Damage (3 page)

Apparently God was trying to tell you something, the other night at the Dairy Queen. Because He says it again—and louder—that very afternoon.

Everybody sees Heather when she shows up at the very end of practice; everybody except Coach and Dobie. Dobie’s got his head down; he’s pounding equipment into a duffel bag at one end of the bleachers. Coach has his back to her as she comes down the hill toward the track; he’s ending the session.

“Four more days till our first game,” he’s saying. Everybody’s gathered in a bunch facing him—and Heather. “I like what I saw this afternoon. You keep it up to this level Friday, we’ll stomp Burlington.”

Heather walks past Dobie, who doesn’t notice at first when she sits down at the other end of the bleachers, on the bottom row. She’s wearing a skirt slit up the middle,
and when she crosses her legs you’re not the only player who turns to watch.

“…no distractions,” Coach is saying, while Heather lifts her arms to pull her hair up, away from her neck. She holds it there with one hand, back arched, fanning herself with the other hand. Her skintight sleeveless top pays a proper tribute to those gravity-defying breasts.

“I’m counting on you all to keep your head in it, "Coach says.

Heather lets her hair fall back down around her shoulders, and recrosses her legs in the other direction Both sides of the slit fall away.

Curtis is the only player who isn’t looking at her now. Even Dobie has noticed. He stands stock-still, bent over the duffel bag, staring slack jawed down the bleachers at Heather as if he’s forgotten what he’s supposed to be doing.

“Keep up the good work,” says Coach, holding out his hand, palm down. Everybody gathers around him in a circle, piling hands onto his. “Panthers…Go!” everybody shouts, and the huddle breaks up. Short and sweet.

Heather stands up.

Brett Stargill perks up as she steps out onto the field. “Watching practice?” he asks, strolling toward her.

“Not really,” she says, not missing a beat as she passes him by and comes straight to you. “Hi, Austin.”

Her eyes are locked onto yours. Your clothes are
soaked, your face streaming with sweat. You know you smell to high heaven.

“Melissa had to leave early today, and I don’t have a ride. I was hoping you could give me one?”

Automatically, you flash her a grin. “Sure, if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes. I kinda need to get cleaned up.”

“You look fine to me.” Her eyes flick up and down your sweat-soaked, grass-and-dirt-stained practice uniform; it reminds you of the way your mother used to check out the stance of a horse she wanted to buy. “Just fine. I really do appreciate this.”

“Give me a couple minutes, and I’ll be right out,” you tell her easily—after all, this is Austin Reid’s home territory.

“I’ll just wait by your truck,” she says, and gives you a smile before she turns away.

You watch her walk for a few moments, until you realize you’re admiring the way her rear end sways and swings, the way her hair switches back and forth like a palomino’s tail. And suddenly you feel like laughing, just when you thought you were completely shriveled up inside.

You turn around and go straight to the field house to get cleaned up, quick as you can.

“You’re really thinking about asking her out, aren’t you?” Curtis’s voice is muffled by the T-shirt he’s pulling on. “Even though she’s got a heart about the size of a pea.”

His head reappears out of the neck hole; he pulls the shirt all the way down and reaches for the belt hanging in his locker. He doesn’t know that his words are like shotgun pellets trying to puncture you. And you hadn’t understood exactly how light you were feeling, till he said that.

You shake out a slightly used sock, the one you wore to school, and start pulling it over your foot. “She’s not that bad,” you say in a low voice. “You don’t really know her.”

“Neither do you.” Curtis threads his belt through the loops of his jeans.

“Nobody does,” says Dobie from the other end of the lockers. He scoops up one damp towel from the floor and reaches for another. “Nobody under the age of eighteen, anyway. She only likes them college boys.”

“I know her enough,” Curtis says. “Every year she gets more and more picky about who she smiles at and who she speaks to. Except the week before the Homecoming Court gets elected. Then all of a sudden she’s Miss Congeniality.”

It’s true, Heather’s not real outgoing. True, too, that she can really turn it on when she wants something.

Today, it looks like she wants
you.

“I’m not saying she doesn’t
look
good,” Curtis continues. “If you want to try to lay her, that’s your choice. All I’m saying is, don’t get all wrapped up in it.”

Silence. Dobie reaches for another towel.

“Do I ever get wrapped up in it?” you hear yourself say, feel that grin flash across your face.

“No,” says Curtis, his tone neither approving nor disapproving. “Look out, Dobe,” he adds drily. “Here comes notch number twenty-seven.”

“More like three hundred thirty-three,” you kid, bending to tie your shoe. Actually it’s more like number four—or five, depending on how you count.

“Notch?” Dobie asks.

“On his belt,” Curtis explains. “He’s exaggerating.”

“Not by much,” you say, and turn around and walk out to meet Heather.

“Don’t worry, it’ll cool down in here pretty soon,” you tell her as you’re easing the pickup out of the parking lot. “This old truck may not look like much, but it’s got a good air conditioner.”

Not exactly a sparkling topic. You try to think of something else, something that will at least open up a conversation. “So. You like football?”

“Yeah. Well, it’s okay,” she says doubtfully. “I mean, the actual game is just about
the
most boring thing in the universe. But I like the clothes. Like, the pads make you look all huge? And I like the way the pants fit.” She says it so frankly that for a second you think you’ve heard wrong. “I can really tell who’s in shape and who’s not. I’ll
bet I can even tell who’s a good player and who’s not. Like that guy with the red hair you were standing next to—”

“Rhinehart?”

“Whatever. It’s like, his pants are really saggy in the behind, which means he’s probably real slow and clumsy.”

“Well—”

“Whereas your pants fit nice and you’ve got good muscle tone, so I’m guessing you could really move out there, if you got hold of the ball. Am I right?”

She’s right about Rhinehart. You think about her sitting on the bench, watching so intently when Coach gave his talk. Only it wasn’t Coach she was watching.

“Are you blushing? Don’t tell me; you thought only guys check out bodies. And you probably think only guys talk about them, too.”

“I never really thought about it.”

“Well, girls check out, and girls talk. Are you curious what we say about you?”

She’s watching you with a little smile. Your fingers are gripping the steering wheel too tight; you flex them a little. “Not really,” you tell her.

“Yes, you are. It’s only human. Well, I’ll tell you. The feeling around school is that you should model jeans or underwear or something.”

Your face is hot. “Thanks for the info,” you say, still able to make it come out casual.

“You’re welcome.” She doesn’t seem to notice that the sides of her slit skirt just dropped open again, showing smooth, slender legs stretching clear up to Idaho. “On the other hand,” she adds, “you’re also known for not getting serious. Like you’re working your way down a list?”

“I don’t know what you’ve heard,” you begin, trying to watch the road instead of her legs.

“Oh, I’ve heard enough. Now, tell me, how is practice going? It must be horrible out there in the sun.”

“It’s not so bad. Not like two-a-days.”

“Two-a-days?”

“A couple of weeks before school starts, we work out twice a day. It’s like cramming a month of workouts into two weeks. So we’re out there pretty much all day.”

“My goodness. Doing what?”

“Warm-ups. Lots of sprints—Coach is real big on speed. All kinds of drills. And we run plays, of course.”

“Poor thing.” Heather scrunches up her face in a sympathetic expression. “It must wear you out.”

“Not too bad—not like last year,” you add.

“Was it worse last year?”

“I could hardly walk the first couple of days. Felt like somebody’d beat on me with a two-by-four.”

“Ooh. Sounds painful.”

“It was. The morning after that first practice, I swear I couldn’t even lift my feet off the floor.” You don’t add what Curtis said at the time, that he felt like an old man
the way he had to ease out of bed and shuffle into the bathroom to pee.

“Wow,” says Heather. “But not this year?”

“No. We’ve been doing all right. Curtis talked me into lifting weights over the summer, and that probably kept us in shape some.”

“Over the summer? You are
so
dedicated.”

“Plus, I worked all summer. Maybe that helped.”

“You’ve always looked in shape to me,” Heather says. “Where did you work?”

“Winn-Dixie. I was a night stocker.”

She asks about what night stockers do, about your family. You even find yourself telling her how Becky raises calves for 4-H, and she asks for more details.

It pumps you up a little, just having her here. You hardly ever talk about yourself—your friends already know all about you, and your girlfriends have always tended to talk about themselves.

Not to mention her legs, her body, her smile. It is a fact, she’s drop-dead gorgeous. The most beautiful girl in town, all ears and hell-bent on getting to know you.

Heather’s house is small, a painted white brick set far back from the street. The windows are shuttered from the inside. A long driveway edges past the house to an unattached garage at the back of the lot. You park in front and walk beside her up the sidewalk, boots clomping in time with the faint slap of her sandals.

On the concrete porch flanked by bushes on either side, you ask her. “Listen, I was wondering. Would you be interested in going out after the game Friday? If you don’t mind meeting me at the field house. I could in and run get cleaned up real quick, after the bus brings us back.”

“Hmm,” she says. “I’ve got plans already. But the next Friday’s open.”

“Sure, that sounds good. Or this Saturday?” An extra week suddenly sounds awful long. Too long. “Saturday night, I mean. Unless you’re busy then, too.”

“No, Saturday sounds good.”

So it’s settled. “Well,” you say, clicking on a smile—don’t want to look like some loser hanging around, hoping for a kiss—“I guess I’ll see you Saturday night then.”

She steps closer, and somehow—almost before all the words are out—she’s sliding her arms around your neck at the same moment you’re leaning forward, and you’re in the middle of a kiss. And then your arms are pulling her even closer, and gradually it becomes a full-length, hip-pressing, tonsil-toucher of a kiss that wakes up all your nerve endings from the roots of your hair clear down to your toenails.

You can’t help it, your hands slide down to her rear—and that’s when she pulls away just enough to touch her lips—or is it her tongue?—to your ear. “I’ve always liked
you, Austin.” Her whisper sends prickles down your neck, and then she steps back, peeling off your arms like she’s shedding old clothes.

She starts digging in her purse for her keys. “It took you long enough to ask me out,” she says. “I thought was going to have to hit you over the head or something.”

She pulls out a huge key ring, almost big enough to drive your pickup through, and when she turns her back to open the door, you stuff your hands into your pockets just to make absolutely sure you keep them to yourself. Your eyes, however, take a long slow trip all over her.

Heather opens the door, but instead of going straight in like you expect, she hesitates. Then she squares her shoulders, turns around, and looks you straight in the eye. “It’s going to be a good year,” she informs you, then turns and walks inside.

All at once, you believe it.

The only sound is the turn of the deadbolt. The front door has a glass panel in the center, etched with designs. Just for a moment, you can see Heather behind the scrolls and curlicues. The next second, she disappears through a doorway to the right, and then all that’s left is a living room—wooden floor, a couch, rugs scattered here and there, an armchair, pictures on the wall. Just a living room, like any other—but this one is Heather’s, and down that hall to the right must be Heather’s room, where she sleeps. In a bed. Mmm.

It’s five whole days till Saturday. You do not want to leave this porch. You can almost smell her perfume lingering in the air, and you’re not ready to stop floating on it.

You step off the porch and walk down that long sidewalk all by yourself. Getting into your truck is like slowly letting out a deep breath. You drive away, and everything inside you slowly deflates, till you’re bumping along the road like a day-old balloon that wasn’t quite ready to leave the ceiling.

The first game is an away game.

In the locker room at the stadium, Cody Billings, the center, takes the offensive line off into a corner the way he always does; Coach wants the linemen to keep to themselves, like a family. A few of the other guys are still messing around, but most are starting to get serious. Brett Stargill bangs his head rhythmically against the wall the way he always does to get himself pumped. Jason Cox leans against the same wall, helmet under his arm, eyes shut, oblivious to the crash and thunder next to him. Dobie edges past both of them with a roll of white tape, not wanting to disturb their rituals.

You do what you always do: walk around and around, more from habit than anything else. You don’t have those butterflies that always take flight in your stomach just before a game. You can’t feel a single one
fluttering inside. It’s as if they’re all dead, and all that’s left is their weight in the pit of your stomach.

Curtis sits on a bench next to the water fountain. He’s already off in whatever world he goes to before a game. On the bus and in the locker room, he likes to keep himself apart, likes to build his concentration to a pinpoint that’ll knock anybody to their knees if they happen to get in its way. Right now he has his helmet on, chin strap in place, and he’s leaning forward as if praying, elbows on knees as he stares at the floor between his feet.

You walk along the benches, around the freestanding lockers, and back. Placing each foot precisely on the floor—because that’s what you always do, because you’re always careful to keep the lid on, to keep all that energy trapped inside, ready to be unleashed at the right place and the right time. You can’t feel it tonight, but surely it’s there. Isn’t it? Way underneath?

On your third trip around the room, you stop to get a drink of water. Curtis is still sitting next to the fountain, but he doesn’t look up. You’re not sure he even knows you’re there. You straighten to wipe your mouth on your sleeve.

It’s scary, to feel nothing. What if you never feel anything again?

There Curtis sits, steady and calm as always. It makes you feel better for a moment just to be in the same room with him.

“A long time ago,” Curtis says to the floor, “when a guy was about to become a knight, he spent the whole night before getting purified. You know, like baths and prayer and getting dressed in ceremonial clothes. And the next morning, when they were about to have the ceremony itself, he’d have all his friends around, helping him to get armed. It was like a ritual.”

He raises his head then, and looks at you.

“Everything,” he says, “had to be done exactly right. First, the guy had to be one of the chosen. He had to have the ability, and the desire. He had to be ready on the outside—and then he had get ready on the
inside.”
Curtis pauses. “He’d use the time before the ceremony to get ready. You know what I’m saying?”

You nod. For Curtis, football is a moment of single-minded purity that last four quarters.

“And then,” he continues, “at the very last, he could put on his clothes and his armor and his weapons. And then he could become a knight.”

He stops as Coach comes in and calls everyone together. You look around the locker room, at everybody. Ankles taped, some right over the cleats. Wristbands and gloves. Pads strapped on. Snowy white socks and pants, and over them, the bright purple jerseys. Face masks like visors.

When Coach has everyone’s full attention, he begins.

“I want everybody playing hard for sixty minutes.
Don’t let up on these guys. Don’t even think about stopping till after you hear that whistle. I expect every one of you to play four full quarters of football.

“Make all your tackles. Make your catches. Follow through on your blocks. Defensive ends, cornerbacks: Don’t let any sweeps get outside of you. Contain, contain, contain!

“If I catch anybody making any mistakes, they’d better at least be doing it at full speed. You all clear on that?”

“Yes, sir!” everyone shouts on cue.

“I have never lost a season opener.” Coach’s voice echoes around the locker room. “Not as a player. Not as a coach. That is not going to change tonight.”

His words fall, coming to rest in absolute quiet.

“Now, we’re going to have a moment of silent thought.”

Coach folds his hands in front of him. Heads bow. You take another slow look around, at the helmets and pads, like armor.

Even Curtis’s head is down. You bow your head and stare at the floor. You visualize the scene:

The ball’s sailing right at you. Your hands are up and open, fingers spread. You watch the ball all the way into your hands. Wrap it up. Take off running.

You play the scene again. And once more. You’ve always had the ability to be the best. Tonight, you’ve got
the desire. It’s not like last year—still no butterflies. But you do want to be the best.

“Amen,” says Coach. The room rustles as everyone prepares to head for the field.

“Amen,” you agree. For once, you’re feeling downright hopeful.

The first touchdown of the season is yours.

First quarter, 0–0, and Stargill’s just picked up a first down—not much pressure, not yet. It’s long and out, just like at practice, and when you turn to look at Cox, the ball’s heading toward the exact spot you’ll be in a second. You don’t think at all, just stretch out till your fingers feel the firm scrape of pigskin. You tuck it in and run twenty-five yards, the final ten free and clear.

Last year, you scored fifteen touchdowns. After each you were so pumped you almost danced off the ground, raising your arms and yelling with the crowd. Last year, every little success sent you spiraling into the night air, high above the stadium.

Tonight, your feet cross the line and you feel nothing.

Smack!
Brett Stargill has hurled himself at you. Helmet meets shoulder pads and you find yourself being hugged, faceless, into purple cloth. Brett pounds your back in a wordless frenzy. You can hear the shouts of joy from the field, the cheers from the stands.

You suppose you might be smiling. Then again, you
might not be. Hard to tell, when you’re not feeling anything at all.

You drop the ball onto the turf and start walking back.

This was supposed to be the very best moment of the game. The first of a long line of best moments—the best of the season, maybe even your life.

When you get to the sidelines, Coach gives you a friendly slap across the helmet. “That’s it, Reid,” he says, “that’s the way.”

Coach seldom gives compliments, so you should be pleased. But his words skitter on the surface and float away, meaningless.

As soon as the extra point clears the uprights, the fight song comes blasting out of the band, too fast, as if somebody spiked the concession stand Cokes with adrenaline.

You barely hear it. You keep your helmet on. Keep your back to the stands. Watch the kickoff like it’s something that’s happening on TV.

The Panthers win, 21–17. But at the team meeting the next morning, Coach doesn’t seem to have noticed that fact.

“I couldn’t hardly sleep last night,” he says, plopping the game tape into the VCR. “Burlington’s got the worst offense in the district, and we gave ’em seventeen points.
We come up against a real team, we’re going to get plowed.”

You’re sitting there, attacked by the usual day-after-a-game soreness. Your muscles are stiff; your shoulders ache, and the backs of your thighs. Every once in a while your left ankle gets one of those twinges that feels like somebody’s tightening a screw in it.

“Looky there how high Billings comes out,” Coach says as he points to the screen. “See how he gets brushed off? Billings, you know better than that. I know you know better. Palmer, you got to pay attention to where that marker is. We should’ve had a first down right here.”

Inside you’re still feeling nothing, but it doesn’t seem so important now. Your body will keep doing what it’s supposed to do, at the time it’s supposed to do it. And everything will just keep moving around you, no matter what.

“Kemp, you have too much coffee before the game? That’s twice you let that guy draw you offsides. Twice! All he had to do was twitch his nose, and there you go.”

It’s impossible to get interested in game films.

All there is of Curtis are his long legs stretched out on the other side of Stargill. He’s sprawled in his chair, his attention on last night’s game.

“You guys on the offensive line have to give Cox more time,” Coach is saying. “Hernandez, you’re giving up too soon—keep driving till you hear the whistle. Nice
run there, Reid,” Coach adds, and sure enough, there’s number 83 on the screen. That’s you.

The tape rolls on. Every once in awhile Coach pauses it, hits rewind. Your eyes stay on the screen now, on number 83. He’s physical proof that you were there last night. And it’s good to have the aches and pains pinning you into your body. Otherwise you feel you might just disappear, sink through the floor with the air closing over your head as you dropped. All the chairs would come together to fill the space where you once had been.

“Now, what the hell was this, Rhinehart?” Freeze frame on Rhinehart of the saggy pants, caught in bewildered mid-lope, yards behind a guy he can never catch up with. “You look like you’re playing flag football at the Y! I’ve never seen so many mental errors in my life,” Coach announces. “When I was in high school, I would’ve rather died than made some of the screwups you guys pulled last night. It didn’t take a whole staff of coaches barking at us to keep us in gear. We took care of our own business.”

“Dogpile,” Brett Stargill says under his breath. His eyes are lit up; words are one thing, but pounding is something Brett understands.

“We kept our own heads in the game,” Coach says.

“Dogpile,” Brett says again, a little louder.

Coach gives him a sharp look. “You coaching this team, Stargill?”

“No, sir.”

“Then shut up.” Coach stands in the middle of the room, staring at nothing with furrowed brow. He sighs and rubs his forehead as if there’s too much going on in his head to even attempt to explain.

Then he looks across the room at Stargill, who wears his feelings on his face. At Cody Billings, who talks trash on the field then holds his own in a fight. At Ryan Hernandez, who explodes with each snap of the ball. “All right,” he says, almost to himself, and then he announces loud and clear: “Come Monday morning, we’re going to have a new drill. It’s time to get serious, gentlemen.”

Rhinehart sits with his eyes straight ahead, his pudgy cheeks splotched red and white. Curtis is sitting up straight now; Curtis who has been serious about football from the first time he put on a uniform back in third grade, in the recreational league.

You started playing football at the same time as Curtis. But number 83 is not on the screen right now, because he wasn’t on the field at this point last night. And right now you don’t feel that you’re anywhere at all.

“It’s going to be a good year.” Coach adds firmly, like he’s going to
make
it be a good year by sheer force of will.

It’s going to be a good year.

Something flickers inside you. The last time you heard those words was on Heather’s front porch.

You are going out with Heather tonight.

The thought has lain there since Monday afternoon, like a seed. Now it’s Saturday, and while everybody else is getting serious about football, that seed flutters to life.

I’ve always liked you, Austin.

The tape rolls on. The screen becomes a blur of swaying lines and battling bodies again. Faceless, like ants. Not one of them is as real as the tickle of Heather’s breath in your ear.