Blitzed (18 page)

"Sounds good. Besides, you need to at least wait until after we get back from our honeymoon," Pete jokes before growing serious. "Troy, Whitney . . . whatever you guys need, we'll be there for you."

"What we need is for you two to go get changed and go on your honeymoon!" I say with a laugh, smacking Dani on the butt. "Now go!"

* * *

"
S
o what did
you think of the lions?"

Troy is smiling and holding a box of popcorn as we walk through the Seattle Zoo, handing her a kernel. Laurie is still big-eyed, especially when she realized that Troy really is somewhat famous when someone came up to us in the zoo and asked him for an autograph. Troy happily signed the t-shirt the guy had, and from that moment on, Laurie's been nearly strutting, realizing that she's with the—at least locally—famous Troy Wood. She doesn't quite realize that Troy's famous as much for his good looks as he is for his football abilities, the two working hand in hand to ensure that if his playing ability grows, he could become a poster boy for the team, and a lot of endorsements too.

"They were kind of cool, but a little sad too," Laurie says as we reach the monkey enclosure. "I wish I could really see them, not all this concrete."

I'm amazed again at the intelligence of my daughter, who despite her willful obstinacy is also very mature and perceptive for her age. "Well, honey, there are other parks that have bigger spaces and more natural settings for the animals. I've heard that San Diego has a good wild animal park."

"Really? Can we go?" Laurie asks, and I have to smile at her innocence.

"I'm sorry, honey, but San Diego is pretty far away. We'd have to fly, and well, Mama's money is a little tight right now." Lorenzo contacted me by email yesterday, telling me that he had decided to end our business arrangement. While I do have my half of our business investment funds, I'm going to need to find a job, and Silver Lake Falls isn't exactly a hotbed for art aficionados.

“Later then," Laurie says contentedly, and she's soon entranced by the monkeys, whose play area is a lot more natural looking than what the lions had. As they play, Troy pulls me back and leans in.

"You didn't say anything about being short on money."

"It's okay," I say, patting his chest. "Really. I have enough until I can get a job. I'm talking with Colette's mother this week. She owns a gallery in town that caters to the IT nouveau riche. Besides, I'm an art dealer. It's kind of part of the trade. I'll be getting in contact with some of my clients this week too. I just have to work out the last of how to divide the client list up with Lorenzo. That won't take long."

"Still . . ." Troy says, looking at Laurie. "You know, we play San Diego in week eleven. Maybe a trip is in order?"

"We'll talk about that later. First, let's enjoy today. Remember, after we sit down for lunch, we can talk with her about other things, okay?"

Troy nods, and I nod in reply and take Laurie's hand. "Sweetie, Mama's getting a bit hungry. How about we grab some corn dogs?"

"What are corn dogs?"

"What are corn dogs?" Troy asks in mock horror. “You horribly denied young child from the savage lands!"

Laurie laughs again at Troy's antics and squeezes my hand. "I'm glad you play football, Troy."

Troy stops and squats down so he can look Laurie in the eye. "Why's that?"

"Because you're no good at acting."

Troy laughs and looks up at me, raising his eyebrow. "You are your mother's daughter. Come on, let's teach you what corn dogs are. My treat."

We go to the snack shack area and find a table that isn't too dirty for us to sit down, Troy clearing away the left-behind papers and tray while I bring over the corn dogs and big sodas. The three of us sit down, and Troy pauses when Laurie folds her hands and says grace. "Sorry, I forgot you've lived in Italy most of your life."

"Actually, Grandma taught me," Laurie says. "She says it's good to thank God for what he gives us."

"I can agree with that," Troy says, looking over at me. "I'm thankful every day for what has been brought into my life."

I blink, smiling and reaching out to take his hand, while Laurie takes her first bite. "Mmm, this is good!"

"Try it with the ketchup and mustard on it. Some people think it makes it even better," I say, dipping mine in. "So, Laurie, can Troy and I talk to you about something?"

"You are dating, right?" Laurie asks, and I'm taken aback at how smart she is. "I saw some of the old photos Grandma keeps at home."

"Yeah, Whitney and I dated back in high school, and we've decided that we'd like to start seeing each other again. Is that okay with you?"

"Uh-huh," Laurie says. “You're fun—I like you."

Relief washes over me. "Laurie, you know that Troy and I saw each other in high school. But I had you in Italy. Do you know why?"

"Not really."

"Well, at the time, I was doing it because I thought it would be good for your father," I say, and Laurie's head perks up. I rarely use the word
father
around her—I've wanted to prevent her developing any problems. "The reasons aren't important right now, but just let me say that I made a mistake, not letting you get to know your father."

She’s silent for a moment, not sure what to say, then innocently picks up her corn dog. "I know when I meet my Daddy, he's gonna love me like you do.”

"He does," I say, and Laurie turns her head to look at me inquisitively. "I left Silver Lake Falls after you were already in my belly. Laurie. Troy is your daddy."

Laurie drops her corn dog, looking at me, then at Troy. “He . . . is Daddy?"

"Yes, baby girl. And you're right, I love you very much," Troy says. He opens his arms, and Laurie's in his arms, the two of them laughing together, and I can't help but join in, all three of us having a family hug for the very first time.

Maybe there is a chance for happily ever after, after all.

N
early the whole
way back to Silver Lake Falls, Laurie is almost worshiping me as she rides in her car seat, and I feel slightly embarrassed. Twice after telling her, she stopped patrons at the zoo to tell them that Troy Wood of the Hawks is her daddy. I ended up signing more autographs than I'd done on a trip out in my entire pro career, and in the end, I had to beg off, explaining that I was having a day out with my family.

"No wonder you enjoy living in Silver Lake Falls," Whitney says as we glance back to see that Laurie has fallen asleep in her car seat. "That has to drive you nuts."

"It's not that bad, usually,” I reply, setting the cruise control on my car. "I'm not one of the big superstars . . . yet."

"So next year you're going to get mobbed?" Whitney teases, and I look over, smiling.

"Maybe. Now that I have you two in my life, I've got enough emotional content to power me to the Pro Bowl and more."

"Don't forget the looks that'll make you a poster boy, too," Whitney says. "And the best part is, they're all mine."

"Hmmm, maybe we can do Sports Illustrated then?" I tease back. "You know, they did a swimsuit edition of famous athletes with their significant others."

"You want me in a bikini for a photo shoot?" Whitney asks, and I grin. "You are crazy."

"No, just confident that I have the most beautiful woman in the world next to me," I say. "I guess we should talk about that a little now that Laurie's out too. Whitney, I'm not sure if there's a word to describe our relationship."

"I know," she says quietly. “Everything inside me is telling me conflicting things. When I look at you, when we danced at the party, or at the wedding . . . but if you had dropped to your knees and asked me to marry you last night, I'd have been hard pressed not to say yes.”

"I know," I say, glancing over. “It crossed my mind. Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt."

"It's just that . . . Laurie's been through so much in the past year or so. Lorenzo and me splitting, the plans to move to America, coming here, meeting you, Lorenzo leaving her totally . . . it's a lot for a kid her age to deal with."

"You can say that again. So I guess this means that at least formally, you'd like to take things slow?”

Whitney nods, her eyes full of worry. "Is that okay? I know how we're feeling, and I know that I denied you five years with Laurie, but can you wait a while on this? On me?"

I nod and look over at her. "I don't care if you want to call me your boyfriend, your man, your baby's daddy, or your fiancée. Or maybe even husband, if it comes to that. It's not going to change how I feel. Five years of you in Europe, not even knowing a thing about you, couldn't change my heart. Telling me let's wait until the offseason or next year is small potatoes."

"Off season? Why the off season?" Whitney asks, and I smile.

"If you want to have a honeymoon, the best idea is to do that during the off season. The Hawks may have given me this pre-season game off since it was, as the GM called it, a garbage game, but the regular season . . . well, I can't exactly take a week off to go to the Bahamas."

"The Bahamas? I like the sound of that," Whitney says. We're quiet for a while before she speaks again. "By the way, Cory told me you asked him about a trust fund? I guess that was for Laurie?"

"Yep. Regardless of what you just told me, or if Laurie accepted me or not, I’m going to take care of my daughter. I won't spoil her. I know you want my help in fixing that, but she's going to have a nice sum when she turns twenty."

"Why twenty?" Whitney asks.

"Just a good, round number," I reply. “You know, I don’t want to rush it, but sometime, maybe in the
off season
," I add with a laugh, "I'm going to ask you guys to move in with me."

"I know," Whitney says. "And when you do, I will say yes. But until then, Mom loves having us, and Laurie loves her grandmother. Let's give it some time for her to develop that relationship with her father, too."

"Sounds like paradise to me."

* * *

"
A
t least we
're a little bit lucky," Coach Claxon, our linebackers coach, says as the six rostered and four practice squad members of the Hawks linebacker corps meets around a conference table for our Monday positional meetings before starting practice at four thirty. "It's the Sunday night TV game, which means that the sun will at least be partially down when we step on the field. Kickoff's at six local time."

"Don't they have a roof on that thing?" Shawn, one of outside linebackers, asks. "Seriously, it's fucking Arizona."

"They do, and it's currently being repaired after an electrical problem with a rock concert last week blew out both of the motors that control the movement of the roof," Coach says, causing us all to groan. "So it's going to be hydro fans and electrolyte loading all game, gentlemen. If you pee your pants, just think of it as another way to cool off your legs. Hey, at least you aren't going to be the poor schmucks in the stands. The folks on the east side and catching the sun are going to roast before the second half starts."

"Now, moving on from that, Arizona's got a new look to their offense this year. You guys know they brought in a new offensive coordinator, and while we know what he liked to call at his old job, he's not revealed a lot to us so far in the pre-season. We're expecting that he's going to play a lot of spread—"

There's a knock at the door, and one of the coaching assistants—rookie coaches who are so far down the ladder in the coaching echelon that they don't even have job titles, just a lot of gofer and fill-in work—sticks his head in. "Coach Claxon? Sorry to interrupt, but there's someone here to see Troy Wood."

"If it's not Whitney or my daughter, tell them to wait or take a message," I answer before Coach can blow up at the poor assistant, who is obviously nervous. "Rules are rules, and we've got work to do."

"I understand that, but the facility staff is having a hard time with him."

"Then call the damn cops on him. Have security escort him out of the building!" Coach Claxon says. "Unless you want to tell Head Coach why my linebackers got out of our meeting late?"

The assistant is nearly stammering now, and I feel for the guy. He's just graduated college, and most of the players are older than he is. In fact, I'm the only player in the room that’s younger than he is, if only by a year or so. "Coach, I get that but . . . well, he says he is Troy's father."

My pen clatters on the table as it tumbles from my fingers, and I sit there, stunned. My father?

Coach Claxon looks over then considers it. "Troy, you’ve got ten minutes. Get him off the property before he gets arrested, okay? You know HC won't hesitate. We'll go over the nickel packages while you're out."

"Thanks, Coach. Sorry, guys," I say, getting up and following the assistant out of the room. Coach Claxon cut me some slack, but since I'm not slotted in any of the nickel packages unless both of the outside linebackers get hurt, it's not too bad. I follow the assistant, who’s noticeably relieved, and he leads me toward the practice field. "How long has he been here?"

"I was helping the kickers with their stretch work when he showed up," he says. "I'll be honest with you Troy. If he is your father, he looks like hell."

"I'm not surprised."

We don't say anything else until we reach the outer offices, where I see Dad surrounded by two security guards, one of them with his hand on his Taser.

"It's all right, guys, I'll walk him out," I say to the two guards. "Thanks for your patience."

"Whatever you say, Troy," one guard says, sticking to the protocol that they’re supposed to. Mr. Wood was the worthless bastard sitting in the chair, not me. "Coach is supposed to be here in five minutes though."

"We'll be out of here by then," I say. I look down at Dad, trying not to sneer. "Come on. We can talk on the way. That is what you wanted, isn't it?"

He gets to his feet, and I can see for the first time how different he looks. He's dropped at least twenty pounds, and his skin hangs in laps and wattles, with a rough, sandpapery texture that reveals a ton of exploded capillaries in a gnarly map of red lines. "What're you doing here, Dad? After getting out of jail, you didn't come back, and I figured you were out of my life."

After beating me, he caught himself a misdemeanor assault charge since I wasn't going to push the issue. They sent him to county for three hundred and sixty-four days, exactly one day short of a year, the most that is allowed under a normal misdemeanor charge, and after he got out, I was at Clement. Nobody had seen him in Silver Lake Falls in at least three years.

"You're looking good, Troy," Dad says, his voice hoarse. "Added some muscle."

"It wasn't that hard when I wasn't starving half the time," I say, and I'm surprised at the amount of rancor that is still in my heart. I thought I'd burned away the hurt a long time ago. "After Coach Jackson took me in, I put on weight easy. Hell, I had to be careful I wasn't putting it on too fast, actually."

"I've heard," Dad says. We reach the outside of the facility. "Troy, after I went to jail, I had a lot of time to think about things. Son—"

"Don't call me that," I growl in warning. "You lost the right to that term five years ago."

He swallows and nods, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Troy . . . I'm sorry. I screwed up my life, and I nearly screwed up yours as well."

"That you did. Is that all you came here for, to apologize? If it is, I need to get going. I've got a meeting."

He shook his head, wiping at his mouth. "I was going to stay away, I swear. When I saw how good you were doing at Clement, and then you signed here, I was so damn proud, even if that means nothing to you. But, all those years of me ruining my life . . . I'm paying the piper now, Troy. The alcohol, it tore me up something bad inside."

"Outside too," I noted. "Can you even feel that nose with all those exploded veins? You look like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Or just another alky on the streets."

"No, I got me a job," Dad says, and I see that he at least has a little bit of self-respect left. "But it's not a good one. It's here in town, cleaning up at a senior center, actually. But . . . the booze is biting back now. I need your help."

"What is it?" I ask, and despite myself, I feel concerned. Maybe Dad has changed. Maybe if fate, or God, as Laurie puts it, brought Whitney back into my life with my beautiful daughter as well, then maybe fate is bringing my father back into my life.

"The liver," Dad sighs, rubbing at his side. "I need treatment, but the cost . . . my insurance won't cover it all."

I nod, suspicious but still concerned. "What do you need?"

"Anything you can help me with . . . it'd be appreciated. They say the cost is ten thousand, but I don't know what that means after insurance covers their portion, and the time off work—"

"Stop," I say. Sighing, I put my hand on his chest. "You stay right here. I'll go talk to the secretary, see what I can do."

I rush inside, finding Tiffany, the receptionist, still in the front office. "Hey, Tiff, can you help me out?"

"What do you need, Troy?"

"That guy was my Dad. I know the team does it sometimes, so is there maybe a way I can draw on Sunday's game check? He’s got an issue I'd like to help him out with."

Tiffany bites her lip, then nods. "All right. But I have to report this to the GM, you know that, right?"

The League has gotten a lot better at not letting players blow through their money like some of the eighties and nineties spectacular flameouts did. So as part of the agreement with the owners, players no longer get paid in yearly lump sums, but in game by game checks, and players get a certain percentage of each check set aside in a retirement account, although I already talked with Cory about taking that and more of my retirement planning over. Some teams still allow a player to draw on a future check on an occasional basis, and on the Hawks, that policy is three times a season, up to one full paycheck. Anything more than that and you had to approach the team with a business plan or a damn good reason and go through financial counseling. In any case, the GM would find out.

"I know. Thanks. Cut it for ten thousand, made out to Randall Wood. He can put it away in his account, and he can't use it right away, you know?"

Tiffany cuts the check quickly. Her printer can create the checks against the account, and I take it out to Dad, who is still shuffling side to side, his hands jammed into the pockets of his baggy pants. "Here," I say, handing it to him and hoping that I won’t regret it later. "I'm going to ask the team to put a tracer on this check. You cash it or sign it over to some check-writing place, and I'll find out."

He nods and tries to find the words. Finally, he rasps a reply. "Thank you, Troy. Um, I don't know if I'm overstepping my bounds, but would it be okay if sometime . . . well, if we can maybe get together? Just for a hamburger or something."

"We'll see. Next time you want to come by, make it a Thursday morning around eleven. I have some open time then. But I have work to do. Goodbye."