Tyler
“You got yourself arrested.”
It's not a question, more like a statement of fact, and as I look over at Coach and Mr. Larroquette, I can see them already getting ready to not believe whatever I'm going to say.
“Yes. I was arrested.” I'm sitting in one of the two office chairs on this side of the GM's desk, the scabs on my right hand hidden under my left. There isn't much bruising, but the knuckles themselves are ugly, brown with ugly scabbing. I hadn't noticed it last night, but then again, I was distracted by other things. There is some pain though, which worries me.
“On assault charges.”
“Yes.”
Mr. L. sighs and runs his right hand through his rapidly receding hairline. I wonder if he does that all the time, which is why his hair is in full scale retreat up his skull. “That's two fights you've had in less than half a season, Tyler. This is one that brings the League into it as well.”
“I understand that sir, but I didn't throw the first punch.”
“Yes, Miss Gray has told me as much,” Coach says, “which is why you're not getting suspended immediately. We've talked with the League offices in Montreal, and while they've suspended and fined you according to League policy, those punishments are being delayed until the court case is settled.”
“So in other words, if I cop a plea or get found guilty, I'm going to be suspended and fined.”
“Actually,” Mr. L. says, “if you're found guilty, you're going to be fired. Clause twenty-eight in your contract gives the team the right to terminate your contract with no penalty if you are found to be in violation of Canadian criminal law.”
Shit. I knew I should have read that contract more closely, not that I would’ve thought that through in the moment. “Sir, I understand that you're angry, but I didn't do anything wrong. He swung first, he was being abusive to April, and I didn't just jump on him. In fact, once he was down, I backed off.”
“Perhaps, but in any case, this is your warning. The team will collect your potential fine from the League in advance, holding it until a determination has been made. If the charges are dropped or you are found not guilty, you'll get the money released to you.”
I nod in understanding. However, at the moment my mind isn't on the money, but on two other things. First, that I could be fired. While I may not want to stay here in Canada for good, getting fired isn't going to help me get a shot with the NFL. Second though, is my hand. My pinky finger on my right hand is killing me, and it's been that way since waking up yesterday morning in the hotel. While it's not as bad as fucking up my thumb, any sort of injury to a quarterback's hand is not what I want to deal with. “I understand. Let's just win some games in the meantime.”
“This game is going to be important, Tyler. Montreal is in the Eastern Division, and we need to beat them to maintain number one position for the playoffs.”
“Another bye for the playoffs will be nice,” I agree. “I'll get it done, Coach. Don't worry about it.”
The problem is, I'm not getting it done in practice. I try a bunch of different grips, but without my pinky finger being able to put that little bit on the ball, everything's going wobbly, especially if I have to throw over fifteen yards. Vince pulls me aside about halfway through practice, concerned.
“You okay? You're putting up ducks today. I think Pierre's going to go get his shotgun, he's from Manitoba you know. They do duck hunting all the time.”
“Yeah, I'll be okay. I think I've just got a blister or something, I'll adjust.”
He gives me a wary look, but nods. “Nothing to do with the fight? That hand doesn't look too good. ”
I roll my eyes, this guy's got more information than the CIA. “No. Jesus, does everyone know?”
“That you got arrested? It was on the TV earlier. Trisha James is getting plenty of airtime out of it,” Vince says with a chuckle. “I bet that some of your American friends might even hear about it. All right, rest the hand, try some light passes. I'll talk to Coach, take some more snaps with the first team offense. You sure you'll be able to gut it out for Saturday?”
“Damn right I will. If Larroquette's going to fire me, then I'm for damn sure going to prove that he's fucking up by doing so.”
Vince nods. “Good old Clause 28. Yeah, he's a bastard with that one, eh?”
I raise an eyebrow and look over at a grinning Vince. “Did you just give me an 'eh'? Next thing you know, you'll be calling someone a hoser.”
Vince shakes his head and adjusts his pants. “The only hose I need to worry about is down here. Chill out, work with some of the scout team guys on getting your passes down again, and we'll be good.”
For the rest of the week, I take it easy in my throwing in practice, to the point that April notices. Friday morning, as we get ready to go to the airport for the game in Montreal, she confronts me about it. “Your hand is hurt.”
“Yeah,” I admit, stuffing my lucky pink undies into my bag. “Pinky finger's still messed up. After about five or ten throws, the joint starts to ache all to hell.”
April, who's already packed, comes over and takes my hand. “Why didn't you say anything? The team could have taken a look at it.”
“And given Larroquette another reason to fire me?” I ask harshly. “April, I'm trying to keep my job, not lose it. I happen to like it here in Toronto, you know.”
“Really?” she asks, brightening. “So you're not just marking time until the NFL comes calling?”
I shake my head. “I still want to play down south,” I admit, “but I can't do that if I get fired from here. But also, I want to complete this season. I like the guys, and more importantly . . . I want you to come with me, regardless of where I play.”
April hugs me, but there's a little sadness in her eyes as she steps back. “What about my parents?”
“We'll take care of them,” I reassure her, “somehow.”
On the plane ride she and I sit in separate aisles, a team rule that the team sits together, and we even sleep in separate hotel rooms, which is perhaps the one thing I hate most about away games. For home games I can go to sleep Friday night with her in my arms, none of this “saving strength” bullshit for the game. I mean, we don't get intimate on Friday nights, but it's still nice to have the woman I love to warm the spot next to me in bed.
Warming up, I’m glad about one thing playing in Canada. It's barely the first week of September, but the weather is already cool and comfortable, with temperatures in the low seventies in the sun, and cooler along the sidelines where the stadium construction puts everything in shadow. “How're you feeling?”
I look over at Vince, who's wearing a glove on his throwing hand for the first time. “Not bad. What's with the glove?”
He flexes his hand a little, looking down with regret and a sort of bitter good humor. “Getting old, and the rheumatism is starting to kick up a little, especially in my right hand. I'll wear the glove for the rest of the season. Started it last year, but it screws with my grip a little, so I only do it starting in September. Main reason I'm retiring, actually. Heart's still willing, the body isn't quite able any longer.”
“Hmm . . . looks like both of the Fighters' QBs are running a bit gimpy then. Guess I'll just have to tough it out.”
“Do your best,” Vince reassures me. “I'm sure it'll be fine.”
The game starts, and we go on defense first. With a week of rest, the defense is prepped and ready, and I'm happy when they hold the Montreal offense to just a single first down before they punt.
Our first play is a play action pass, and I fake a hand-off to Bobby who releases on a Pound route, running through the line like he's still got the ball. If he's still standing, he'll run to my backside flat, but I'm looking for Paul and Robbie. Robbie's got a window, and I let my pass go. My finger flares, but I grit my teeth through the pain.
Unfortunately, gritting my teeth doesn't help my pass fly any better, and while Robbie hauls it in for eight yards, the pass flutters
just enough that he's not able to get any extra yardage. Shit.
It's the pattern for the rest of the first half. Most of my throws, while close enough that the guys are catching them, are just a little off. They're jumping up for balls that float, overextending or holding up, breaking stride enough that they're getting hit as soon as they catch the ball. We score a touchdown and a field goal, but that's it.
Meanwhile, after a promising start, the defense is getting hammered again. They give up two touchdowns and barely prevent a third when time expires on the first half and we go into the locker room down fourteen to ten.
Sitting on my stool, I flex my hand, looking at my knuckle which is starting to swell. I may need to check off and do some running the second half, there's no way I can throw another twenty-five passes in the second half.
“How're you doing, Tyler?” Coach asks, squatting down in front of me. “Your throws have been off all week.”
“We can use some more runs this half,” I admit. “I think I banged my hand.”
Coach nods. “Right. During the second quarter with that sack, right?”
Yeah . . . during the sack. I don't say anything, and Coach lets me get away with it. “Well, we'll see. Tyler . . . don't let what the GM said Monday get to you. He's more of a PR man than anything else. You don't need to sweat it.”
“I'm not. Honest, Coach. I'm busting my ass out there, just my grip isn't quite right.”
“You want the docs to take a look at it? Vince can start the second half.”
I shake my head, there's no way a starting QB gives up his slot unless he's about ready to die. Some people consider us the prissy princes of football, but the fact is, you try sitting calmly in a pocket while a bunch of defensive linemen are coming for your ass, and then letting a pass go a half second before one of those giants tries to rip your spine out the hard way. “No. I'll tough it out.”
Coach leaves, and I focus for the rest of halftime, making sure that when we get the ball, that I'm ready. We're only four points down, we can make that up with one good drive.
The offense gets a lucky break on the kickoff, as Bobby is able to take the ball all the way to the fifty, only getting pushed out on a last ditch diving shove from the kicker. Going out to the huddle, I put the pain aside and look around at the guys. “Okay, Bobby got us started, let's punch it quick, push these guy's shit in quickly.”
I take the snap from Dave and roll out to my right, looking for space. I'm not throwing this, even if it is a pass play, and when some daylight shows, I tuck and run like hell. The linemen are easy, and with a juke I get past the linebackers, leaving me in the secondary with DeAndre and Paul as lead blockers. They've seen that I'm running and they're doing their best to screen for me and I turn it on for the sidelines, hoping to run the seam.
I lower my shoulder and meet the guy coming at me, shoulder to shoulder and helmet to helmet, each of us about the same size, although I'm a bit taller. Still, I've got momentum on my side, and as we go tumbling, I fall into the end zone. Touchdown.
The first thing I see when I hit the sidelines is April in her seat on the fifty, clapping and jumping up and down in her green. Coach is next, clapping me on the shoulder. “When you said you wanted to run more, I didn't think you meant yourself,” he says with a laugh.
I shake my head, laughing. “I just saw daylight, and ran for it.”
The second half turns into a scoring fest, with the Montreal offense striking back quickly. We trade touchdowns, and going into the fourth quarter we're right back where we started the half, down by four.
I don't know if my hand can do it, but sometimes the mind has to be stronger than the body as I take Dave's snap and drop back, I glance to my right, and DeAndre’s got a step, starting his cut on his post pattern. I step and put everything into it, and for perhaps the first time today, my hand feels fine as the ball rolls off my pinky, flying nice and tight all the way to hit DeAndre in his hands in stride, and he takes off.
He doesn't see the free safety coming up on an angle though, and he nails him, the ball flying out of his hands and going to the turf, where a Montreal player falls on it. Our first turnover of the game, and it couldn't come at a worse time.
On the sidelines, DeAndre’s feeling like shit, and I come over, taking a seat next to him. “You okay?”
“I should have seen that guy, Tyler. I don't fumble.”
“Yeah, and I don't throw interceptions, but I've done it four times this year too, remember?” I remind him. “You got hit with a hellacious shot. Straight up Sports Center type hit.”
“They don't show Canadian ball on Sports Center, remember? TSN's the best we can hope for,” he says with a bit of a smile. “All right. Next drive, I'll hang onto it.”
He’s right, but it doesn't matter. Montreal converts the fumble into another touchdown, and with an eleven-point lead, they turn up the heat on defense, blitzing constantly and harassing the hell outta us. I can get short passes and runs off, but that's it, there's just not enough time to set up for anything deep. I'm hit, over and over as I let passes go, and as the final seconds tick off the clock, I'm aching, worn down, my hand on fire from getting jammed into the ground, and the Fighters end up losing by eight.
In the locker room, I ice my hand, frustrated. We had the skills, and if our defense had just stopped the Montreal offense a couple more times, we'd have been able to pull it out. My own play, while not great, still wasn't that bad. Two touchdown passes, my run, and no interceptions. Not world changing, but that's not a bad game.
Still, it's not enough, and when the team docs come over, I'm not in a good mood. “Let's take a look, Tyler.”
He fiddles with my finger, and I wince a few times as he moves it around and has me flex it a few times. “When's it hurting you?”
“Mostly on releasing the ball,” I say. “It's fucking with my spin.”
The doc hums, then looks at me and Coach, who joined us a minute ago. “I think it's a deep bruise more than anything else. I don't think it'll affect you next week, just ice and rest it for the next two days.”
Doc leaves, and Coach pats me on the shoulder. “You showed some guts out there. Get your rest, and on the plane ride home, open seating for everyone. No need to be a dick when we played hard.”
His news gives me at least a little bit of reassurance, and when I come out I see that April's already heard. She gives me a hug, and a kiss on the cheek. “I know the team lost, but I'm proud of you.”
“Thanks. Doc says my hand should be good by next Saturday,” I reassure her, kissing the top of her head. “And Coach says we've got open seating on the plane back. The benefits of charter flights.”
“That's true. You know, you surprised a few folks out there today. Some of the people around me were commenting that you're playing tough.”
I laugh. “Yeah, the surfer look and what I did at Western isn't exactly good for a tough guy image.”
“What do you mean?” April asks, and I entwine my fingers with her as we head toward the buses to the airport.
“I had the rep of being a pretty boy,” I admit with a little chuckle. “I had a chance to be the starter as a sophomore, but took a hit that really knocked the hell outta me, broke a bone in my foot too. Instead of toughing it out, I took Coach's advice and took a redshirt year instead, and started my last two years. Unfortunately the team didn't do a good job of explaining to the press just how much the damn thing hurt, so instead of it being labeled one of those freak breaks, I picked up the rep of being a wimp. It didn't help that Coach Bainridge at Western insisted that all quarterbacks slide instead of take hits head on, and that I had fucking Iron Man Duncan Hart playing with me. That guy is one tough SOB.”
“You've talked about him a lot. You guys keep in touch?”
“Just emails right now. He's playing for Jacksonville, they're in season too. He's got his hands full, but if you want, we can try and set up a Skype call.”
April shrugs. “No rush. So regardle
ss of the rep, what led to your change of style?”
I pull her close and whisper in her ear. “Finding the love of my life. Gives me a tender heart, but makes my body a lot tougher.”
“Not too tough, I hope,” April purrs back. “I like soft and tender Tyler too.”
Chapter 18
April
“Good morning April, how're things going for you?”
I'm in the office, looking forward to the last away game of this leg. We're going to Vancouver, and I've already exchanged emails with Gail, she's going to meet me and sit next to me for the game. It'll be nice to spend some time with an old friend and introduce her to Tyler. But it's not Gail on the phone, it's Connor.
“Hey big guy, I'm doing well. How about you?”
“Very well, thanks. I've got some good news for you and Tyler.”
“Really? Great! Is it about the . . . well . . . you know?”
“No, we're still waiting on results of our motion for a DNA test, for some reason the girls are fighting it,” Connor says, “but on the assault charge. My uncle talked to the Crown Prosecutor, and with the new video that they just received from the traffic camera, they've decided to drop the charges. Tyler's absolved of any wrongdoing in the matter.”
“YES!” I yell, fist pumping the air. The other members of the office look around at me, and Francine, who's in to talk with Mr. L., gives me a look. I wave it off and cover the mouthpiece of the phone. “Tyler's assault charges are getting dropped.”
A small cheer goes around the office, and even Mr. Larroquette sticks his head out of his office to see what's going on. “What happened?”
“Tyler's charges have been dropped,” Francine says, and for the first time I think in days, the man smiles before going back into his office, leaving the door open. He gets on his phone, and I bet he's passing along the good news. For all his pain in the ass habits, he does a good job of spreading good news even faster than bad.
I turn my attention back to Connor, smiling the whole time. “That's the best news I could have gotten. Are you sure?”
Rushed: A Second Chance Sports Romance Page 15
