Divisions (Dev and Lee) (17 page)

But Brian. I don’t know if I can deal with him. And if I know him, he won’t make it easy for me to join Equality Now and
not
deal with him. Not to mention the tension with Dev. His claws came out just at Brian’s name. I’ll have to be really careful, keep him informed every step of the way, and that’ll chafe at me, I know. I sigh. The things you do for love. I’m strong enough, and I have to do this. Vince would’ve been on the list of players I recommended to Emmanuel. Now he’ll never get that chance. Somewhere—many somewheres—there’s a gay kid starting for his college team who’s still scared, who deserves better than to end up with a hole in his head.

“Firebirds fan, eh?” An otter a little ways down the bar distracts me from those morbid thoughts. We talk about the season so far and pass a pretty enjoyable couple hours until my phone buzzes. I don’t tell the otter that it’s my Chevali Firebirds boyfriend calling; I just tell him I need to head outside to take it.

“So,” I ask as soon as the door swings shut behind me, “what happened with Vonni?”

“Oh,” he snorts, “got fined a thousand bucks for missing curfew. Charm laughed at him, said it’s easy enough to sneak out after curfew, no excuse for missing it.”

“I mean—”

“I’ll tell you later.”

He’s probably just making me wait to hear because I was right and he doesn’t want to admit it. “Tomorrow night?”

“Yeah. Hey, you hear about this thing with Lightning Strike?”

“I was going to ask you that. Is it final?”

“Sounds like it. They’re not reporting it yet, but the coaches on offense told the guys there to be ready Monday or Tuesday.”

“Wow. Good luck with that.”

“I know, right? Still, I won’t have to worry about him much.”

I grin. “He’s worried about you. Already said a couple things to the media about playing with you.”

“Really? Shit.” There’s some noise as Dev fumbles his phone around. “You think maybe he’s…?”

“Gay? Probably not. Too showy. I think he’s just attention-seeking.”

“I guess you’d know better than I would.”

“You’ll find out pretty soon. Maybe you can introduce me.” I swish my tail, leaning against the wall outside the bar.

“Maybe.”

We sit quietly on the phone for a few seconds. “Everything else okay? You ready for the game?”

“Pretty ready,” he says. “Ready as we can be.”

“Good.” I turn my head. Inside the bar, I can see the college game wrapping up, another one starting on one of the other TVs. “You know what to do. Go do it. I’ll be watching.”

“Thanks, fox. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I hold the phone in my paw, tail wagging in the mild evening air. The sky is a gorgeous purple-blue on one side, streaked with gold and pink and orange on the other. The last rays of the sun light up the tops of the buildings against the violet backdrop, with pink-tinged clouds framing them. The air’s definitely gotten a little chillier, too. I hug my arms around myself and enjoy the view for a little longer before going inside to catch up on the games and order myself some dinner.

Sunday. Game day. Sunday mornings are the best, because you’re a week removed from getting beat up the last game, and you’re all excited to go play in this one. Charm and I get up, rib each other through breakfast, and head down to the stadium with the team. We go through our morning stretches and then head off to sit with our units for a couple hours. Because we’re on the West Coast, we’re playing a late game, so we have time to watch the early ones before we kick off. The coaches don’t try to cram plays on us at this point in the week; if we don’t know ‘em, we don’t know ‘em. Gerrard does, sometimes, but he’ll do it while watching the other games. He’ll point out some play on defense and say, “See, look how they execute that.” Carson stays quiet, but me and Zillo, we’ll say, “Hey, c’mon, we’re trying to watch the game.”

Honestly, I don’t really watch much the morning before one of our games. I’m too keyed up, thinking about what I’m going to have to do, running through plays in my head. So mostly I don’t want Gerrard putting more pressure on me.

But one of the games puts a lot of pressure on all of us. The Hellentown Pilots win again, their third straight since we beat them in Hellentown to take the division lead. So they’re nine and four now, only half a game behind us. We watch the final go up in Freestone, 30-13, and the room goes quiet before Charm says, “Keepin’ it interesting.”

“Gotta win today,” I say, and Pace and Vonni, near me, agree animatedly.

Then we get ready and dressed. Aston walks around the locker room shoulder-punching all the starters, with his chant of “Game time! Game time!” A bunch of the guys kneel in a prayer circle. Charm takes out a photo from his locker, which I happen to know is of the Penthouse Miss October 2006, and kisses it for luck. Vonni and Pace come over in their tight Ultimate Fit clothes and ask me if they have the Ultimate Fit and I tell them they do. Vonni takes out a picture of his wife and kisses that. Charm asks if he can kiss her too, and Vonni tells him to fuck off. I wonder if Vonni’s thinking about the leopard, or if that even matters to him.

Me, I have my own pre-game ritual. When we walk out onto the field, I turn my head and look up into the stands, into the section where I know my fox is sitting. Back in college, I used to be able to see him. These days, I have to settle for just identifying where he is.

Here in Yerba, he got pretty good seats: high up in the lower level, around the near 20-yard line. I still don’t see him, but I know he sees me looking, and that’s what matters.

The introduction of the players is interesting here. I get a bunch of cheers from some of the higher sections, and look up to see rainbow flags with “#57” on them, signs that say “FRISKY FOR MISKI,” and a lot of standing, cheering guys. I give them a wave and then get to my sideline.

Things seem to happen in slow motion until the action starts. Even the introductions take forever, the singing of the national anthem sounds like the joke one they did on that cartoon show a few years ago, and the coin hangs in mid-air longer than a punt. But finally, the toss is over, we win and choose to receive, and our offense takes the field.

It’s a big, chilly, windy stadium, and the wind makes field goals and extra points tough. Today the wind is gusting around, but no more than usual. Long passes might be tricky, but we don’t throw a lot of those anyway.

Aston looks pretty good to start with. Lots of short passes, lots of handoffs to Jaws. We get about to mid-field and then the drive stalls and we have to punt. But Gerrard and Carson and I have been watching their linebackers, and Gerrard points out, quietly, where there are some flaws in their plays, how we can do better. Steez talks with him and radios information upstairs to the offensive coordinator when he thinks it’ll be useful.

Then Yerba has the ball, in their maroon uniforms with gold trim, and we go out there in our road whites, red numbers with gold edging. I’m jumpy, my tail is lashing, and I’m fidgety until we’re standing there on the other side of the twenty and the Yerba team is huddled across from us. I look up at Lee’s section, and I’m calm. I know I can do this.

We get off to a good start. They run on the first two downs, and all I do there is run into the pile of guys trying to bring down the running back. On third down they bring in a mule deer at running back, and this guy rarely carries, so we’re alert for a pass. And sure enough, they throw to the sideline, Carson’s side. We’re ready for it; he brings down the runner short of the first down, and Yerba punts. We head back to the sideline feeling pretty good.

That feeling lasts all of two minutes. On second down, Aston’s pass is tipped at the line of scrimmage. One of the Yerba linebackers, a cougar, plucks the ball out of the air and sprints to the end zone. Aston looks stunned; only Jaws gets close to the guy before he scores.

Our special teams unit salvages a small amount of our dignity by blocking the extra point, a rabbit named Cliff leaping to get a paw on it as it sails over him. Those guys come back to the sideline to cheers as if they’d just scored a touchdown themselves.

Then our offense has to go out again, and they go back to the grinding ground game. Aston tries a long pass, which flutters long past the arms of Zaïd, the cheetah it’s aimed at. He does get a short pass to Rodolf, our top wideout today, which the white-tailed deer takes down to the nineteen before stumbling and losing his momentum. Then Jaws runs the ball three times in a row, getting to the corner of the end zone on the last try, and after we make the extra point, we’re up 7-6 and not feeling so bad about things anymore.

But they play conservative, getting three yards here, four yards there. Not much opportunity for us on defense to make a big play, take the momentum back. They drive down the field and power their way into the end zone, and this time the extra point sails through cleanly. 13-7.

That’s how we go in at halftime. My ribs hurt again, though at least it’s less than last week. Not even worth mentioning to the trainer. The foot I hurt while filming the commercial got twisted out there, too, but I just have to walk that off. In the locker room, Coach gives us a good encouraging speech about how good we are and how we just have to realize it.

On the defensive side, we nod and huddle around our coaches, trying to work out game plans for the second half, but you can see some grumbling on offense, especially the wideouts. Rodolf and especially Zaïd openly wonder which one of them will be losing playing time when Strike shows up, and the coaches just say they’ll make that decision over the course of the week. “Bullshit,” Ty mutters to me as we head back out onto the field. “They know. They just won’t tell us ‘cause they don’t want anyone to quit. Want ‘em to think they’re fighting for a spot.”

“Least you shouldn’t worry,” I say. “You’re a slot receiver. Anyway, isn’t Strike just going to get Ford’s touches? Why does someone have to lose one?”

Ty laughs, a sharp bark. “Rodo says when you bring in someone like Strike, he won’t be happy with just what Ford was getting. Someone’s going to drop some numbers.”

“I don’t see Strike playing in the slot,” I say.

“I could be a number one,” he says, flexing his paws. “Don’t know if I’ll get the chance here, now.”

“Stick around…” I start to say, and he laughs.

“Sticking around ain’t part of the business. Why wait five years here when there might be an opening in Port City? You know, now that they’re down to zero quality receivers.”

“Port City stinks,” I say.

“Won’t always.” Ty grins. “Anyway, it’s a crapshoot. Might as well get your paycheck, right?”

“Didn’t you already buy your mom a house?”

He shrugs. “Ain’t bought myself one.”

That’s still on my mind as we take the field, on defense, but as I line up, I drive it out of my head and get back to the game. On first down, we’re set up for a run, but they aren’t, and Gerrard is just yelling at us to get back when they snap, and the quarterback heaves the ball down the field. Gerrard and Carson and I break off from the pass rush when we see the ball go up, and hustle downfield, but we have to stand and watch as their fox makes an acrobatic grab and tumbles to the ground at the six-yard line. And Vonni, trailing him, pulls up short and doesn’t touch him to make sure the play’s over—a player who falls down can get up unless an opposing player touches him while he’s down. We’re yelling at him as he turns to us, but he doesn’t get what we’re saying as the Whalers’ fox scrambles to his feet and lunges to the end zone.

Fuck. Vonni gestures to the refs, saying he touched the fox on the way down, the refs are walking away from him, and there’s nothing we can do about it. The Whalers all jump around celebrating as we walk off. They kick the extra point and it’s 20-7 and we can really feel it slipping away from us.

The defensive coordinator walks around talking to all the defensive groups. “We’ve made a couple mistakes,” he says, “but we can turn this game right back around. We just need to hold them, make a big play if we can, and trust in our guys to put points on the board.”

So we watch Yerba’s defense, hoping our guys can put points up against them. They could use another good linebacker, I think, watching their #52 flail at a pass that gives us a first down. And if Lee does get a job here, and they make me an offer…I look up at the “FRISKY FOR MISKI” sign again. It’d be nice to live and work in a city where I could maybe walk around with Lee, paw in paw. Where we could go out to eat together without worrying about what some homophobic jackass might do. Not that Lee worries about it all that much.

Gerrard nudges me and points out another play, and I snap my attention back to our offense. They’re really rolling on this drive, staying on the field for a good six minutes, giving us a chance to catch our breath. Not that we really needed it, only being on the field for one play, but Steez points out that we’ll be fresher than they will in the fourth quarter. And when Jaws powers through their line for a score and Charm adds the extra point, we get some hope and energy back.

We jog out to take our positions. Gerrard reminds us of what we’re expecting from them, and I run through the play positioning in my head. I know where I need to be and where I need to go. They don’t go deep again on first down, going back to the power runs, but we’re ready for them. Gerrard spots the holes in the line and throws his body in there, clogging the lanes and holding them to two and one yards on the first two downs.

The mule deer comes in again at their RB slot, so we shift to pass defense. I keep an eye on the deer, remembering Corey trying to tackle the New Kestle deer by his antlers, which effectively spelled the end of his career with Chevali. So I resolve to go low in the unlikely event that I have to tackle him. But when they snap, the deer does break to my side; it’s a screen pass, I feel it. I know where the ball’s going to be almost before the quarterback cocks his arm to throw.

Into the gap I leap, paws high. I can see the ball landing in them, and there’s nobody between me and the end zone. Defensive touchdown, tie the game or maybe put us ahead, and plus I’d impress the Yerba guys watching. I remember the feel of the interception at Aventira, and it’s so close here—

I feel the air of the ball’s passage against my paws—and nothing else. I land and spin around to see the deer cradling the football, charging ahead. Gerrard and Pace, the jaguar who plays safety, charge forward to meet him as I’m chasing him from behind, but he’s still well ahead of the first down marker before Pace slams into him and my arms close around his legs and we bring him down.

The deer gets up and pauses, looking at me. “Good gamble,” he says, trotting back to the line.

I stare. “What the hell did that mean?”

Gerrard gestures me back to the line. “He’s just trying to get you to take more chances. We have to focus on stopping the play, not on showy interceptions.”

“I had that,” I growl. “Nine times out of ten, I have that.”

Nobody says anything about it, back in the huddle. Everyone would’ve done the same thing in my place. We get back into formation and go back to work.

We can bottle up their runners, but we have less luck against their short, quick passes. When Norton, the cheetah at the other corner position, leaps for an interception and misses, allowing a first down, I feel somewhat vindicated, but I don’t feel any better. At least we manage to hold them to a field goal attempt, and then our special teams unit blocks that, too, and they come away with no points.

So we feel pretty good, going into the fourth quarter down 20-14 but coming back. Our offense keeps driving down the field, to midfield, to their thirty, and then I’m huddled with Gerrard and Carson, Steez and Zillo and Marais, talking about tweaks to our plays, when I hear a huge cheer from the crowd.

We all look up and see a wolf in a Whalers uniform sprinting past our sideline with the football, Jaws and Ty and Rodolf in pursuit. Rodolf is the one who catches the wolf, after Ty herds him back toward the sideline, and they all go down in a tangle at our fifteen-yard line.

“Suit up, boys,” Gerrard says as they replay the fumble and the Whalers’ recovery on the big screen. We all shove our helmets on and trot out grimly to defend a short field.

The crowd is going nuts, louder than they’ve been all afternoon. I line up and stare ahead at the line. On a short field, I can always feel the weight of our end zone at my back, like it’s a living thing and I need to stop these guys from getting to it. I’m so intent that it’s only when Gerrard’s helmet bumps mine that I realize he’s yelling something at me.

“Sweep strong!” he yells into my ear, pointing, and then goes back to position. Carson has the same tense alertness I’m feeling, both our tails flicking from side to side waiting for the snap. If they run a sweep to the strong side—Carson’s side—then my responsibility is to come across the field and make sure they don’t double back. Carson meets the runner and Gerrard is his backup, in front of the play.

But I get blocked at the line by one of their wideouts, and later, on replay, I’ll see the same happen to Carson. And meanwhile, the quarterback fakes the handoff to the runner and keeps the ball himself, darting through our line for six before Pace finally gets to him. They hurry back and snap without giving us time to set up, showing the sweep right again, and this time we’re second-guessing so I spy the quarterback and Gerrard does the same but they actually do run the sweep and the wolverine running back dodges Carson and Pace and drags Vonni into the end zone.