Quarterback

by Dustin Stevens

  Kris glanced over at him and continued loading items into the bag. “They said he’s got this.”

  “Yeah, and I’ve got to take a shit,” Riggs said, walking forward into the room. “Doesn’t mean I want it playing quarterback.”

  A smirk rolled out of Kris as he shut the top of his locker and slid the engraved nameplate from the gold ledge holding it in place. He tossed it into the bag and tapped his fingers against the wooden door of the locker that had been his second home for almost half his life.

  “How’d you know I was here?”

  “I saw you walk off the field,” Riggs said. “Figured you were done.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it was quite that subtle,” Kris said, raising his eyebrows in resignation. “I had a little help in making my decision.”

  Riggs aimed his gaze at the ground and circled out around Kris, nodding his understanding. “Worst thing I ever did was hire that prick last winter. He told me right up front he wanted to make some changes, but I never dreamed...”

  The day Dumari was hired, Kris had wondered if it might go that way. It wasn’t uncommon for new coaches to want their own players, especially when the ones they inherited were a little long in the tooth.

  Still, he wasn’t about to tell Riggs that. Instead, he lifted the bag from the floor and took two steps towards him, extending his right hand.

  “Thank you, Tom, for everything.”

  There was an unmistakable sadness in Riggs’s eyes as he returned the shake, his gnarled hand squeezing tight.

  “Kris, it’s been my pleasure.”

  Kris held the handshake a long moment before nodding and releasing it. He patted Riggs on the shoulder and went for the door, the bag swinging by his side.

  “So what now?” Riggs asked.

  Kris turned, continuing to move backwards towards the exit. “Friend of mine once told me I have two men inside me. Kris Hopkins, and The Quarterback. Figure it’s time I let Kris play awhile.”

  The left corner of Riggs’s mouth turned up as he watched Kris walk away. He stood stone still in the middle of the locker room, his posture relaying the gravity of the moment.

  “Tell me though, was it worth it?”

  Kris paused by the edge of the locker room, his body framed in the doorway. He took one last long look around before nodding his head in the affirmative.

  “Every damn day.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  The tile floor clicked beneath Kris’s boot heels as he strode through the Good Samaritan corridor. The sound echoed out around him in the quiet halls, the ward subdued on a chilly Sunday afternoon.

  For the first time in weeks, Kris walked without pain or fogginess, his gait light and quick as he pushed his way forward. A decision years in the offing had finally been made, and now that it had been nothing would slow him down in his pursuit of it.

  A young twenty-something in blue scrubs looked up from her text book on the desk as he approached. It was the first time Kris had ever seen her, no doubt a work-study student manning the empty desk on the weekend shift.

  “Good afternoon, sir, can I help you?”

  Kris came to a stop in front of the desk and turned to face her, his palms resting on the edge of the counter. “Is Dr. Alison Kirby in, please?”

  “Yes,” the young girl said, nodding. “She’s in her office, it’s number...”

  Her voice trailed off as she looked down to consult a listing for the office number.

  “I know where it is, thanks,” Kris said, slapping the top of the desk once and walking on down the hall.

  Behind him the girl called out, “You’re welcome,” but Kris kept on going without acknowledging her.

  His pace picked up again as he walked on to the end of the hall and hung a left, the new corridor even quieter than the one before. Most of the doors stood closed and dark, a lone light spilling into the hall halfway down.

  Raising his speed to just shy of a jog, Kris covered the remaining space. He came to a stop outside the door standing ajar a few inches, pausing long enough to wrap on it twice with the back of his hand.

  “Come in,” Kirby said, her voice muffled behind the half-closed door.

  Kris nudged it open to reveal Kirby seated in a chair behind her desk. She was leaning forward with her elbows on her knees, hands extended in front of her.

  Opposite her sat a middle-aged man with brown hair just starting to pull back away from his face. Two days of beard stubble were spread across his cheeks, his skin tanned. He was perched on the end of a plastic chair, matching Kirby’s pose, her hands gripped in his.

  Kris swung his gaze from Kirby to the man and back again, his return glance just in time to see her jaw drop open. A flush of heat sprang to his face and armpits, a sheen of sweat encasing his skin. He stood no more than a few inches inside the door, his feet leaden.

  “Oh, sorry,” Kris managed, his stomach in his throat. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  The man was the first to respond, releasing Kirby’s hands and springing to his feet.

  “Holy shit, Kris Hopkins.”

  As he said the words a smile spread wide across his face, enthusiasm obvious. “Ali told me she’d been seeing you, but I never really believed...”

  He stopped himself mid-sentence, shoving a hand towards Kris. “Kenny Kirby, Alison’s husband. It’s a real pleasure to meet you, I’m a big fan.”

  Kris remained silent a moment, looking down at the hand and then over at Kirby. He could feel his lungs fighting for air, his chest constricting beneath his clothes.

  “Oh, yeah, right,” he said, extending his hand. “Always nice to meet a fan.”

  Again Kris looked over at Kirby, who was still seated in her chair, a look of horror on her face. Seeing the opening, Kenny reached over to the desk and took up a pen and paper, holding it out in front of him.

  “Would you mind signing an autograph for our son? He’s eight, a big fan of yours too.”

  Any remaining air in Kris’s body was driven from him, the comment striking him like a hammer to the stomach. The initial shock of the scene began to disintegrate within him, replaced by a white-hot rage.

  “Yeah, sure,” Kris said, accepting the implements while staring daggers at Kirby. He leaned onto the corner of the desk and signed without taking his gaze from her, extending it back to Kenny.

  “Honey, would you mind giving us a minute?” Kirby asked. Her voice betrayed the slightest crack as she spoke, her eyes a touch glassy. “I just need to share some private information with Mr. Hopkins.”

  “Right, for sure,” Kenny said, smiling down at his wife. Again he extended his hand to Kris. “Real pleasure meeting you.”

  “Yeah, you too,” Kris said, returning the shake, his grip much stronger this time.

  Using it for leverage, Kenny pulled himself close. He lowered his voice and leaned in, his mouth just a few inches from Kris’s ear.

  “Just so you,” he whispered, “I know.”

  Kris’s eyes popped open wide as he leaned away from him. “You know?”

  “There was nothing I could do about it,” Kenny said, offering a shrug. “She let me have my One, it was only fair I do the same.”

  For the third time in as many minutes Kris felt the wind choked out of him, standing with his jaw agape as Kenny winked and exited the room. Kris twisted at the waist and watched him go, waiting until the door was closed before turning back to face forward.

  Across from him Kirby had risen to a standing position, putting her chair between the two of them. She backed away until she was almost against the wall, cowering as if he might explode at any time.

  “Back to Mr. Hopkins, huh?” Kris asked, letting her hear the edge in his voice.

  “Kris...” Kirby started to reply.

  “That’s the good thing about going by Dr. You don’t have to differentiate between Miss and Mrs.”

  Kirby again tried to reply, not finding the words before looking down at her feet.

  “What
are you doing here?”

  Kris ignored the question, his eyes narrowed. “You have a husband? And a son?”

  Kirby again glanced down at her feet, her mouth moving, but no sound coming out.

  “But I guess they don’t matter when The One comes available, right?”

  “Don’t...don’t you have a game?” Kirby asked, her face quivering as if she might cry at any moment.

  Kris stared at her a long moment, long enough to let her know he was aware she was ducking his question.

  “I left. And then I came here to tell you I was done. I was ready to put football behind me, to try a normal life, a real life, with you.”

  Once more Kirby’s jaw fell open, a single tear joining it on the journey south. She stood in a trance as it made its way down her face, hanging from her jaw for a moment before falling to the floor.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she whispered.

  Kris stared at her, her tears raising the anger within him even further.

  “Doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t believe a damn thing you said right now anyway.”

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The interior of Moose’s Bar was somewhat dim, the ambient light held in check by the décor being made entirely from rough hewn wood. There were no shiny lacquered table tops or polished floors to reflect anything upwards, the dark stained pine absorbing the overhead light on contact.

  No more than forty feet square, the bulk of the space was filled with small tables, designed to hold two to four customers at a time. A fair number of them were full, most of the patrons wearing Warriors apparel, staring up at one of the televisions mounted on the walls.

  Alone at the bar, Kris sat hunched over a tall glass of ginger ale. Every few seconds he glanced up at the alcohol lined along the back wall, his gaze settling again and again on the Glen Livet scotch on the top shelf.

  At the moment, even the cheap beer on tap beside him looked inviting.

  “And Taubman puts the extra point through, pushing the score to 35-3,” the announcer said on the TV above him, drawing Kris’s gaze away from the scotch. On the screen he could see Dumari standing with his hands on his hips, bellowing at his defense as they came off the field.

  “Dick,” Kris muttered.

  “Already you can see fans heading for the exits,” the announcer continued, the camera cutting away to images of the crowd filing out. All around the stadium fans could be seen leaving, stretched like black and red snakes from the bottom rows up towards the gates at the top.

  Shaking his head in disgust, Kris dropped his gaze back down to the table. He propped his head up on his left hand, his right idly spinning the straw in his soda.

  His mind raced as he stared down at the ice cubes in his drink, watching them swirl around. In a span of less than three hours he had left the only job he’d ever had and been knocked on his ass by the only woman he’d ever considered having a life free from football with.

  Deep in thought, he didn’t notice the trio of young men that walked in together. All three in their early twenties and dressed in Warriors gear, they shuffled past the bar, their faces turned downward in dejection.

  The first two picked out a table in the far corner, heading towards it without looking around. The third stopped halfway there, pulling up with a look of pure astonishment on his face.

  “Son of a...” he muttered. “Aren’t you?”

  It was the first Kris had noticed any of them, deep in his own thoughts. He stared back at the young man, with his curly blonde hair and ruddy cheeks, certain he had never seen him before.

  “Huh?”

  “I’ll be damned, it is!” he exclaimed, bending in half at the waist in a makeshift bow, the move an awkward blend of reverence and elation. “My name’s Heath. Pete, Danny, get over here. It’s Kris Hopkins!”

  Without looking back over his shoulder, Kris could feel the combined stares of everyone in the room. In no time at all the other two were by Heath’s side, crowding in tight. Both looked just as excited as Heath to be there, all three grinning like teenage boys seeing their first Playboy.

  “Hey, guys, listen,” Kris said, leaning back a few inches from them. “Now’s not really a good time.”

  In unison the looks of excitement slid from their face. On the left, Pete looked like he had been kicked in the stomach. Opposite him, Danny took on a dejected demeanor that hinted he might cry at any moment.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s cool,” Heath said. “We understand.”

  “Yeah, we didn’t mean to bother you,” Pete added, nodding for effect. “Just got excited, big fans and all.”

  “It was cool meeting you,” Heath added, the three of them sliding away in unison, their movements synched together.

  Kris let them get a few feet past him before leaning back over his ginger ale, again staring down at the ice cubes before him. He watched a string of bubbles rise to the top, weighing what was happening in his mind.

  There was no doubt the three of them were putting him on, pulling a guilt trip to get him to invite them in. Given the afternoon he’d had it was the last thing on earth he wanted to do.

  At the same time, the afternoon he’d had wasn’t their fault.

  “Damn it,” Kris hissed between clenched teeth, checking his watch. He still had a few hours before he needed to be at The Loft, and nowhere to go in the meantime.

  “I mean, can you blame me?” Kris said, raising his voice so they could hear him. He turned on the stool he was sitting on, cocking on elbow and resting it atop the bar. “You see what that little prick Walsh has done to my season?”

  The looks of faux dejection melted away as the group turned, all three rushing back with a burst of energy.

  “Right?” Heath said, the first to reach him. “Bastard just destroyed our playoff run.”

  The other two nodded along, Pete adding, “How damn hard is it to hang onto the ball?”

  “This game was over before it even started,” Danny said.

  Together all three stood in complete agreement with each other’s assessments, waiting for Kris’s approval. He glanced at each of them in turn before nodding his assent, drawing a trio of smiles from his newfound friends.

  “I mean, come on,” Kris said, “a month ago we were a lock for the playoffs.”

  At that, all three threw their hands in the air, celebrating their victory in breaking through to Kris. They exchanged slaps on the back with one another as Danny pressed himself against the bar, flagging down the barkeep on the opposite end.

  “Bartender! Shots!”

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Above the bar, the final seconds of the Warriors game ticked away, the hometown team on the short end of a 42-10 pummeling from the visiting Las Vegas Vandals. The few remaining fans left in the stands could be seen with open hostility, standing and yelling at the field, hands raised in indignation. Scads of paper cups and foil wrappers dotted the stadium floor, the frustration of a season lost playing out for all to see.

  Not a single person inside Moose’s Bar was even watching. None of them displayed the same hostility as their brethren at the game. Nobody felt the need to throw anything in protest.

  Instead, every last patron was grouped into a circle in the middle of the room. Every chair and table top in the place had been drug into the center of the bar, people seated on any available inch. Those that couldn’t find space were clustered tight behind them, standing and peering in, leaning close with hands draped over shoulders.

  The combined effects of happiness and alcohol graced the faces of each person present. There were no scowls at the televisions on the wall, no disgusted murmurs about the way the year ended. There was only joy, at the bit of luck they’d stumbled into and the surprising way it was playing out in front of them.

  Standing in the center of the circle, holding the rapt attention of all, was Kris. Fueled by three shots of Jaegermeister he was feeling loose, the artificial warmth flooding through his body, coloring his cheeks. In his left hand he he
ld a plastic soda pitcher, his fingers threaded through the handle like laces on a football.

  “So I come to the line,” Kris said, “my nose busted and bleeding everywhere, eyes half-blurry. Seriously, the only thing I could even see were those big yellow uprights in the end zone.”

  “Yea-eah,” the crowd said in unison, dragging the word out twice its usual length.

  Kris paused, holding his hands out to his side, his makeshift football flapping from his palm.

  “I got halfway through my cadence, and couldn’t even remember the damn play I was supposed to be running. I took a step back...”

  As he narrated, he stepped back from an imaginary line of scrimmage, turning towards the opposite wall.

  “And I yelled, ‘Hey! Z! Run straight at the goalpost!’”

  “No!” Danny shouted from the front row, his smiling face relaying surprise.

  “Swear to God!” Kris said, raising his right hand, the pitcher still attached. “Didn’t even call a play, just told him to run.”

  Kris turned back to face forward, squatting down and gripping the pitcher with both hands as if taking the snap from center.

  “So I get back to the line...Hut! Hut!”

  In short, choppy steps Kris retreated across the center of the barroom floor, shuffle stepping with his shoulders perpendicular to the line and the ball tucked under his chin.

  “I dropped back to pass, still couldn’t see a damn thing.”

  Kris bounced on the balls of his feet, the crowd inching in closer around him.

  “So I counted one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three, and let it fly.”

  In an abbreviated throwing motion Kris tossed the pitcher across the room, the pitcher twirling in a perfect spiral, the handle spinning out away from the main reservoir.

  As it hung in the air, Kris smiled, remembering that day. For a moment he wasn’t standing in a bar outside of Portland, but on the field at Tucson Stadium.

  “The next thing I remember was the sound of the crowd going crazy.”