing well. I've lost count of the number of times I've had to pull my hand back from calling him, and I've even thought of getting a new phone and number, one that doesn't have his number programmed into it. I just can’t muster the courage to do that or to press the delete button.

  It's not that Troy has reached out again since I cut him off so viciously after he sent the roses. Troy is a man of honor, and not at all like his father. I told him to stop, and he did. His father, meanwhile, was arraigned and is awaiting trial in county jail, and I figure this time, he'll go down for a multi-year stretch. He's a two-time loser at least, and when the District Attorney approached me about it, he said that he was so confident in the case that he didn't even need Troy's testimony. The statement, combined with my testimony and the video, would be more than enough. I'm not sure if I'm ready to go to a trial, and I hope Randall Wood pleads guilty, if for no other reason than to spare Troy a trip back home.

  Not that he's totally left Silver Lake Falls behind—far from it. Everyone I see, all my old friends seem to treat it as if Troy is like a sailor in the Navy, off on a temporary cruise before coming back home. Maybe there is more truth to that than I'd like to admit, I know. I know that inside, I'm falling apart, and this time, I don't know who I can turn to in order to gain strength.

  I sigh and shut off the engine, going inside the gallery. Colette is there by herself, helping out her mother in the family business while her mother goes on a shopping trip for more art. "Good morning.”

  Colette, who is also single now after having broken up with her boyfriend, looks up with pity in her eyes, which is just too much. Cheery false optimism, I can take. Outright delusion, I can take. But pity? That's just too damn much. "What?"

  "Nothing," she says, turning away. Her turned back makes me even angrier, and I jerk my jacket off.

  "No, it's not nothing. If you’ve got something to say, say it. I'm not made of porcelain, you know."

  “Maybe, but I'm getting a little tired of you moping around or going off in highly pissed off levels of anger," Colette says, turning back to me. "You're not the only one who's had breakups before, you know. Yeah, maybe Troy left you, but—"

&nb
sp; "He didn't leave me!" I yell, losing my temper. "I left him. I don’t want Laurie raised like some sort of football gypsy."

  "Whatever," she says, turning back to her computer. "Just get your act together, all right? There's a new order in, and they want to come in and take a look at those woodcuts we've got in stock for a new bed and breakfast they want to open. Think you can do that without going off on them?"

  "Fine," I say, my anger deflating as quickly as it swelled. "Sorry."

  "I know. You'll get through it."

  I’m about to reply when my phone rings, and I pull it out, seeing that it’s Laurie's school. "Just a second, it's the school. She must have forgotten her snack again. Hello?"

  "Hello, Miss Nelson? It's Candace Lippincourt, Laurie's teacher."

  "Of course, Candace, how can I help you?" I ask, putting on my best friendly mother voice. "Is everything all right?"

  "Unfortunately, no," Candace says. "We've had a biting incident. As you know, this is a serious violation of school rules, and since blood was drawn—"

  A biting accident? ”Laurie's been bitten?" I ask, shocked. “By whom?"

  "I'm afraid you don't understand, Miss Nelson. Laurie was the biter. She's stopped now, but she's in the school office. The other child we've sent for medical care, but we need you to come down as soon as you can for a parent conference."

  "I'll be right there," I say, numb with shock. "Thank you."

  I hang up the phone and look over at Colette, who's obviously concerned. "Laurie, um, bit someone. I need to go."

  "I'll handle it. Take care of her," she says, and I’m grateful that my friend is here to help me.

  I drive to Laurie's school, where I find her in the office, her arms crossed over her chest and a look of rage on her face. The school staffer in the room with her looks to be at her wit's end, and I soon understand why. "Laurie, what happened?"

  Liquid, gutter-level Italian streams from her mouth as she yells out. "Ho morso la cagna! I bit the bitch! She called me a name.”