Quarterback

by Dustin Stevens

  The pitcher fell perfectly into Pete’s lap, his hands cradled under it. Every single person in the bar threw their hands in the air, thunderous cheering reverberating off the rough hewn wood, shaking the windows along the front wall.

  Kris noticed none of it. All he heard was the sound of the stadium that January evening seven years before.

  “The Warriors win the championship!” Heath called, his voice cracking with excitement.

  “The Warriors win the championship!” the rest of the bar recited in turn, their combined voices reaching an eardrum-splitting level.

  In the middle of the floor Kris stood in silence, a finger raised towards the heavens, just as he had on that night so long ago.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  The alarm clock buzzed through the bedroom, drilling its way into Kris’s brain. It pounded into the deep recesses of it, bouncing around, forcing him from his alcohol-induced stupor with all the delicacy of dynamite.

  Kris opened one crusted eyelid at a time and peeled his face away from the pillow it was smashed into, raising himself just an inch or two off the bed. The square digits on the clock announced the time to be seven a.m., the exact same as it was every morning.

  His left arm snaked out across the bed and slapped the top of the machine, the noise falling silent as his head returned to the pillow. The taste of alcohol lingered in his mouth as he worked his tongue around, trying in vain to drum up some bit of saliva.

  Rolling over onto his back, Kris raised a hand to his brow, staring at the ceiling. Early morning light filtered in through the windows, dancing a pattern across the smooth white surface.

  Little by little pieces of the previous night came together in Kris’s mind, recanting what had transpired just hours before. Telling stories at the bar. Taking shots with everybody. Calling a cab to bring him home.

  The reason he was there in the first place.

  “Oh, shit,” Kris said aloud, jerking himself upright in the bed. He paused a moment to let the feeling of nausea pass before standing and going straight for the kitchen. Still dressed in the same clothes he’d worn home, he shoved his feet into a pair of loafers by the door and grabbed his keys, heading for the garage.

  The SUV was parked at Moose’s Bar, so Kris slid in behind the wheel of the Porsche and fired it up. His head pounded and his eyes burned as he circled out away from his community and pushed west away from town, checking the clock every few seconds.

  The traffic was light heading away from the city as he forced the car up above sixty, weaving past the occasional semi-truck. On the opposite side traffic was backed up to a standstill, the Monday morning crowd all fighting their way in to work.

  Fifteen minutes after leaving home, Kris slid to a stop in front of Emily’s house. He could see her already approaching her car as he pulled up, a bag over her shoulder, a cup of coffee in hand. He left the keys in the ignition as he spilled out, hung over and disheveled, and jogged towards her.

  “Emily,” he said, raising a hand to her. “Emily. Wait, I am so sorry.”

  Her response was to completely ignore him, putting her coffee atop the car as she leaned across the driver’s seat, dropping her bag down on the passenger side.

  “I can explain, really.”

  Emily jerked herself back out of the car, whirling on the ball of her foot to face him. Pure fire flashed behind her eyes, her hands balled into fists by her side.

  “Okay, go for it,” she spat. “I can’t wait to hear this.”

  The reaction sent Kris back on his heels, sweat forming on his brow, his mouth going dry. “I, um...”

  “You, um?” Emily said, her body almost quivering with fury.

  Kris’s head spun as he tried to string together the right words. He’d had fifteen minutes on the drive out to come up with the proper approach, but the entire time he had been more worried with watching the clock than thinking of the right thing to say. Now that his opportunity was at hand, nothing was coming together the way he wanted.

  “Yesterday, after everything happened, I was upset. It was too early to go to The Loft, and I didn’t want to go home, so I ended up at a place called Moose’s Bar. I was just there to kill some time, but-“

  “But there were fans,” Emily said, cutting him off. “And you all started talking. And you got to be The Quarterback again. And time got away from you. Right?”

  She sent the last word out at him, almost daring him to contradict her.

  “Well, it wasn’t-“ Kris started to reply, again cut off by Emily.

  The only difference was this time, her voice wasn’t fueled by deep rooted animosity. It was something else entirely, a tired resignation that relayed she was done, in every way.

  “Save it. I’ve heard it all before.”

  She turned back to the car and took up her coffee, sliding one leg in beneath the wheel.

  “Emily, please,” Kris said, taking a step forward towards her.

  “No, you please, Kris,” she replied. “Please go away, and don’t come back.”

  She dropped her bottom down onto the seat, pulling her left leg in behind her.

  “Can you...” Kris said, his head spinning, his mouth working up and down, trying to find the right words. “Can you just tell him I’m sorry?”

  Emily looked up at him with a look that bordered on pity and shook her head. “No need. I never even told him you were coming.”

  Kris felt the ground fall out from beneath him as he stood staring back at her, shock obvious on his face.

  “Somehow I knew you’d pull this shit,” Emily said, running her gaze the length of him one last time. “You always did.”

  “That’s not fair,” Kris said, his voice just above a whisper. “What the hell is that even supposed to mean?”

  “It means the game and the fans and all of it were always the only things that mattered to you. It’s who you are. So go be it, just leave us the hell out of it.”

  Kris stood in stunned silence as Emily pulled her door shut and backed out of the driveway, never once looking back at him standing slack-jawed behind her.

  Fifty four minutes.

  That was the sum total of the time Kris Hopkins had spent in his life not being a quarterback.

  The reporter for WMEM news smiled wide as the cameraman pointed at him, signaling they were live on the air. Dressed in a sport coat with the station insignia on the chest, he sat up tall in his chair as he introduced the segment to the viewers at home.

  “Good evening, I am Chip Grandel with WMEM sports and joining me today in the studio is the newest member of the Memphis Bulldogs, a living legend, Kris Hopkins.”

  The cameraman pulled the lens back to reveal Kris sitting across from Grandel, wearing a Bulldogs polo and a pained smile.

  “Kris, please let me first say welcome. I cannot tell you how excited we are to have you here.”

  “Thanks, Chip,” Kris replied. “And I have to say, I’m excited too. This is where it all started for me, just up the road in Nashville, so it definitely feels like I’ve made it full circle being back in Tennessee.”

  There was a brief window, just a couple of hours one Sunday afternoon in the late fall, that Kris tried to pretend he could be something else. For part of that time, he might have even believed he could be, but in the end the obvious was all too clear. He was only kidding himself in trying to ignore it.

  “Tell us,” Grandel said, leaning in a bit, “after fifteen years in Portland, what’s it like being here now?”

  “This is going to sound odd, “Kris said. “Everything is different, but it’s all the same too. There’s a new offense to learn, new teammates to meet, but when you come down to it, football is always football.”

  After Emily drove away that cold morning, Kris couldn’t help but believe she was right about one thing. This was who he always was, and who he would always be.

  “You know Kris,” Grandel said, lowering his voice just a touch, “after your last concussion, there was the widespread opinio
n that your days in a helmet were behind you.”

  “Yeah, well, you and I both know what they say about opinions,” Kris quipped, drawing a light chuckle from both men.

  Try as he might, Kris couldn’t help but think Emily had been wrong about something else though. She misspoke when she claimed there were two guys inside of him, both fighting for supremacy.

  “I think,” Kris said, the mirth of a moment before fading away, “there’s just a lot of concern when you deal with head injuries. I’ve heard every scare tactic in the book, but the doctors here did clear me to play, and I’m looking forward to a great season.”

  There was only The Quarterback.

  He was born a quarterback, and he would probably die a quarterback.

  Thank you for reading!

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you so much for taking the time to read Quarterback, which I hope you enjoyed. It is always a tricky proposition to write a story steeped in the sports world, as too much time spent there will alienate some readers while not enough to turn off others.

  In trying to strike that balance here, I decided to aim my entire focus on Kris and his journey instead of the world around him. Wherever his path took him I was content to let it go, hoping that in the end it would tell the most compelling story. While he is a football player, I think the feeling of identity loss that comes with a major life transition is something everybody can relate to. If you have any thoughts, questions, or comments on the matter, please feel free to contact me at authordustinstevens@gmail.com.

  Finally, and I apologize in advance, but I need to ask a favor. If it is not too much of an imposition, I would welcome a review from you of Quarterback. Despite what some authors may say, I do read them all and take the comments very seriously.

  Much love,

  Dustin Stevens

  About the Author

  Dustin Stevens is the author of The Zoo Crew series, Be My Eyes, Scars and Stars, Just a Game, 21 Hours, Liberation Day, and Catastrophic. He is also the author of several short stories, appearing in various magazines and anthologies, and is an award-winning screenwriter.

  He currently resides in Honolulu, Hawaii.