Divisions (Dev and Lee) (35 page)

And anyway, practice is going to be a beast. I hurry out Thursday morning, only taking a few minutes to hug my naked fox before I’m up, throwing on a t-shirt and jeans, and heading out the door.

I don’t get to see Lee much at all for the rest of the week. I stay late every day; when I’m not watching extra film of the week 11 game, I’m running extra practices with Gerrard and Carson, and Zillo and Marais even join us.

It’s not just the fifty thousand dollars we’d get if we win Sunday, sealing the division title. It’s not just the week off, time to rest up while the other playoff teams beat themselves up. It’s pride. It is, as Coach reminds us, the announcement that we have arrived, that we are the alphas, the king of the hill in this division. Beating Hellentown twice in one season—something Chevali has never done before—would not only announce our arrival, it would slam the door and make everyone take fucking notice of us.

Those are Coach’s words, “take fucking notice of us,” snarled through his wolf’s muzzle, spit out as a challenge. I take it personally, because this has been my journey, to go from unheralded backup to defensive force people have to plan for.

It turns out I don’t take it as personally as some people.

Friday morning I drop off Lee at the airport on his way to get his things out of his mother’s house. He’s apprehensive about it, ears flat, hackles up, tail twitching, and he keeps trailing off in the middle of sentences. “She’s your mother,” I say. “It’s going to be fine.”

“I’m only half worried about what
she’s
going to say,” he says.

“You think your father will start something? He doesn’t seem like the type.”

He eyes me sideways and grins, though his fur doesn’t smooth down. “I don’t know what to expect. I think…”

“Listen,” I say, when he doesn’t finish. “Just remember, she’s more scared of you than you are of her.”

“Thanks, Ranger Rick.”

“I mean it.” We pull up to the dropoff zone. “Just think before you talk.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m a champion at that.” He leans over to kiss me. “I’ll keep you updated.”

It’s only after I drive away that I think maybe I should have told him, “hell with her,” or “stand up for yourself.” I’m so used to him doing that anyway that I just don’t think he needs my encouragement. But his tail was dragging as he walked in the door of the airport, and I wonder if he thinks I don’t support him. I decide I’ll send him a supportive text when I stop at a red light.

Only yeah, that never happens. Because when I take my phone out, it’s got three missed calls—I’d apparently muted it somehow without knowing—and there’s a text from a number I don’t recognize. It says,
Come talk to me before you say anything publicly
.

My fur prickles. Who the hell wants me to come talk to him, and why would I say anything publicly? I’m a couple miles from the stadium, so I turn on the radio. They’re just covering the weather, and I never listen to the sports talk radio so I have no idea what station it is. Wait, they interviewed me a month or two ago. It was… “All Sports 990”? Or was it 1090? I flip around the AM dial, and at 990 AM I hear a sports-talk voice I recognize from the interview saying, “…clearly just a tactic to get the Firebirds riled up and thinking about stuff other than football.”

“I don’t know,” his co-host says. “Sounds like it was just a stupid thing he said off the cuff.”

I pull into the parking lot and sit in the truck listening. Eventually they get around to the “if you’re just tuning in” part and they play the audio clip again. It’s one of the linemen for the Hellentown Pilots saying, “Whatever he wants to do with his life is between him and Jesus. I’m just glad I don’t have to be on the field at the same time, know what I mean?”

I turn the radio off and sit in the truck for a moment. I’d thought all this shit was behind me. My tail lashes against the seat, and my paws grip the steering wheel hard.

My phone, on the seat beside me, flashes with a call from another unfamiliar number. I swipe a finger across to ignore the call, and the text message comes up again. And then, I realize who it’s from.

Coach has all of our cell phone numbers. We were supposed to program his in, and maybe it was in one of those phones I threw at a wall. He and Gerrard are the only ones who would send me that message, and Gerrard’s number is stored in this phone; I remember transferring it over with Lee Christmas night.

So I get out of the truck, looking around warily for reporters, and thank God there aren’t any. Probably haven’t had time to get here yet. I leave the phone off and hurry through the locker room.

“Hey,” a couple guys call out, but nobody says anything about the audio clip. I get to Coach’s office and knock on the door, then let myself in when he answers.

“You heard this yet?” he asks, pointing to his laptop screen.

I sit down and nod. “The Hellentown guy? Is there more?”

He reads the quote again, just like I heard it on the radio. “Vince is on his way,” he says, “and he’ll handle the media, unless there’s something you want to say. Personally,” and he leans forward, eyes trapping mine, “I would let Vince handle it. You want to keep your mind on football. Give him a short statement if you want, or he can write something for you.”

“I’ll think of something.” I want to call Lee and ask him what to say, but he’s on a plane now, or maybe he’s not, but he might not have heard about it and I’m afraid he’ll want me to say something strident like “Homophobia has no place in professional football,” which is probably what I really should say, but I don’t want to start that argument and get all this attention back on me being gay. And if he tells me to say it and I don’t, then he’ll be upset. Whereas if I just say I did the best I could, at worst he’ll be disappointed.

Of course, if I know what he wants me to do and I still don’t do it, that’s just as bad as if he tells me and I don’t do it. That’s my problem to deal with, though.

“Short statement,” Coach says. “And then back to practice. Winning this game is your top priority.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, and at that implicit dismissal, I get up.

Gerrard and Charm look up as I come back into the locker room. “What’s going on?” Charm asks, and a bunch of other people turn their heads at his booming question.

“Some guy on the Pilots made a shitty remark about me and Jesus,” I say. “Vince is handling it.”

“You and Jesus?” Charm shakes his head. “Dude, here I thought you already had a steady boyfriend.”

I wish I could laugh appropriately at that, like a bunch of the guys in the locker room do. Colin, sitting alone in front of his locker, scowls, but looks away when he sees me looking at him. “Yeah,” I say, “well, let’s just ignore it and practice.”

Gerrard looks pleased at that. Maybe that helps when Vince comes to yank me out of calisthenics twenty minutes later, because Gerrard barely gets that look of annoyance on his coyote muzzle that happens whenever someone disrespects the game or the preparations for it.

“Okay,” Vince says, “here’s what I recommend you say: ‘I prefer not to bring personal beliefs into this game. I look forward to a good game Sunday that is all about football.’ How’s that sound?”

“Good,” I say. Lee is definitely on a plane now. I can’t call him to ask. Vince pats me on the shoulder and gets ready to go, and then, as if a fox is guiding it, my paw reaches out to stop him. “Except…”

He perks his ears, sharp little muzzle turned up to me. “What? Something else?”

I take a breath. “Can you also say…can you say something about how I think this game has room for all kinds of people, anyone who can play?”

He makes a clicking noise with his tongue while he thinks. “Not bad. Good, hit the inclusive angle. Still taking the high road. Yeah, we can work that in. Just don’t let your goddamn agent call any press conferences.”

I shake my head. “Where were you three months ago?”

“Hey,” he says. “You’re new, you got hit with this all at once. For my money, it worked out pretty good. Anything happen with Lee?”

Worked out pretty good? I’m still trying to figure out if I agree with that when it sinks in that he asked a question. “Um, he’s up north getting some stuff from his mom’s house. Why?”

“I mean about the job.”

“Oh oh! They called him, but I don’t know if he’s going to take it.”

“Ah well.” Vince flashes me a shiny weasel grin. “We tried.”

“Yeah, thanks for setting that up.”

“No prob. And don’t worry about this. It’ll blow over. Just don’t let it distract you.”

Easier said than done. I run drills, I watch film, I study plays. I go through all the practices the coaches have set out for us, and I work with Zillo a lot, on Steez’s orders. “Not as good as you,” he says to me privately. “But he is next on list. Marais working with Gerrard, Zillo works with you.”

“What about Carson?”

Steez grins. “If he would say more than two words, I would give him Zillo to work with. You talk, you make friends. Work with the coyote.”

So I study with Zillo, talk to him, help him along. All the while, I’m thinking about that guy calling me out, implying, what, that I’m going to Hell? That I don’t love Jesus the way he does? I hate being singled out, and during the practices where we’re on the field with the defensive backs, I’m hyper-aware of Colin every time I see him. It starts to feel like he’s the one who said that about me. Because I know he would, if he didn’t think his teammates would murder him for it.

Zillo, pretty sharp, notices. “Hey,” he says, “don’t freak out about Colin. He’s been good about being quiet.” I mutter something noncommittal, and the coyote’s ears flick down. “Yeah, I know, I’m sure he agrees. That’s just how he was raised.”

“He’s not even trying to change.”

“Well…he doesn’t think he should have to. I mean, you get to be who you are.”

“Yeah, but who I am doesn’t constantly disrespect who he is.”

He considers that. “All right. I guess you got a point there.”

Because we’re both tired of that subject, I make an effort to ignore Colin, and we talk about other stuff. Zillo has a girlfriend, a coyote he met online. “Funny, huh?” he says. “I mean, I get lots of girls, but I have to go through some anonymous Internet service to meet a good one.”

“Life’s like that,” I say.

He hesitates for a moment and then goes ahead and asks, “How’d you meet Lee?”

A smoky bar, a fox in drag, a slight haze of beer. I cough. “Um, in college. Hey, let’s look at these Hellentown plays again.”

Lee calls that afternoon to let me know he got in okay, and to tell me he’s heard this whole controversy. I call him back from the locker room once I’m dressed. “I liked your answer,” he says. “You could have been a bit stronger.”

“You were on a plane,” I say.

“I know. I was going to say, you could have been, but it’s probably best you didn’t. Don’t let it take your mind off football. Win that game Sunday.”

I relax, leaning forward with elbows on my knees. “How’s your dad?”

“Much the same as when you saw him two days ago.”

“Thanks, doc.”

I can almost see his grin. “We’re good. I’m still worried about how tomorrow’s going to go, but I had a couple glasses of wine this afternoon, so I’m not as worried as I might be. Haven’t talked to Mother at all, but he says she knows we’re coming.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks, stud. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I feel better having his approval. Maybe this thing will work out after all. He didn’t press me to be some kind of spokesperson for the movement, to evolve my thinking or anything. I leave the phone muted, and I walk out of the facility.

There are a few reporters there, but fewer than I would have thought. “I’ve already released my official statement,” I say, and wave them all aside. A leopard from one of the local stations persists, asking if that’s all I have to say on the subject, and I say, “I’m focused on winning the game and the division on Sunday. That’s all.”

They fall back as I walk toward the parking lot fence, and then one shadow separates itself from the fence, dappled with sunlight—no, those are spots on his black muzzle, and on the peach-colored silk shirt. “No camera,” he says, holding his paws up, and then I recognize Brian.

My fists clench. “What do you want?”

“Temper,” he warns. “There’s reporters just nearby.” He inclines his head at the leopard, standing some fifteen feet away.

“I’m not going to hit you,” I say. “Probably.”

“I just wanted to know your thoughts on this homophobic comment. Is this the sort of thing you think is okay in the league?”

“I’ve made a statement—”

“Yes,” he cuts in. “I’ve read your bland, media-friendly statement. I wanted something more personal.”

“Sorry,” I say, and start away.

“What does Wiley think of all this?”

I shake my head and reach for the gate into the parking lot, and Brian calls out, louder, “You know he’s not telling you everything.”

Just walk away. Just let it go. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “I think he’s not telling you everything,” I say.

“I’ve known him longer, you know. It’s killing him, not being able to go all out for gay rights like he wants to.”

The leopard listens to us, aware he shouldn’t be and yet still a journalist, knowing there’s a story here. I cover the distance to Briain in two strides, so quickly he flinches back, glances over to the reporters for support. His black and white tail flicks up, and this close, I get a sniff of his musk over the desert air, similar to my fox’s, but sharper and more bitter. I show my open paws to prove I’m not going to deck him, and I hiss as low as I can, “I’m not stopping him.”

He recovers a little, enough to smirk up at me. “You’re not supporting him. You won’t even take a day out of your schedule to do something that’s really important to him.”

“What, that PSA spot?” I snort. “He understands how important this game is, that’s why I couldn’t take Monday to do it.”

“Oh,” Brian says, “he hasn’t even asked you yet. How preciously sad.”

“What?” My fur prickles, and cold grips my chest.

“No, no, never mind. If you’ve already castrated him so he doesn’t even want to ask, then it’s certainly not my place.” He steps back, keeping his eyes on me.

“There’s no reason I should trust a single thing you say.”