Just A Game

by Dustin Stevens

“You’re at the stadium aren’t you?” Colt asked. No greeting of any sort, just the question.

  “Actually, no,” Clay said.

  Colt paused for just a second, then said, “You’re in the barn.”

  “I’m in the barn,” Clay affirmed quietly.

  Above him two naked light bulbs threw yellow light across the weight stacks sending webs of shadows throughout the barn. Below the horses neighed and pawed the sawdust beneath their feet, voicing their displeasure at the light and the sounds of weight clanging.

  “You think working out will hurt me on Friday?”

  Colt snorted. “You? You’re the kind of guy that walks by the weight room once a week and you’re in shape. Whether you lift or not has little to do with it.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Clay said.

  “Hold on a second,” Colt said and Clay could hear him put the phone down. A moment later he heard the sound of cellophane followed by a loud clattering.

  “Alright, sorry,” Colt said, his voice breaking a little bit.

  “You alright? What was all that?”

  “That was me unwrapping ice packs from my knees.”

  “Geez, sounded like you were opening a bag of chips or something.”

  “We use plastic wrap to hold them in place. You can still move a little bit and don’t have to worry about the packs going anywhere.”

  “Damn, sounds fun.”

  “Oh, it is,” Colt said, making no effort to mask the sarcasm in his voice. “So what’s got you out in the barn tonight?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Couldn’t turn my head off, had some extra energy.”

  “Senior Hit Day or final dinner?”

  “Yes.” Clay chuckled and added, “How’d you know?”

  “Wasn’t that long ago I was going through it too.”

  “Yeah, I’ve been out here trying to think of when you went through it. You never seemed like any of it bothered you.”

  “How so?”

  Clay made a face, staring out over the barn. “I don’t know. You just never got too high or low about any of it.”

  “That you saw anyway,” Colt corrected. “You have to remember, you’re more like Mama. You wear your emotions for the world to see whether you want to or not. You’re pissed, everyone knows. You’re sad, we know that too.”

  “And you’re like the old man?”

  “For better or worse,” Colt said, a hint of something in his voice. “Stoic to the end.”

  “So all this got to you too, huh?”

  “Of course it did. How couldn’t it? It was an entirely different situation though, going through the playoffs and stuff. I had a lot longer to digest it. Several weeks of thinking it could be the end. You had the end dropped on you like a hammer.”

  Clay smirked at the imagery and said, “Ain’t that the truth.”

  “How’d Senior Hit Day treat you? You and Willie pull it off?”

  A smile grew across Clay’s face and he said, “Oh yeah. Worked beautifully.”

  “Did it bring the house down?”

  “Place straight erupted. Stanson went nuts, thought Willie broke his neck.”

  As Clay relayed the story, Colt laughed loudly on the other end.

  “Damn thing of it is though, we weren’t even really the best one of the day.”

  “You sent Willie’s helmet skyrocketing of his head and weren’t the best of the day? What the hell happened?”

  “Goldie.”

  “Ah hell, I should have known. Let me guess, he picked some hundred pound freshman and lit him up.”

  “Close. He picked Austin.”

  Clay could hear the sound of liquid being spat as Colt choked out, “He picked the damn kicker?!”

  “That’s exactly what I said!” Clay yelled, laughing until his stomach hurt.

  Several long moments of laughter and short breaths filled the air before Colt said, “How’d it go? Is Austin out for Friday?”

  “I dunno...” Clay said, drawing it out. “His leg may be too tired from kicking Goldie’s ass.”

  “Whaaaat!” Colt shouted, launching them both into another bout of laughter that lasted two full minutes.

  “You realize he’ll never live that down, right?” Colt finally asked once he had recovered.

  “I have absolutely no intention of letting him ever forget it,” Clay confirmed.

  “Aw hell,” Colt said, his breath coming in rasps. “And how’d the dinner go?”

  “It was good, it was good. Excellent food, good time.”

  “Mama was in on this one, right?”

  “Yeah, she and Chelsie’s mom put it together.”

  “How are the folks doing?”

  Clay lay back on the weight bench and stared at the open wooden rafters above him. “They’re good. Haven’t seen Pop much this week, he’s been off helping the Baker’s and stuff. Mama seems good. Tired. Busy. The usual.”

  “Aren’t we all,” Colt said, more of a statement than a question.

  “How’s things around there? Who you got this week?”

  “Minnesota comes to town on Saturday.”

  “You ought to have that one shouldn’t you?”

  “Yeah, I think so. I’d like to think we can have them all, but we really should beat the Gophers. Hurowitz is still out though, could be a boring game to watch.”

  “Lot of blocking this week?”

  “I’ll get some looks when we do throw. You know as well as I do that a tight end is an inexperienced quarterback’s best friend.”

  “That it is,” Clay agreed. He sat up off the bench and the cold barn air wrapped around him. His workout sweat was gone and his heart rate had slowed back to normal. “Alright man, I think I’m going to head inside.”

  “Barn starting to get cold?” Colt asked.

  Clay chuckled and said, “How the hell do you do that?”

  “I’ve been there too. All of it. Little unnerving isn’t it?”

  “Extremely,” Clay said, standing and rotating a few times at the waist.

  “You doing alright, man?”

  Clay stopped rotating and said, “Yeah, I’m good. Most of the time it’s no big deal. Every now and again though something will kick up, makes it hard for a few minutes.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Colt agreed. “It’ll be that way for a while. Trust me though, push it away for the moment. Just like I told you the other night, drink as much of it in right now as you can. There’ll be plenty of time for reflection later.”

  Clay walked over to the thick wooden support post that ran from the floor to the roof and rested his forearm against it. “It’s weird. I’ve never been this way before. I keep wondering what the hell’s going on.”

  Colt chuckled on the other end and said, “Nothing, nothing at all. Your career ending is a big deal, everybody has to deal with it in one way or another. Even Goldie and Matt. They just aren’t showing it or don’t realize it yet.”

  The thought of Goldie reflecting on anything made Clay smirk and he pushed himself back from the post. “Alright, I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Yes, sir. Later.”

  “Bye.”

  Clay snapped his phone shut, slid it into his pocket and climbed the stairs down one at a time. He jumped the last few and landed on both feet in the shallow straw.

  “Have a good workout?” his father’s voice asked from beside him. The sound of the voice startled Clay and he flinched for the second time that night.

  He turned to see his father standing over his workbench, cleaning out a paintbrush.

  “Yeah, it was good. Just a light one, nothing crazy.”

  “Hmm,” his father said, dipping the brush into a can of gas and straining it out into a rag. “How’s Colt doing?”

  “Sorry, I didn't know you were down here.”

  “No need for an apology. I just came in at the tail end. The tractor caught a rock out in the field and chipped the paint. Wanted to get it touched up so it doesn’t rust.”

  Clay nodded. “You
guys get it done?”

  “Yeah, fields are all done.”

  “Good,” Clay said. He walked over to the first stall, rubbed the quarter horse’s nose and glanced up at the weight room above. “How’d you know I was talking to Colt? Something I said?”

  His father shook his head and said, “I actually couldn’t hear what you were saying, it was the way you were saying it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You guys both sound different when you’re talking to each other.” He finished the brush and hung it from a nail to dry, then wiped his hands on a clean rag.

  Clay gave the horse a final scratch and said, “Never thought about it. Must be a brother thing.”

  “No, it’s not. My brothers and I were never that close,” his father said and tossed the rag back onto the bench. “Come on, let’s go see how big a fire your mother has built.”

  Thursday

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The murmur of voices resonated like a dull buzz throughout the room. Without opening his eyes Clay lay across his bed and listened as it persisted, rarely raising more than a decibel or two above quiet conversation.

  With a low groan Clay opened his eyes and lifted his head from the bed. He was stretched from corner to corner on top of the covers, the top half of his comforter pulled across him. A small dent was left in the bottom corner of his pillow where he had just caught the edge of it before falling asleep.

  Normally the sound of his box fan would have drowned out all noises from below, but the night before he fell asleep talking to Chelsie and hadn't turned it on. The phone still lay on top of his pillow where it fell away from his ear.

  He only hoped she wouldn’t be too offended.

  The bed creaked beneath him as he sat up and touched his stocking feet to the floor. He rotated his neck from side to side and rolled his shoulders for a few seconds as the voices from downstairs persisted.

  Clay rose from the bed and crossed his room to the top of the stairs. He rested his hand on the knob atop the corner post and listened as his mother’s voice drifted upwards.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Heath said it wiped out four full lengths. That’s all broad board fencing that’ll have to be replaced,” his father replied.

  “How hard will that be?”

  “Shouldn’t be too bad. Hardest part will be getting the wood in here to do it.”

  “Why’s that?” his mother asked, concern in her voice.

  “Takes a special kind of lumber to be used for fencing. Most boards come in eight foot lengths, fence boards come in ten or twelve feet. It all has to be pressure treated. Probably have to be ordered from out of state.”

  “What will they do in the meantime? Just leave a hole?”

  Clay listened as his father explained, “No, can’t do that. He’s already had two cows wander out. Lucky he got them back before anything happened to them.”

  “So he’s just going to put something across there until he can get it fixed?”

  “I guess he’s running over to Lowe’s in Dayton right now to get some new fence posts. He’s going to call on his way back and have me meet him over there with the tractor.”

  “The tractor?” his mother inquired.

  “Yeah, we’re going to use the hydraulic press to set the posts. After that he’ll probably string wire across them or something until he can get boards up.”

  Clay paused a moment longer, then drifted down the stairs. He took the steps one at a time, letting his full weight hit each one so they were sure to know he was coming and it sounded like he just woke up.

  “Hey there!” his mother called as he hit the last step and circled around the foot of the stairwell towards the kitchen.

  “Morning,” Clay mumbled.

  “What are you doing up so early?”

  Clay looked outside and noticed the world was still very dark. He glanced at the stove to see the digital clock reading five forty-three. “Didn’t even realize it was this early. Just woke up and heard voices. What’s going on?”

  “A driver fell asleep at the wheel and went into the Tanner’s field,” his father said. “Took out a big chunk of fence, let some of his cows out.”

  “Wow, was anybody hurt?”

  “Naw, apparently the driver was in a big diesel and barely dented up his fender.”

  “Is he going to pay for damages?”

  His father snorted and said, “I guess the guy didn’t have insurance. Said he’d pay it out of pocket, but my guess is nobody will ever see him again.”

  “Not from around here I take it?”

  “Illinois, just passing through,” his father said, taking a long pull from his coffee.

  “Yeah, he’s gone,” Clay agreed, pulling up a chair at the table. “What the heck was he doing here? In the middle of the night?”

  “Who knows?” his mother added in.

  “Probably trying to take a short cut instead of going clear up to 70 to head west. Looking at a map it seems quicker,” his father added.

  “Yeah, until you go through every tiny town like ours and have a steady diet of 45 miles per hour the whole way,” Clay said.

  “Or find yourself on some sleepy little road and end up driving through a fence,” his father finished.

  Clay nodded in agreement and rested his chin on his folded arms. He glanced over at the clock on the stove, which now registered fourteen minutes before six. “How in the world did you find all this out already?”

  “Remy called about a half hour ago. Said he knew I’d be up.”

  “Still...” Clay said.

  “Well, I guess he was out chasing cows for an hour this morning. Needs to get something put up to make sure no more get loose.”

  “Ah, the tractor press,” Clay said, feigning that he hadn’t heard that part of the conversation just moments earlier.

  His father began to respond, but the sound of the phone ringing shrilly behind him cut it off. In a rare occurrence his father rose and answered it.

  “Remy?” he asked, paused for a moment and said, “Alright, I’m on my way.”

  He hung the phone up and drained his coffee, setting his mug down in the sink. He grabbed his faded gray Carhart jacket from the chair back and threw it around his shoulders.

  “Yeah, we’re going to get the posts set now so he can get something strung across them. I guess the truck left a few decent ruts in his field, so I’m going to see if I can level them out a little.”

  “You need a hand?” Clay offered. “I’ve got an hour and a half before I’ve got to head to school.”

  His father shook his head. “No thanks. Next week I’d take you up on it, but not today. Besides, you know Remy. It’ll be at least that long before he stops bitching long enough to do anything.”

  Clay laughed aloud as his father threw a wave to the room and disappeared out into the darkness. A few minutes later the sound of the tractor turning over could be heard and the flash of headlights swept across the wall as he set off for the Tanner farm.

  “You going to go back to bed for awhile?” his mother asked.

  “Naw,” Clay said. “I’m up now and it’s almost six. I’ll just hang out here with you if that’s alright.”

  His mother raised her hands and said, “No arguments here.”

  Clay smiled and stared out the window at the fading red taillights of the tractor. “Sure seems like Pop’s spending a lot of time doing other people’s work these days.”

  His mother stared down at her coffee mug and said, “Things are hard right now. We’ve always been lucky to have you and Colt to pitch in when we needed a hand. Others aren’t so fortunate.”

  Clay read between the lines on the statement and asked, “People are in the red huh?”

  His mother pressed her lips together and gave a terse nod of the head. “I won’t pretend to know everybody’s situation around here, but I do know there’s a lot more red than black these days.”

  Clay pushed his chin up from the table
and looked at his mother. “And where do we fall on that spectrum?”

  His mother reached out and patted his arm. “You know you’re father works too hard to ever let anything happen to us. As long as you boys still come around to lend a hand from time to time, we’re going to be just fine.”

  The words settled on Clay for a moment, then he offered a small smile and nodded his head. The moment lingered a bit longer before his mother withdrew her hand and returned it to her cup.

  Clay rose to a standing position and grinned over at her. “I don’t suppose we’ve got any of those doughnuts left do we?”

  His mother smiled in appreciation. “Shoot, those barely made it through breakfast yesterday.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The brown paper bag rustled loudly as Clay dug past his banana, protein bar and sweet tea to find the Hershey’s dark chocolate bar hiding at the bottom. Pressed against the tea all morning it was cold, but not frozen solid.

  “Miss Clairmont, any chance we can arrange a trade?” Clay asked.

  Miss Clairmont feigned a disapproving look over the top of her glasses and said, “Depends, I suppose. What kind of trade are you proposing?”

  Clay held the chocolate up between his index and middle finger. “You take a few minutes to enjoy some chocolate while I sneak down there and have a banana and a Met-Rx bar?”

  She chuckled to herself and said, “You know I really shouldn’t.”

  “Well, you know this is dark chocolate, which has fewer calories than regular. Some studies have even shown it’s good for you.”

  “Now how can I say no to a trade like that?” Miss Clairmont relented.

  “You really can’t,” Clay said, taking a few quick steps over to her makeshift desk and placing the candy atop her attendance book.

  For the second time in a week, Clay turned back from Miss Clairmont with a smile on his face to find his seat at the far end taken. Natalie was sitting on the second row of the bleachers with her hair pulled back into a pony tail and wearing a hooded sweatshirt. A pair of running shoes rested on the first row as she leaned back onto the row behind her with arms folded across her chest.

  She was gazing straight ahead and watching a smattering of people begin hitting ping-pong balls back and forth.