"It's a lot, isn't it?" Charlie asks, and I shrug. I haven't really thought about it that much. Contracts are contracts, and I make more than enough money to do what I want to do. It takes me a moment to recall some of the numbers and formulate an answer.
"I guess. If you're worried just about the money, my best advice to you is to hit the books harder than you hit the weights, unlike what I did. I mean, look at it this way. My rookie contract, with signing bonus and before taxes and such, is going to be worth roughly six million dollars if I play it all out and don't re-up at some point. And yeah, that’s a lot of money, I won't play you. But there's a classmate of mine, Cory. He's got a job with an investment bank already, and I've kept up with him on the side. He's the same age I am, and he's already making a hundred twenty-five thousand a year."
"Yeah, but you're making ten times as much," he says, confused.
"For the next few years, sure. In ten years, I'll probably be out of the NFL, and having to make it on my savings, investments, stuff like that. Cory's still going to be growing, and with his brains, he might even retire with more money than me. But anyway, what you were saying about the locker room, that plays a part. It's a job, is what I'm saying. You’ve gotta love it, just to put yourself through the pounding and effort that the game demands at the professional level. But it's still a job. You won't have a tighter team bond than you get with these guys you'll play with this year. Even at Clement, I didn't have it. Anything else?"
"No, thanks. And good luck next week. First pre-season game of the year, right?"
"Right. Good luck to you too, Charlie. See you around."
He jogs off, and Coach Jackson comes up, a little grayer than he was last year, but still the same guy. "You didn't blow smoke up his butt. I appreciate it."
"You know how it is. I want them to be successful, not like . . .”
"Like Russ?" Coach asks quietly. Russ died over the New Year's holidays in a car accident coming back from college. He'd been drunk and lost control of his car on an icy patch of road. I was in the playoffs at the time, so I couldn't come to the funeral, but I visited his grave right afterward. It hurt.
"Yeah," I finally say, then force a smile. "But it's not all bad. Pete and Dani . . . that's pretty cool. Did you get an invitation?"
"Sure did," Coach says, kind of embarrassed. "Seems strange though. I didn't think I made that big an impression on you guys."
"You did," I reply. "But then again, since you're getting the checks as my official agent, I guess you know that, don't you?"
He laughs and shakes his head again. "You know my wife is still just about ready to adopt you because of that? You're paying for my son's college, and a big chunk of my retirement fund.”
“You were there when I needed it. It’s the least I could do. You saved my life, Coach."
"It was my pleasure, Troy," Coach says, then looks at the backs of the retreating players, all of them seeming so young, and it wasn’t even that long ago that I was one of them. "So you're going back to practice tomorrow?"
"Yeah. You know how it is. This first pre-season game is the chance for guys like me to prove we belong in the starting lineup. It's tough on the team. They've got four really good linebackers already, and that crew, they've been together for a few years. I'm not going to be given a spot. I'm going to have to take a spot."
He laughs and pats me on the shoulder. "With an attitude like that, I don't doubt you will. In any case, I'll be watching. I think we all will be."
"Thanks, Coach."
I'm feeling the warmth on my shoulders, even through my jersey and pads, and I feel good as I stretch out before the game. There are butterflies in my stomach, but I know they'll go away as soon as the fans really start filing in and the game gets closer.
"Hey, mister!" a kid calls behind me, and I ignore it, figuring that the kid is trying to get the attention of one of the stars on the team. With a team like ours, you've got a few to choose from. I'm still officially a second stringer, although if I do well this game, maybe I can move up a slot for the next game. Still, the first string defense is taking it easy, and today's my first official start as a pro, even if it is pre-season.
"Hey mister! Number fifty-one!"
I turn, surprised as I see a little blonde girl in the stands, waving to me. I've got time. It's still a half-hour until game time, so I take a moment and walk over. "Hey, what's up?"
"Can I get your autograph?" she asks, thrusting a blue Hawks hat and Sharpie at me. "Mama says you're her favorite player."
"Really?" I reply, touched. "How old are you?"
"I'm five," the little girl says, and there's something about her face, the way she looks, that just seems familiar. It's like I'm looking at a Photoshop of two people that I know, one of those mashups you can see on the Net from time to time, just for some reason, I can't put a name to the faces. "I just turned five, but in a few months, I'm going to be five and a half."
"Really? Congratulations," I say. "You want me to just sign this, or do you want this made out to your mom?"
"Would you? Wow, that'd be great!" the little girl says, and I can start to pick out an accent in her voice, something faint and maybe European. "Mama would love that!"
"Okay, then what's your mama's name?" I ask, switching to the way the little girl talks. "I'll sign it to her, then. And if you have anything else, maybe something for you too?"
"Wow . . .” the little girl breathes, but before she can answer, a man calls out.
"Laurie! Let the man prepare for his match in peace!" The man, who clearly has an Italian accent, says, coming up. He's about my age, maybe a little older, and the way he puts his hand on the girl's shoulder, I'm sure he's her father. Laurie starts to protest when I interrupt, smiling up at the man and waving.
"Oh, it's no problem, it's still warmups," I reply quickly. The man doesn't look convinced, so I know I need to work fast. Seriously, it's a pre-season game. What's he all upset about? I'm the guy playing, and I'm not even this uptight about it. I uncap the Sharpie and get ready to sign for the girl, or her mama, I guess. I don't want to turn her away. She's just too cute. "Laurie here was just going to tell me who to make the hat out to. So, Laurie, what's your mama's name?"
"Whitney," Laurie says, and my pen falters, pausing just before making contact. "Mama's name is Whitney, but I call her Mama."
"I see," I say, forcing my pen to move again. "Well, here you are. 'To Whitney, who has the cutest little girl in the world. Thanks for the support, Troy Wood.' How's that?"
"What's going on?" a voice behind the man says, and my heart stops. Looking up, I see her come down the stairs behind the girl and the man, and it's like I've been caught in a time warp. The face—it's the same beautiful heart shape, with the same gentle bow-like curve to the upper lip. She's got the same little scar on her chin, where she told me that she'd fallen off her bike when she was a little girl and took seven stitches. Her hair's shorter, but still shoulder length and that amazing, lustrous shade of auburn that haunts my dreams, and I can't stop staring.
"Whitney . . .”
Whitney stops and sees me, her own eyes going wide as she looks down on me. Five and a half years, and I feel like I'm back at Silver Lake again, back to the first time we met, except ironically, this time I'm the one on the grass and she's the one in the stands. "Troy. My God, it's good to see you. It's been a long time."
"Very long," I choke out in reply as the man leads Laurie away. Whitney stays behind, and I look up at her, the rest of the stadium forgotten for a moment. "It's . . . it's good to see you."
She's got something in her eyes, and I don't know what, but it's hard to think with so much emotion flowing through me. I feel like the past and the present are crashing together, and I'm having trouble containing myself. "It's good to see you too, Troy. I'm glad you made it . . . the Hawks even. Wow."
"Yeah . . . wow. And you're a mother now. She's a cute kid."
"She's the most important thing in the world to me," W
hitney says, glancing back over her shoulder. "She's amazing."
"Amazing," I repeat, and I feel like the breath's been knocked out of me. A mother. Whitney's a mom. "Whitney . . .”
"I need to get to our seats," Whitney says, turning back to me. "It's good to see you, Troy."
She turns to walk up the steps, and I find my voice. "Wait! Whitney, wait!"
She pauses and looks back. I take my chance. "Please, Whitney, I want to talk. Just . . . I really would like to talk."
She considers me for a moment, then nods. "We're having dinner at the Cafe Italiano in town tonight, maybe around seven. Can you make it?"
I know the place. It's not great Italian food, but it works for a town the size of Silver Lake Falls. Screw the post-game press conferences. I can make it. "I may be a little late, but I'll be there."
"All right. Good luck today, Troy. Laurie's really been looking forward to seeing you play."
Whitney walks away, and the public address announce system plays the music that signifies that warm-up time is over. I retreat to the locker room, getting ready for the game. As I finish suiting up, pulling my helmet on and making sure my gloves and shoulder pads are right, the numbers run through my head.
Five years old. Laurie's five years old. Which means . . . she's half Italian.
At least I understand now why the little girl was so familiar when I first saw her. She's got the same shape to her face as Whitney, that perfect little heart shape, and a twinkle in her eye that I still remember from when Whitney was up to precocious tricks, ones that I usually enjoyed when we were together.
Couldn't she have waited even a few months? Were all her words to me, saying she loved me . . . were they just lies? How long did it take for her, after she left Silver Lake Falls, to hook up with that guy?
I'm trembling in rage now, and as the team goes out to start the game, I'm seeing red. We end up kicking off, which is just what I need as I'm about to explode. In the huddle, I look around at the defense, a mix of first and second team players who are getting their work in before the borderline players start the second half.
"Storm Rip Slant," I call, taking over the huddle leader duties. Richard, the leader of the backfield, calls the coverage, and I line up. I've adapted to the rigors of pro football, adding a lot of muscle from my high school days, and I now tip the scales at an even two hundred and thirty-two pounds. Every pound of it is trembling, and as the wide receiver on the other side goes into motion, I snap into a steely focus.
"Slide, slide! Cowboy!" I holler, adjusting the play. It's on my shoulders now, and I call off the slant, instead adjusting to a slide to the other side, knowing what's coming. The ball snaps, and the quarterback rolls out toward my side. Our outside linebacker fades out, covering the tight end that's going out into the flat, while I read the QB's eyes. They flick left, then right, and I know where he's going. I pounce on the read, and I step in front, just in time as the ball is released. It smacks hard into my gloves, but I've still got the soft hands that let me throw a pretty good ball myself back in high school, and I intercept the pass, barely breaking stride as I streak toward the end zone, the offense chasing me. The other team's got no chance, and I go in standing up for a touchdown.
During halftime, some of my teammates look at me in a bit of awe. The starting linebackers, especially Tim, who I'm slotted behind, look a bit worried, and I understand. One half, against at least partially another team's starting offense, and I have seven tackles, a sack, one forced fumble and the interception returned for a touchdown. It's the sort of performance that turns heads and gets attention.
"Don't blow your load in the pre-season," someone jokes as I stare at the carpet of the locker room, still trembling. I haven't stopped trembling since Whitney walked up the steps in the stadium, and I can't get my mind off her. "You know, premature ejaculation ain't good for anyone."
I ignore the taunt, my mind still locked in battle mode, and it takes our linebackers coach two tries to get my attention. "Wood. Wood! Coach wants to see you."
I nod and go into Coach's office, taking deep breaths to calm down. Our head coach doesn't like players angry. He wants us calm. I'm trying. "Yeah, Coach?"
"What the heck was that out there?" Coach asks, smiling. "Damn, Troy, you were a solid rookie last year, and in camp, I thought you'd made strides, but that? The league's going to piss test the hell outta you after that one. Only thing that could have stopped you was kryptonite."
I shrug, taking another deep breath. "Just . . . I had content."
"What?" Coach asks, confused, and it's my turn to smile.
"I had emotional content." Ever since Cory and I talked about it, it's been my guiding philosophy. Play with emotional content.
Coach nods, not quite getting the reference, I can tell, but understanding enough of what I'm saying. "Whatever it was that you used to get that content, I want you ready to rock in the second half too. I'm putting you in for the first series before putting in the other players. You keep playing like that, and you're going to have a strong case for a starting slot."
"Still have one more series to go, Coach. Let's see what happens."
We get the ball to start the second half, so I'm chilling on the sidelines and waiting for our chance. Our defensive coordinator is going over some pictures and stuff on his tablet with the guys who will be taking my place after this series, nobody talking to me. I'm so locked in the zone.
We need emotional content. Not anger.
That's true, but anger is part of emotion, and right now, I'm running on high octane anger and rage. Five years, and not a word, then suddenly, I find out why. Five years ago, Whitney tore my heart out and left nothing but a black hole that still hasn't filled.
"Defense!"
I look up, and realize we punted, going three and out. I run out on the field and form the huddle. "Hawk Triple Blast," I call, looking around at the circle of faces that are mostly totally different from the guys I was playing with in the first half. These are the scrubs, the guys who are praying for a slot on the team and hoping a good performance might get them a roster slot, or at least a spot on the practice squad. "Let's run this shit."
We break, and I roll my jaw, making sure my mouthpiece is in. The other team sent out their starting offense to start the second half, wanting to put up something that looks good for their fans back home, and I can see they're licking their chops, knowing that other than me, it should be easy pickings.
"Fire, fire!" I scream, adjusting. "Blast twelve papa! Blast twelve papa!"
Some of what I yell is bullshit, meant to draw off the other team. The only part that matters are the words 'fire' and 'twelve,' which resets the linemen back from their zone stuff scheme to basic smash mouth football, and that I'm going in right behind them. We need to punch these guys in the mouth, get them on their heels before they can settle into a comfortable pattern, and grind down the newbies I'm surrounded by.
The ball snaps, and I blitz, ripping through the guard's grip before he can get pressure on me. The quarterback is mobile, but he called a straight drop back pass, and my helmet catches him in the middle of his back before he can do much more than roll and try and protect the football. We crunch to the ground, and the quarterback collapses underneath my weight, groaning in pain as he does. I roll off, walking back toward the huddle while our home crowd roars and the other guys look on. I look back and see that the quarterback is still down, holding his right wrist in pain.
My part of the game is over, and Coach pulls me out, looking at me in a bit of wonder before sending in my replacement. The game's in hand, and now it's time to try and unload before seeing Whitney.
After five years . . . Whitney.
Chapter 13
Whitney
"So what did you think of your first live football game, Lorenzo?"
Laurie's only five, but she talks like someone a lot older than you’d think. She still eats like a five-year-old. The remnants of her spaghetti and meatballs stain her f
ace on both sides of her mouth, and I think that's a speck of Parmesan in her hair, although it's hard to tell.
"It was quite different from what I'd expected," Lorenzo replies, sipping at his wine. "The crowd was smaller than I thought there would be."
"Pre-season games are almost always light sellers," I explain, sitting back and watching my daughter finish her spaghetti before our desserts arrive. "The fans kind of know that for most of the game, the players won’t be trying their fullest, especially the starters. They're there to get live practice in, and since the game doesn't count for the standings, they relax. It's a long eighteen weeks of real games they've got ahead of them before the playoffs start, and they only get two weeks off during that time."
"I see. Still, it was entertaining. Too much pausing for my taste, but I expected that after you two made me sit through the videos."
“Troy kicked ass, Mama!"
"Laurie Nelson, who taught you to talk like that?" I ask in semi-outrage.
"It was in that movie we watched," Laurie says, giving me her most angelic smile. She's so like Troy that it's hard to deny her anything, especially after seeing him today, and she knows that she can use her good looks to her advantage, and not just with me. She's hard to control that way. "You know, the one with the aliens who sucked the people's faces?"
"Yeah . . . I thought we said we weren't going to copy what they said in that movie too?" I remind her, and I can't help but smile. My daughter's got a mind like a steel trap, and very few things escape the sponge than is her brain unless she wants to ignore them. "Remember, I said that it's not polite to talk that way?"
"Okay, Mama," Laurie half-pouts, but then brightens. “He was awesome! Why can't he do that every game?"
"Because there are a lot of big, mean men who are trying to stop me," a voice behind me says, and my head whips around. It's hard to breathe again as Troy comes up, his hair a little shorter than he wore it in high school, and his shoulders a little wider, his chest a little more muscular, but still . . . that smile, those intense blue eyes . . . it's hard to breathe. "I take it you enjoyed the game?"
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