Blitzed (22 page)

"So what are you saying? You want me to come back to Silver Lake Falls in the offseason? I can do that," Troy says, desperate now, and I know he's grasping at straws, trying to find some way to avoid what I'm trying to say. “I love you and Laurie both. Don’t do this.”

"I have to," I whisper. "I won't ask you to quit being who you are. You’re the best damn football player in the league, and you are born for that field and this sport. But I can't follow you around. Laurie is young. Her feelings will heal. Maybe she'll forget some of it. But I can't have her dragged around the country like a piece of luggage. It's not fair to her."

"I—I can't just let you two go,” Troy says, his voice quavering. "I need you. Don't you realize the difference between last season and this season? It's you. You are the reason I'm doing so well. You are the heart of me, and I can't give up my heart any more than I could ask you to give up Laurie. Don’t do this. Not again.”

I try to answer, and I can't. Instead, I turn and run like a coward, leaving Troy behind. Getting to the car, I have to take a minute to clear my eyes before I can drive home, and I’m thankful that the players’ parking lot is in a different area.

It's perhaps fitting, then, that as I drive, the skies cloud up, and when I get back to Silver Lake Falls, the rain is falling like my tears. Because if Troy had asked me just one more time, I might have said yes, and I can't do that. It's not about me, after all. It's about Laurie.

I
feel
like I'm caught in a time loop, parked outside Whitney's house, knocking on the door. Patricia opens up, but this time, at least, there is warmth and regret in her eyes. "Troy."

"Patricia, I need your help."

"I know," she says, stepping outside and closing the door behind her. "But Whitney's made her decision."

"She's made the wrong decision!" I fume, turning in the front lawn to face her. "She's thinking with her fear instead of her mind and her heart! I know all the things Whit said to me were true, but that doesn't mean she and I can't be together. It doesn't mean I don't love her, or that . . . dammit, Patricia, I want to marry her! It doesn’t mean that there’s a flip side to everything she said—Laurie needs a father.”

Patricia nods and puts a comforting hand on my shoulders. "Five years ago, I let my hurt and fear keep you from contacting Whitney when you should have been able to. And, I'll admit, maybe a few old-fashioned ideas about a small town scandal flavored my thinking too. I made the wrong decision then, and in my opinion, Whitney's making the wrong decision now. But I also know my daughter. She's as stubborn and hard headed as her mother. I can't change her mind, but I will see what I can do. It's all I can offer."

I nod. "I guess that'll have to do, then. Is she at home?"

Patricia shakes her head. "She took Laurie to Vancouver for the day. She heard through Dani that today is your last day in town, and she thought you might stop by. Troy, she loves you, I know that. She's running because she's hurt and scared. Give her time. Your love survived five years and the Atlantic Ocean. I think it can survive the Southern Division."

I nod again. "All right. Listen, if I send you some packages, stuff for Laurie, can you hold onto them until Whitney's ready to let Laurie have them?"

Patricia nods. "I will. I don't want to be a jerk, or to be a moocher like your father was, but what about, you know?"

“It’s just some financial help. Whitney is, like you said, hard headed, and I know she’ll probably try not to accept it, even though she finally agreed that she would.”

Patricia nods, then gives me a hug. "You take care of yourself, Troy. Oh, and one more thing. Don't sell the Silver Lake Falls house. Who knows, maybe you three can live in it sometime in the future?"

I return the hug. "Thanks, Patricia. I guess I should go though. I gotta catch a United flight to Jacksonville. Movers already came by and packed up the basics I need. I'll still be living out of a hotel room for a few days though."

"You'll do fine, Troy. Just remember what's important, and play with your heart. It'll lead them back to you."

* * *

"
T
roy
, it's good to meet you. I'm Eric Morgan, your new head coach."

Coach Morgan is younger than my head coach on the Hawks, and while we've never met before, he's got a youthful, energetic vibe to him that at least partially lifts the cloud that's been over my feelings for the past three days.

"It's good to meet you too, Coach. Thanks for coming to the airport."

"Don't mention it," he said. "By the way, I also double as the defensive coordinator, so you and I are going to be working together a lot for the rest of the year. Did you watch any tape of us so far this season?"

"Just a little bit—your pre-season game against the Dons. But it was the first pre-season game, so you know how that is. Everyone looks pretty rough."

"Well, I'm not going to lie to you. We're still looking pretty rough on the defensive side of the ball. We've got a playmaker or two, and a scheme that I think you’ll like. But what I'm looking for is a leader and someone to energize my defense. I think you're that sort of guy. Now, if you've had the chance to listen to the media, they say we're in a rebuilding mode. I say that they're full of shit. We're going to turn things around starting in a week and a half. You're going to be leading that turn around on the defensive side of the ball."

Well, it could be worse. I'm being handed an opportunity, and Coach is enthusiastic about me playing for him. "All right, let's see what we can do."

"Great!" he says. We reach his Jeep, and he helps me put my bags in the back of the SUV, closing the gate before I go around and get into the shotgun seat. He starts up the engine, and we pull out and get on the freeway toward Jacksonville. "By the way, I know you're on a super-short timeline, so when we get to the stadium, I'm going to introduce you to your relocation assistance team."

"My what?"

Coach gives me a smile and a nod, knowing it sounds ridiculous. "Relocation assistance team, and please don't call them the RATs—they hate that. Until your first home game, you'll have a personal assistant, along with a real estate agent, et cetera to make sure that when you step on the field for us next Sunday, you're as settled in personally as you want to be. Are you thinking of renting or buying?"

"I was thinking of renting at first . . . nothing too fancy but not in a bad neighborhood either. Think there are options?"

"You're going to like it here in Jacksonville," Coach replies. "By the way, what do you want your hot name to be?"

"My what?"

"Sorry, my own term. Each of my signal calling linebackers has his own 'hot' name for when he calls stunts and audibles. I ask each guy to come up with two, so we can keep the other teams off guard. Of course, there's a bunch of other stuff you need to learn, but the hot name, that's all yours."

I nod, my decision easy. "Two, you say?"

"Yeah. Know what you want already?”

Two names come to mind immediately. “Yeah. Whitney and Laurie."

"Whitney and Laurie? Fine by me. Come on, let's get your paperwork squared away, let you meet the relocation team, and then we're having a team meeting and video session. You can meet your new teammates."

My personal assistant is a nice guy, and while I think the real estate agent might be a bit of a bitch, she's also got a good reputation, according to my assistant. I send him off to get the first thing I need, a rental car until I can sign a lease or buy something else, along with a personal request for a child's size 'Cats jersey with my number. I find out that I get to keep number 51, which I’m glad for.

Going into the video room, there's a little bit of stiffness and a faint air of hostility as I’m introduced to the guys. This defense knows what the media's been saying about them, and they know that I'm supposed to be brought in to turn around an underperforming unit. Hell, I'm the youngest starter on the defense, too, I find out. Shit, just what I need.

"Okay, let's keep this short, guys. I know we're on a bye week and most of you would like to spend some time with family," Coach says, and I wince, trying to put my feelings aside for a little while. "You okay, Troy?"

"Indigestion," I reply. "Sorry."

Coach nods, and the video session starts. I'm lucky. The 'Cats defense is already a 3-4, so I don't have to adjust, and from looking through the play book, the schemes aren't all that different, just a few wrinkles that I can adjust to pretty easily. As we wrap up around seven, I pick up my playbook and go looking for my assistant to get a ride to the hotel for the night.

As I sit outside waiting, I take out my phone. "Silver Lake Flowers, can I help you?"

"Hi, I'd like to order a dozen roses to be delivered to an art gallery in town," I say, running with it. "Do you think you can do that today?"

"Sure, we've got roses in stock," the florist says. "Where are you looking at the delivery?"

"I think the place is called Lakeside Gallery. You know the place?"

"Oh yes, I know where you're talking about. One dozen roses to Lakeside Gallery. Can I get the name of who the roses are for please?"

"Whitney Nelson. Hand deliver only to her."

"And who are they from?"

"Troy Wood."

"No fucking way."

I get that sometimes. This time, though, I don't smile at the recognition. "Yes, Troy Wood. How much will that be?"

The shop owner hums and bit, typing in his computer, then comes back on the line. "Nothing. Total charge, including tax, is zero dollars and zero cents."

"Come on," I say, not wanting to play the fame game. "I'm serious. How much?"

"Tell you what. Next time you're in town, you sign a Silver Foxes jersey for me, and we'll call it even. If you don't agree, I'm just going to hang up and deliver the flowers anyway. So you should say yes, and then you can give me a message to give to your lady."

I know when to give up, and sigh. "All right, fine. The message is simple. Please call. That's all."

"Please call, from Troy to Whitney. Okay, I think I can handle that. I’ll try and have them over there in an hour. If she's not there, do you have an alternate delivery spot or do you want me to try again later?"

"Try again later. Thanks."

"No problem. By the way, I don't know if it helps you, but that little stunt by the Hawks cost them six season ticket holders in town so far. Guess I'm going to be a 'Cats fan now. Kick ass down there, Troy."

I hang up just as my assistant pulls up in a rental car. "Here you are. Also, I talked with the agent at the car rental place, and they said they do long-term leases and even sales if you're interested. I told them I'd ask."

I look over the car, a Cadillac sedan, then nod. "That's fine. Let me try this for a few days, and I can make a decision. In the meantime, let's get me to the hotel. I've got a playbook to learn."

* * *

I
feel
a little strange in the new gear, and as I finish my stretches, I realize that for only the fourth time in my life, I'm wearing a new helmet and logo. From elementary school until junior high, I was part of the Silver Lake Hawks, my town's local Pop Warner team that of course modeled themselves off the nearby Seattle team. But the team was still a feeder system for the high school team, and starting in ninth grade, I wore the silver and blue SLHS on my helmet. Then I wore the green and gold of Clement University before going back to the real Hawk logo. Now, for the first time in nearly seventeen years of playing football, I was wearing black, without even a logo on the side yet that the team wears on their game uniforms.

I look around at the ten sets of eyes looking toward me, their eyes full of doubt and questions as we line up for our first set of downs in practice. "All right, lets see what I remember from last night's study and today's meeting. Slant Fade Cowboy."

The huddle breaks, and I look over at the scout team, a combination of third stringers and scout team players who are getting reps in. Still, they're pros, and I'm in the middle of a defense that doesn't know me or trust me yet. I need to make an impression and fast. When the quarterback gets under center, I call an audible.

I see the line readjust. At least they remember one of my
hot
words, and as soon as the ball snaps, I loop around, me and the outside linebacker coming on an X-pattern stunt. He cuts in to blitz inside while I fade to the flat he was covering, where I see the running back drifting over for the swing pass. Our opponents this week love this so-called 'West Coast' offense, and I nail the guy just as his hands pull in the pass, dropping him for a four-yard loss. "Glad to be here."

Practice continues, and by the end, I see confidence and wary acceptance by my new teammates as Coach cuts practice a little early. We're still on a bye week, after all, and we have plenty of time to start preparing for our next game.

I'm back in the locker room when my cellphone rings, and I look, my heart stopping when I see Whitney's caller ID. "Hello. Whitney?"

"Troy. Please don't send flowers. In fact, don't send anything. Please don't make this more painful than it is already."

I sag onto the seat in front of my locker, trying to contain myself. "Whitney, don't cut me off. I lo—"

The phone goes dead in my ear, and I’m tempted to try and see if my phone can break via hurling it into the concrete wall at the back of my locker, but I restrain myself when Coach comes by my locker. "Great practice out there, Troy. Defensive meeting in twenty minutes."