Rushed: A Second Chance Sports Romance

by Lauren Landish

  I like Coach Thibedeau, he's a nice guy, but he's not who I need to talk to right now. “Yeah, I'll be fine. Let me put in another call, I hate to let you go so quick Coach. Good luck Saturday.”

  “You too. See you.”

  I hang up and kick over to the one other guy I know can give me good advice in this situation. God I hope he's not in practice right now.

  The phone rings, three times, then four, and just as I'm about to hang up, the line is picked up. “Yo, this is Duncan.”

  “Duncan? Hey man, it's Tyler.”

  “Tyler! Holy shit, when I saw a phone number with some strange area code, I didn't know who it was. You're lucky I picked up. I've been screening calls recently.”

  “Well, I'm glad your ESP is still working. How're you doing?”

  I hear something in Duncan's voice, a continuation of the maturity that I'd started to see last season together. He's become a man, and not just an adult. “I'm busy, but I wouldn't trade this for the world. I'll tell you, being a soon to be father's a great thing. How're you doing?”

  “Ah . . . good, I guess. But, well, do you have a few minutes? I could use a sounding board.”

  “Sure, I've got a few minutes. Carrie's at the doctors, and I'm just hanging out a little before we start afternoon practice. What's up?”

  I take a deep breath and look down at the field, where the guys are running easily through formations and plays, and I wish it were that easy right now, where all I have to focus on is getting ready for Saturday's game against BC.

  “I've got a contract offer from Baltimore,” I begin, trying to wrap my mind around it all at once. “League minimum, but that's still a lot of money, almost more than I'd make for the entire season up here.”

  “That's great, man. Well, at least until week fourteen, when we play you guys. I'm gonna hate making you look bad then. But I'll be happy to buy you dinner afterward.”

  I can't help it. I laugh. That's Duncan. Some things never change. “Yeah well, we knew that could happen. But there's more.”

  Duncan's laugh stops, and he grows serious again. “What's up?”

  “Well, the Fighters countered with an offer. There's some sort of agreement between the Leagues, they have the chance to at least offer me a counter if they want. Five-year contract, with a scaled pay raise that'd make me one of, if not the highest paid, player in Canada by the end. But more importantly, there's April.”

  “How is it going between you two? Your email is short on details, but I figure you're not the kind to share details like that with me. Still, you keep mentioning her, you're forging new territory I think.”

  I think back, then laugh. “That's the problem. April’s folks . . . they've got bad health issues. Dad's terminal. So she can’t just up and go with me.”

  Duncan inhales sharply, then lets it out in a long shuddering whistle. “Shit, man. That is a tough one. You've got your girl up in Toronto, but then there's Baltimore. The League's been your dream for a long time. That's the thing that brought the two of us together as friends. You and I were always serious about playing pro ball. But this girl, April, you wouldn't be having doubts if it wasn't serious.”

  “It's not just that, though. I mean, the Fighters like me. I've got other issues too, apparently I may have gotten two girls pregnant in a drunken blackout, but, yeah, I am having doubts. I mean, half a season with a team on an emergency quarterback situation versus a team that I've helped since the start of the season? And I'm having fun up here. The other night I promised April that I'd take cooking lessons with her during the off-season so that we don't have to do takeout so damn often.”

  Duncan's silent for a few seconds, and I wonder if he's thinking or just distracted, but he comes back on, his voice light. “Sounds like Tyler Paulson's in love.”

  “I think she’s the one. Hell, she might have always been, but that’s a story for another day.”

  Duncan takes a deep breath. “All I can say is, football's not going to last. Even you being a QB, you've got what, ten good years, maybe a little more if you hold up well? All of us are going to be retired by the time we're forty. So it comes down to a really simple choice. April . . . or football. You love them both, but you know . . . football doesn't love us. It's going to use us, give us some money, and if we're lucky, we might get our names on a plaque somewhere, maybe a bronze statuette for the luckiest of us.”

  “We knew this when we started looking at pro ball as a career option,” I counter. “Coach B used to lecture me on that all the time. You didn't listen all that well to him, but I guess someone's gotten into your head with that same stuff.”

  I look down on the field, where the offense is wrapping up, and the defense is going through their last run-throughs. “Duncan . . . thanks.”

  “You're welcome. Hey, in two weeks the Wildcats have a bye, you should give me a shout. Carrie would love to say ‘hi’ and I'll be honest, I'm interested in meeting this girl of yours.”

  “All right man, kick some ass this Sunday. I'll admit, I've been a little focused on my own shit up here in Toronto, I haven't kept up with you guys as much as maybe I should.”

  “No problem, we'll catch up in the bye week. I hope I was helpful.”

  “You were. Thanks. Talk to you later.”

  After my phone call with Duncan, I walk down to the locker room, which is mostly empty now that practice is over and most of the guys have headed back to their places to get packed up. We're all supposed to meet back here at the stadium at seven in order to catch a eight o'clock charter flight to Vancouver, where we'll ironically land at eight fifteen local time.

  I see Vince in the trainer's office, a sad thing compared to what I had at Western with Coach Taylor, but it's at least got the basics. Vince is using one of them now, an ad-hoc hot bath the team's set up that he's soaking his right hand in. “How's the hand?”

  Vince looks up from the tablet he's been reading from, he’s is a voracious reader, and I can usually find him in his down time reading something. Normally he prefers paperbacks, but I guess when you're soaking your hand, you go with the one-handed option. “I'll be fine. Hey, I heard the rumors. A League offer.”

  I nod, and take a seat on the training table next to his chair. “Yeah. Big money, multi-million dollar training facilities, no more worrying about potentially playing special teams . . . it could be nice.”

  “Could?” Vince asks, raising an eyebrow. “You're thinking of not taking the offer?”

  I nod. “Yeah, I'm thinking of taking the Fighters' counteroffer instead.”

  Vince nods, and stirs his hand in the warm water. “You know if you turn them down, you might not get another chance. There's always some hotshot coming out of uni who can generate buzz for a team.”

  “I know,” I reply. “I mean, for every Moon or Flutie, there's ten guys like DeAndre or Hawk who never go back down.”

  I sit for a little while longer, thinking. “You've played a long time here in Canada, Vince. Did you ever get a shot down in the States?”

  Vince nods. “Had a few teams come sniffing around in my first three years, and one more time when I'd been playing ten years. Training camp invites, and that last one was like what you've got now, an emergency fill in, but they were willing to pay me the veteran minimum for the time I would play for them.”

  “You never took the offer?”

  Vince shakes his head. “Never. Not without a few regrets. The first few times, I was arrogant, thinking that I deserved a guaranteed contract at least, a no-cut clause or something, and turned them down that way. The last one though, I'd already set down roots here. My son was four, and I knew the contract wouldn't be renewed. It made financial sense to play out the rest of my contract up here.”

  “Do you ever regret it?”

  Vince goes quiet for a moment, then shrugs. “Yes and no. Sure, it'd have been nice to really measure myself against the best in the world. There's a part of me that would love to have played in the Super Bowl. But I have playe
d in three North Cups, and won one as a backup. I have the ring back at home, it sits on my mantle. And I've had a good career up here, with a slot coaching next year. In fact, if you stick around, I'll be coaching you officially, Coach Blanchard already told me that I'm to be the next OC for the Fighters. He wants to focus on the overall team, and need to give some more time to the defense after the shit storm that they've been this season. But yes, Tyler, if you're asking . . . there are going to be nights like tonight at the hotel in Vancouver where I'm going to be playing the what-if game with myself. I know I can't any longer, but what if? Could I have hung in there with the guys? Even if just for half a season, could I have lit up the scoreboard the way you are up here? I don't know, but sometimes, on the cold nights or the away games, I wonder.”

  I nod, stroking my chin. “All right. Thanks for the talk, Vince. Listen, I'm going to head back to my apartment, get my stuff together. I'll see you back here for the airport bus.”

  “See you there, Tyler. Good luck with your decision.”

  Chapter 20

  April

  My mind is still spinning when I get to the hospital, and hasn't stopped since Mr. Larroquette told me I could take the rest of the day off. It wasn't until I was already past Hamilton that I realized I'd taken his Mustang, and sent him a quick text. I guess it isn't a problem, I mean he's going to be on a plane in a few hours, but still, that's not the sort of mistakes I make often.

  I'm thankful when Tyler replies to my text. No problem, probably better anyway. Drive safe, and I'll see you in Vancouver. I love you.

  His last three words spin in my head as I park in the parking lot and check in with the hospital staff. The hospice is still part of the hospital property, and as I make my way through the normal area toward the long term hospice care, I can't help my fingers from trembling. I didn't call ahead, Mom and Dad don't know I'm coming, and with what Tyler has in front of him, I need them more than ever to be able to help me out. I only hope that Mom and Dad are feeling good today, I haven't heard from Dad since I visited with Tyler.

  “You're sure of the way?” the nurse who checks me in asks. She's new, or at least I haven't seen her before, so I can understand.

  “Yes, I've been here before. Thanks.”

  The hospice area has plenty of staff around, but I have to admit it's somewhat idyllic of a setting for someone living out their final days. Each small unit is a one-bedroom place, with low door jambs, wide halls and doors for wheelchairs, and all sorts of other little adjustments to allow people to feel somewhat at peace in their difficult times. There's even a little tree outside the door to Mom and Dad's place, a block of connected houses that look kinda like a wing of a motel on the outside.

  I knock on the door, but there's no answer, so I open it carefully and immediately pull back at the musty odor. It smells like piss, and I'm pretty sure that someone has wet sheets. “Shit,” I mutter to myself, hitting the nurse chime button inside the front door. They'll have someone down here soon enough. “Mom? Dad?”

  “April? Is that you dear?” Mom calls back, coming into view from the bedroom area. She's barely here today, and my heart sinks. “Where have you been young lady? I've been worried sick that you crashed your bike on the way home from school!”

  Bike? I haven't ridden a bike for school since . . . well, ever. I've never ridden a bike to school, I always lived so close to school that until high school, I walked almost every day, even in the winter. Where is Mom's head today? “Mom, I can really use your help right now. What's that smell?”

  “Oh, your father got a little bit of firewater in him, and you know how he is when that happens,” Mom says, and I have to suppress the wince that I feel at her words. As her Alzheimer's has progressed, Mom's use of language sometimes goes crude, something that I've heard isn't all that uncommon. I still don't like it though. It makes her seem . . . ugly. And she is anything but ugly.

  “Where is he, Mom?”

  “He's sleeping in that strange daybed of his,” Mom says, pointing toward the back.

  “Mom . . . can't you smell it?” I add, heading toward the bedroom. “It reeks in here.”

  “You must have stepped in something outside, honey. Because there's nothing wrong in here.”

  Mom wanders off to the kitchen area, and I go into the bedroom, where I find Dad in his bed, the smell coming from him. I open the window and try to get some fresh air in here before really looking at him. He's wasting away, so thin and skeletal I think I could pick him up in my arms if I wanted to, and the reek of the cancer and the wet sheets underneath him makes me tear up. “Daddy . . .”

  He stirs, but his eyes don't open. I swallow my tears and my gorge and lift his body up one half at a time, working the sheets out from underneath him. I have about half of it all out when the called nurse arrives. He takes a deep breath, then exhales. “Oh hell.”

  “Yeah, oh hell. I thought I was paying for better care than this.”

  “Miss Gray,” the nurse says, obviously figuring out who I am, “apologies. We were just here an hour ago, bringing the afternoon meal for your mother. It's in the fridge, I did it myself. At the time, your father was . . . clean.”

  I exhale sharply and nod. They may be checking on a regular basis, but with the way he is . . . “I understand. Can you set up round-the-clock monitoring?”

  The nurse nods as he unsnaps the underpants that Dad is wearing and slips them out from under him. “Of course. The doctors had thought that it might be time to talk to you about that anyway, they were going to call you this evening, I think.”

  “Well, later on I'd like to talk to them personally,” I tell him. “Something has to be better than this.”

  We finish cleaning up Dad, and before leaving, the nurse checks on Mom, who's having a conversation with the television it sounds like, thinking that Kelly Ripa is her high school classmate.

  I look at Dad in his fresh underpants, continence pants now I see, and his robe that hangs like a shroud on his frame. “Daddy?” I whisper, laying my hand on his forehead. It's cold and dry, the skin flaky under my fingers, but I keep it there. “It's me. April. Ziigwan. I . . . Daddy, I need your help.”

  He stirs somewhat, but his eyes never open, and his mouth tightens, the pain must be so much even with the drugs they have him on. I watch, knowing that perhaps this is it, this is the end, and if it is I will not shirk my duty. His chest catches once, and I wonder if it’s the end, but he breathes again, exhaling the dark, black smell of his cancer into the air, dropping deeper into his sleep which I guess is more a coma than anything else. There's no answers here. Instead I kiss his forehead before leaning my head against his. “It's okay. Rest, and I'll make it. I love you.”

  Dad smiles slightly in his sleep, and I stroke his hair, brushing the few strands that come off onto my hands away onto the carpet. Turning for now, I go out into the living room, where Mom's daze is even deeper, but at least she's talking coherently. “Oh, hello.”

  “Hello,” I reply, just going with it. I can see it in her eyes, she doesn't recognize me at all. “How are you today, Marie?”

  “I hope my daughter gets here soon, she's late. Do you know April?”

  I nod and take the one of the other chairs. “I'm sure she'll be here soon. In the meantime, can I ask you for some advice?”

  “I don't know . . . some days I feel like I can barely think straight, but I'll try,” Mom says. I can tell in her voice that somewhere inside her, she knows what is happening, even if it's only peripherally. “What's going on?”

  “My boyfriend got a new job offer,” I say, leaving out names. Mom doesn't need to be confused. “It's far away from here though, and while the money's great, I don't know if I can go with him. My . . . my parents aren't in good health.”

  Mom rocks back in her chair, and I notice that she's using a chair that is actually meant for rocking. I hadn't noticed that before. “This boyfriend. Do you love him?”

  I nod, wiping at my eyes. “I do. But I love
my parents too. How can I choose?”

  Mom thinks about it a bit, then hums. “Do you know that Adam and I almost never got married?”

  I blink, surprised. I'd never heard about this before. “Really? How?”

  “We met when I was just out of college, having accepted a job with the provincial government to teach at a rural school near Fort Frances. It was just a stone's throw away from Minnesota, and is close to part of the First Nations band land Adam belongs to.”

  I knew that Dad and I are part First Nations, and that our band lands are spread out through various points in Ontario mostly, but there are some in Manitoba. I've never made a big deal about it, just a little about what Dad has taught me spiritually. Then again, Mom took me to church too, so I guess that's a little mixed up as well. “I didn't know. How was it?”

  “Amazing . . . beautiful, and meeting Adam was . . . well, he's a great man. Strong, a bit stoic I'll admit, but not when it comes to me or our daughter. We met when I went shopping downtown in Fort Frances, and it was so quickly evident we were deeply in love. We met in September, and by January we were a couple that had people wondering how long it would be before we got married. It was fast, so fast. But then the provincial government called.”

  “What happened?” I ask, caught up. I knew Mom had been a teacher for a while when they first met, but this is all so new.

  “The provincial government wanted to reassign me. The Fort Frances high school was losing a teacher, the enrollment was going down. Since I was the only teacher without any roots in the area, they decided to reassign me to London. Adam and I . . . we discussed it a lot. He had roots in Fort Frances, a job, a good life. I could have quit teaching, but I loved teaching at the time, and I was part of a provincial program that paid for my university training by me agreeing to teach for five years afterward. We debated, and in the end, we fought about it. We loved each other, but we didn't see how we'd be able to stay together.”