"Don't they have a roof on that thing?" Shawn, one of outside linebackers, asks. "Seriously, it's fucking Arizona."
"They do, and it's currently being repaired after an electrical problem with a rock concert last week blew out both of the motors that control the movement of the roof," Coach says, causing us all to groan. "So it's going to be hydro fans and electrolyte loading all game, gentlemen. If you pee your pants, just think of it as another way to cool off your legs. Hey, at least you aren't going to be the poor schmucks in the stands. The folks on the east side and catching the sun are going to roast before the second half starts."
"Now, moving on from that, Arizona's got a new look to their offense this year. You guys know they brought in a new offensive coordinator, and while we know what he liked to call at his old job, he's not revealed a lot to us so far in the pre-season. We're expecting that he's going to play a lot of spread—"
There's a knock at the door, and one of the coaching assistants—rookie coaches who are so far down the ladder in the coaching echelon that they don't even have job titles, just a lot of gofer and fill-in work—sticks his head in. "Coach Claxon? Sorry to interrupt, but there's someone here to see Troy Wood."
"If it's not Whitney or my daughter, tell them to wait or take a message," I answer before Coach can blow up at the poor assistant, who is obviously nervous. "Rules are rules, and we've got work to do."
"I understand that, but the facility staff is having a hard time with him."
"Then call the damn cops on him. Have security escort him out of the building!" Coach Claxon says. "Unless you want to tell Head Coach why my linebackers got out of our meeting late?"
The assistant is nearly stammering now, and I feel for the guy. He's just graduated college, and most of the players are older than he is. In fact, I'm the only player in the room that’s younger than he is, if only by a year or so. "Coach, I get that but . . . well, he says he is Troy's father."
My pen clatters on the table as it tumbles from my fingers, and I sit there, stunned. My father?
Coach Claxon looks over then considers it. "Troy, you’ve got ten minutes. Get him off the property before he gets arrested, okay? You know HC won't hesitate. We'll go over the nickel packages while you're out."
"Thanks, Coach. Sorry, guys," I say, getting up and following the assistant out of the room. Coach Claxon cut me some slack, but since I'm not slotted in any of the nickel packages unless both of the outside linebackers get hurt, it's not too bad. I follow the assistant, who’s noticeably relieved, and he leads me toward the practice field. "How long has he been here?"
"I was helping the kickers with their stretch work when he showed up," he says. "I'll be honest with you Troy. If he is your father, he looks like hell."
"I'm not surprised."
We don't say anything else until we reach the outer offices, where I see Dad surrounded by two security guards, one of them with his hand on his Taser.
"It's all right, guys, I'll walk him out," I say to the two guards. "Thanks for your patience."
"Whatever you say, Troy," one guard says, sticking to the protocol that they’re supposed to. Mr. Wood was the worthless bastard sitting in the chair, not me. "Coach is supposed to be here in five minutes though."
"We'll be out of here by then," I say. I look down at Dad, trying not to sneer. "Come on. We can talk on the way. That is what you wanted, isn't it?"
He gets to his feet, and I can see for the first time how different he looks. He's dropped at least twenty pounds, and his skin hangs in laps and wattles, with a rough, sandpapery texture that reveals a ton of exploded capillaries in a gnarly map of red lines. "What're you doing here, Dad? After getting out of jail, you didn't come back, and I figured you were out of my life."
After beating me, he caught himself a misdemeanor assault charge since I wasn't going to push the issue. They sent him to county for three hundred and sixty-four days, exactly one day short of a year, the most that is allowed under a normal misdemeanor charge, and after he got out, I was at Clement. Nobody had seen him in Silver Lake Falls in at least three years.
"You're looking good, Troy," Dad says, his voice hoarse. "Added some muscle."
"It wasn't that hard when I wasn't starving half the time," I say, and I'm surprised at the amount of rancor that is still in my heart. I thought I'd burned away the hurt a long time ago. "After Coach Jackson took me in, I put on weight easy. Hell, I had to be careful I wasn't putting it on too fast, actually."
"I've heard," Dad says. We reach the outside of the facility. "Troy, after I went to jail, I had a lot of time to think about things. Son—"
"Don't call me that," I growl in warning. "You lost the right to that term five years ago."
He swallows and nods, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Troy . . . I'm sorry. I screwed up my life, and I nearly screwed up yours as well."
"That you did. Is that all you came here for, to apologize? If it is, I need to get going. I've got a meeting."
He shook his head, wiping at his mouth. "I was going to stay away, I swear. When I saw how good you were doing at Clement, and then you signed here, I was so damn proud, even if that means nothing to you. But, all those years of me ruining my life . . . I'm paying the piper now, Troy. The alcohol, it tore me up something bad inside."
"Outside too," I noted. "Can you even feel that nose with all those exploded veins? You look like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Or just another alky on the streets."
"No, I got me a job," Dad says, and I see that he at least has a little bit of self-respect left. "But it's not a good one. It's here in town, cleaning up at a senior center, actually. But . . . the booze is biting back now. I need your help."
"What is it?" I ask, and despite myself, I feel concerned. Maybe Dad has changed. Maybe if fate, or God, as Laurie puts it, brought Whitney back into my life with my beautiful daughter as well, then maybe fate is bringing my father back into my life.
"The liver," Dad sighs, rubbing at his side. "I need treatment, but the cost . . . my insurance won't cover it all."
I nod, suspicious but still concerned. "What do you need?"
"Anything you can help me with . . . it'd be appreciated. They say the cost is ten thousand, but I don't know what that means after insurance covers their portion, and the time off work—"
"Stop," I say. Sighing, I put my hand on his chest. "You stay right here. I'll go talk to the secretary, see what I can do."
I rush inside, finding Tiffany, the receptionist, still in the front office. "Hey, Tiff, can you help me out?"
"What do you need, Troy?"
"That guy was my Dad. I know the team does it sometimes, so is there maybe a way I can draw on Sunday's game check? He’s got an issue I'd like to help him out with."
Tiffany bites her lip, then nods. "All right. But I have to report this to the GM, you know that, right?"
The League has gotten a lot better at not letting players blow through their money like some of the eighties and nineties spectacular flameouts did. So as part of the agreement with the owners, players no longer get paid in yearly lump sums, but in game by game checks, and players get a certain percentage of each check set aside in a retirement account, although I already talked with Cory about taking that and more of my retirement planning over. Some teams still allow a player to draw on a future check on an occasional basis, and on the Hawks, that policy is three times a season, up to one full paycheck. Anything more than that and you had to approach the team with a business plan or a damn good reason and go through financial counseling. In any case, the GM would find out.
"I know. Thanks. Cut it for ten thousand, made out to Randall Wood. He can put it away in his account, and he can't use it right away, you know?"
Tiffany cuts the check quickly. Her printer can create the checks against the account, and I take it out to Dad, who is still shuffling side to side, his hands jammed into the pockets of his baggy pants. "Here," I say, handing it to him and hoping that I won’t regret it later. "I'm g
oing to ask the team to put a tracer on this check. You cash it or sign it over to some check-writing place, and I'll find out."
He nods and tries to find the words. Finally, he rasps a reply. "Thank you, Troy. Um, I don't know if I'm overstepping my bounds, but would it be okay if sometime . . . well, if we can maybe get together? Just for a hamburger or something."
"We'll see. Next time you want to come by, make it a Thursday morning around eleven. I have some open time then. But I have work to do. Goodbye."
Chapter 21
Whitney
"And so, it looks like the Hawks have a potential new star on their hands," the analyst on the television says as I watch the post-game wrap up. "After appearing in two pre-season games where he delivered dominant performances against mostly second string squads, there were still questions remaining about the real ability of Troy Wood, the second year linebacker for Seattle out of Clement. Those who know Troy . . ."
"Oh, I know him," I laugh softly to myself as I reach over and stroke Laurie's hair. She tried so hard to stay awake to watch her daddy play, but she nodded off during the third quarter. With all of the ads and play stoppages, even a late afternoon start is too late for a child her age. "I know him very well."
I turn my attention back to the television as the analysts continue to sing Troy's praises. "Yeah, Tom, it was right about this point that he just took over," the one guy, a former player himself, said. "I mean, right here when . . . BOOM! He just rocks the running back here, driving him down for a loss and setting the tone that he'd keep up for the rest of the game. I tell you, guys, he put the fear of God in that man's heart with that hit."
"It's too bad that the Hawks couldn't have cloned Troy Wood," the lead talking head says, segueing into the bad. "Because with the loss of their best receiver and right tackle in the third pre-season game, their own offense was nearly as inept as the Cardinals were when Wood was in the game. The Arizona defense picked off the Hawks three times, returning one of those for a touchdown, which proved to be the difference in the game, as the Cardinals go on to win the first game of the season fourteen to ten."
The analysts go on to review the other games of the weekend, and I turn off the TV, picking up Laurie and carrying her to the bedroom. "You're getting heavy, little girl," I grunt as I carry her. "You take after your father. You're going to be six feet tall at this rate."
"Want some help?" Mom asks as she comes out of her room, and I stop, only slightly startled. "Sorry, I heard the TV switch off and thought you could use it."
"Thanks, Mom, but I've got her," I say, carrying her the rest of the way to the bedroom and putting her on the bed. I tuck Laurie in and give her a kiss goodnight, then Mom follows. "I thought you'd have gone to sleep. Don't you start work early in the morning?"
"I do, but I'm not sleepy yet," Mom says. "Share a bowl of ice cream with me, maybe?"
I consider it, then smile. "Sure. Just remind me to go for a jog in the morning or something."
Mom snorts and we go into the kitchen, where she pulls out the carton of vanilla ice cream, scoops out two scoops and puts them in the same clear glass bowl that we shared when I was a little girl. "You still use chocolate sauce?"
"Sorry, kinda outgrew the Hershey's," I say.
Mom smiles and brings the bowl over before going and getting two spoons and setting them in the bowl. "Dig in. It's been a long time since we did this."
"Five years," I agree. "I'll be honest—these past six weeks have been pretty awesome. It's good to be home."
"It's good to have you home, sweetie. Actually, it's those five years I'd like to talk to you about."
"What about? I thought you and I cleared the air about that long ago. I don't hold any ill will toward you, and I thought you didn't toward me about going to Europe."
Mom shakes her head and takes a bite of ice cream. "Actually, I was thinking more along the lines that I need to clear the air with Troy. If it wasn't clear enough already, your little public announcement at Dani Barkovich's wedding reception made it clear you two are back together."
"It wasn't an announcement. It was a dance. And yes, a kiss. I'm twenty-three now. I think I can kiss my man in public, can't I?"
"Of course," Mom says, defensive until she takes a breath. "It's just . . . well, I would have liked to have been let in that you were going to tell Laurie about her father. It caught me by surprise when she came in going on about meeting her daddy after you two went to the zoo."
"I'm sorry about that. Troy and I discussed it, but the exact time was a bit sudden, and when I got back from the reception, you were already asleep with her, and you had early work the next day."
"It's okay, just it was surprising. But what I've been thinking about is that you and Troy . . . is it serious? Like permanent, maybe?"
"Maybe. We're taking our time on making that formal, but I know what my heart says."
Mom nods and takes another bite of ice cream. "Okay then. Maybe we should have him over one night for dinner. After you left, I was pretty cold to him. And I don’t want a bad relationship with him if he's going to be your . . . man, and Laurie's father. Do you think you can set that up?"
"I'm sure we can find a time.”
* * *
As it was, because of travel schedules, work schedules, and just general life, it was six days before Mom, Troy and I were able to sit down for a family, clear-the-air dinner. Laurie, who had gotten the vibe that tonight's dinner is going to be very important, got showered and dressed without me having to remind her too many times that she needed to dry off fully or to put her socks on and not just wear her shoes barefooted. Instead, it's now exactly six fifty-eight in the evening, and Laurie is sitting on the bed in her best pair of jeans and new, most favorite Hawks t-shirt, waiting for Troy.
"Mama?"
"Yes, Laurie?" I ask as I carefully apply the last bit of my lip gloss. I'm not going overboard. After all, this is a family dinner and not a romantic date, but I do want to look good for Troy, putting on an emerald brocade blouse and a black skirt that I sometimes have used for business, but is loose enough that I can relax and move around in if I’m in the mood, sexy but not too sexy with my casual flats. I have news for him as well, after all.
"When Troy gave me the football, did he know that he is my Daddy?" Laurie asks. "I asked Grandma to read me what he wrote again, and I'm not sure."
"No, sweetie, I didn't tell him that you were his baby girl until a couple of days later. You guys actually played together first before I told him, but as soon as I did, he was so happy that he nearly broke my ribs, he hugged me so hard."
The doorbell rings, and Laurie's on her feet in a flash, running for the door. I hear the door open, and the delighted squeal as Laurie throws herself into her father's arms. "Daddy!"
I leave the bedroom and see that Mom, who has been busy in the kitchen for the past hour, has also come out to greet Troy. He's wearing charcoal dress slacks and an open-throated, checked dress shirt, his muscles still bulging against the cotton of his shirt. Maybe it's because the door is open, but I swear it just jumped five degrees inside the house.
Laurie, who’s hanging from Troy's neck and refusing to let go, gives Troy a big, smacking kiss on the cheek. "Kissy-kissy!"
"And a kissy-kissy for you too," Troy replies, kissing Laurie on the cheek and neck loudly, giving her a hug. "How was school today?"
"Great! I got to tell everyone about what my daddy's going to be doing this weekend, and I drew a picture, too.”
"Oh really? And what did you tell them?"
"That my Daddy's going to beat Pittsburgh.”
"Well, the entire city of Pittsburgh is a little difficult, but I'll try to start with the Warriors." Troy laughs. "Just remember, I need all my teammates to get the job done."
Laurie allows herself to be set down, and Troy does the right thing by instead of coming over to hug me, he turns to Mom and offers his hand. "Ms. Nelson. Thank you for having me."
Mom stops moving and
then sighs, shaking her head. "Come here, you big oaf. And for God's sake, call me Patricia or Patty."
Mom gives Troy a quick hug, then steps back. "So I hope you're hungry, and the team didn't fill you up already."
"Nope, that's tomorrow." Troy laughs. "Saturday night, we get to eat and live on our own, as long as I'm at the stadium by nine tomorrow morning."
"Why so early?" Mom asks, leading Troy over to the table. "Don't you have a four o'clock kickoff?"
"No, that's four Eastern time," Troy says. "The network bumped us back because of some stuff that happened around the league in the pre-season, so we've got a one o'clock kickoff. If it was still at four, I'd have to be there by eleven. But nine is a good time. It gives everyone a chance to eat, relax, get warmed up and get ready to go come game time."
Mom nods and goes back to the kitchen, and I hear the sound of pots and pans moving around. "Can I help you, Mom?"
"No, honey," she calls, "but if I could get a little help from a certain granddaughter of mine, I think we can get these plates out on the table in under three minutes. What do you say, Laurie?"
“Coming!” Laurie calls, going into the kitchen area. It's not totally cut off. I can see over the kitchen island as Mom scoops up plates of spaghetti, but only from her shoulders up.
"Whatever it is, it smells great, Ms.—sorry, Patricia," Troy says, sitting down next to me. "What am I in line for anyway?"
"Whitney's favorite when she was in high school, linguini with a tomato and Italian sausage sauce. Laurie here has helped me tweak it to make it more authentic, but still American enough for our taste buds. You don't mind having a lot of carbs before a game, right?"
Troy shakes his head and gives me a look, and the warmth inside me is definitely not due to the ambient air. We both want each other, but we know we need to get the air cleared with Mom first. "No, Patricia, that sounds great. Do me a favor, though. If you have any plans for dessert, hold off, please? I can handle the pasta, but if I load up on ice cream or cake or something like that, I tend to crash down from the sugar high and then I'm sluggish in the morning."
Anaconda: A Sexy Romantic Comedy Page 37
