Hail Mary (9 page)

“Wait, wait, wait. We need to roll it back a few years. How exactly did you know him at Wisconsin?”

Deciding there was no shame in it for either of them, Mary filled her in on their tutoring sessions.

“And you never had any contact with him before you ran into him a few weeks ago?”

Mary shook her head. “Nope. None. I graduated that year and we didn’t stay in touch. We didn’t even have a friendship. I tutored him. We never talked about our friends or our families. Well, I should say he never talked about his friends or his family. Or even football. Our sessions were strictly work sessions. We reviewed his homework assignments and I administered practice tests.”

“Is he dumb?”

“No!” Mary was horrified. This was exactly why she was hesitant to disclose how their relationship began. “Not at all. On his placement tests, he’d placed into Calc II and was saddled with Larkins. You remember how he was, all expectations and no explanations. I think Michael received a C on his first test, freaked out, and signed up for tutoring. As far as I know, he ended the class with a high B.”

“Oh good. I can’t see you with a man who wasn’t smart.”

“You’re putting the cart before the horse, woman.”

“No, I’m not. He wants to get into your pants.”

“No he does not.”

“Yes he does. When you two finally do it, I will definitely be saying I told you so,” Calleigh teased. “What are you going to do about him?”

Mary shrugged. “I’m not planning to do anything.”

“Oh no. Doing nothing is not an option. Mary, for a romantic woman who puts more stock in faith than any other person outside of a convent, you are missing the divine signs here.”

“I’m not interested in embarrassing myself. Again.”

“Again? What are you talking about?”

“I’m embarrassed he came over only because he felt obligated.”

“Get over it. That wasn’t why he came over and the sooner you accept it, the sooner you can get into his pants.”

Mary laughed. “He does wear a fine set of pants.”

“You check out the game today?”

“Sure did.”

“Me too. Who knew men could make tight pants look good?”

“It’s a mystery.”

“You like him, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be embarrassed. If you like him, you like him and you need to go for it. If I know anything it’s that we only get one shot. If you don’t take your shot with Michael, you’ll never know if anything could have happened. The worst thing that could potentially happen, which I do not consider a real, bona fide possibility, is nothing happens. Big deal.”

“Easy for you to say. You’ve never been rejected in your life.”

Calleigh’s soft laughter carried through the wind. “What makes you think I’ve never been rejected?”

“Let’s see. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve consistently alternated between serious, long-term relationships and casually dating a plethora of different men.”

“Well, believe it or not, I’ve been rejected.”

“By who?”

“David Shalvington.”

“Wait. The guy from the Tide?”

“A guy on my soccer team and the Tide’s general manager” Calleigh had played soccer as long as Mary had known her. At Wisconsin, she’d constantly urged Mary to join her intramural league and gauged her interest in playing on her co-ed indoor recreational league at least once annually.

“Small world, him working for the Tide. Anyway, he actually turned you down?”

Calleigh’s hesitation in answering was all the ammo Mary needed.

“Ok, Miss-You-Should--Ask-Michael-Out. Did you ask this guy out?”

“Not exactly.”

“What do you mean, not exactly?”

“I haven’t explicitly asked him out, but I’ve made it abundantly clear on numerous occasions that I’m interested.”

Mary shook her head.

“You’re giving me grief when you haven’t even asked him out?”

“Well,” Calleigh waffled, “I’ve given him plenty of opportunities to take the initiative. After so many times when he hasn’t, it wouldn’t have felt right for me to ask him out. It seems desperate.”

“Calleigh Stuart, I am in shock. You sit here lecturing me about not asking Michael out, and you’ve been crushing on a man who you haven’t done anything about.”

“I know, I know. I’m a terrible person. A total hypocrite, but I can’t do it.”

They rounded the corner at Walgreens and headed north on Northwest Twenty-First Avenue.

It would be good for both of them to embrace the new millennia, Mary thought, and digress from their typical comfort zones.

“Let’s make a deal,” Mary propositioned. “I’ll ask Michael out if you ask David out.”

“You’ll go first?”

“Only if you pinkie promise you will actually ask Shalvington out on an official date.”

“Ok.”

“We have to both have asked them out within the next four weeks. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Chapter 6

Michael approached Tide coach Jethro DiPalma’s office early the following Tuesday morning unsure what this appearance was all about. There was no reason for his nerves to be doing the Macarena in his stomach. His play had been consistent and he hadn’t missed a single play on Sunday. Despite that, this command performance knocked him off his game. Completely off-kilter. Never once during his five years with the team had DiPalma or any of the coaches ever contacted him outside of practice, other than group texts notifying the entire team of practice schedule changes or last minute details about travel arrangements. His phone had gone off Monday afternoon while he was reviewing his own personal notebook on Seattle’s offense and DiPalma had summoned him without telling him what he wanted. He’d asked Michael to appear half an hour before practice and here he was.

And if this was what he thought it was, the week had taken a detour from shitty and landed squarely in the vicinity of motherfucking awful.

“Come on in and have a seat,” DiPalma greeted him.

Michael moved across the threshold and seated himself in one of the two deep brown, clubby leather chairs opposite a large, cherry desk piled high with play books, charts, graphs, notes, highlighters, and pens. DiPalma’s office was all glass and high end furnishings, from the desk to the chairs to the fancy lamps, with aerial views of Portland and Mount Hood through the windows. A high definition plasma screen television was mounted on the right wall where Michael imagined DiPalma and some of the other coaches reviewed tapes.

“Give me a second here, Santiago, while I finish this up,” he requested.

As DiPalma finished making some notes in one of his play books, Michael took advantage of the silence and DiPalma’s distraction to study him since there was nothing else to do. DiPalma had the grizzled look of a lifetime spent in the sun with fast cars, loose women, and free-flowing booze. Some of his teammates looked the same. Hard-living left its mark on its players. After a few minutes, DiPalma looked up, removed his wire-rimmed glasses, and rubbed his nose.

“You talk to Campbell since we got back?” DiPalma asked, confirming his worst fears.

“No.”

“The news isn’t good about Campbell. When we returned Sunday night, he went to St. Vincent’s for further x-rays. They’ve confirmed he tore his ACL, which means he has to have surgery immediately and is out for the season.”

Michael felt as though his voice didn’t want to work. Serious injuries, like Campbell’s, typically sounded the death knell for veteran players. Twenty-five year olds who went in to have their knees scoped saw their professional careers cut abruptly short, let alone a thirty-two year old defensive end with a torn ACL who could have been a poster boy for the Wiki definition of “battle scarred.” He knew exactly what this development meant. In spite of that, he still had to ask, all the while grinding his teeth, the only outlet available for his mounting panic.

“What does that mean for us?”

“Higgins will talk to you and the rest of the defense with more details, but we’ve decided to let Johnson start this week against the Seahawks in Campbell’s place,” DiPalma stated.

Little, mouthy, skinny, rookie motherfucker gets Campbell’s position? Bullshit.

As much as Michael wanted to protest, he knew he couldn’t. And wouldn’t. Despite common perception, he respected his coaches a helluva lot, more than he was given credit for. A lot more. Campbell’s injuries gave the team no choice. The Tide had drafted Tamar specifically to replace Campbell when he retired. The move made perfect sense, but fuck. This shouldn’t be happening. Not now. Not in Johnson’s rookie fucking season. Life wasn’t fair, but this? Unbelievable.

“Look, we both know Johnson is an asshole, which as you may know, is par for the course of Heisman candidates. They’re all assholes. I also know he shoots a lot of shit your way and you haven’t yet beat the shit out of him like many of your teammates would have done by now,” DiPalma continued. “Before you say anything, I think you’ve done the right thing by ignoring him. He’s a shit and if you beat him up, especially in front of your teammates, he’d only get meaner. Plus, I’d have to suspend your ass, which would only piss us both off. The league would likely fine you as well if Goodell got wind of it, so keep doing what you’re doing and keep your hands to yourself.

“This week you’re going to have to work with him prepping for Seattle. No one on the defense knows as much about their offense. Period. I’m not even sure Higgins knows as much as you do. No one knows his position better than you or Campbell. You and Campbell have been a good team. Unfortunately, he’s going in for his surgery tomorrow, so we can’t expect him back for a couple of weeks. Even then, he won’t be practicing. Now it’s time for you and Johnson to become as good of a team as you and Campbell. You need to help us channel Johnson’s natural talent into a disciplined defensive end. Are we understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Michael replied, the affirmation bitter in his mouth.

“Despite his mouth and his flash, Johnson does actually know the calls and the plays. You need to work on adding him to the defense as a whole. Murray will be all over his ass and generally driving him crazy the way he does the rest of you, but because of your position, Johnson
will
follow your lead. You show him how you and Campbell work the line, and he’ll get it. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Between you and me, if Johnson becomes unbearable, you can beat the ever-loving shit of out him. Just make sure you do it in private, ‘cause I really don’t need the Commissioner up my ass right now. But a little beat-down might do him some good. And if you ever tell anyone I said that, I’ll deny it to my dying day.”

~ * ~ * ~

Michael was making his way back to the gym for his post-practice workout when Murray intercepted him.

“You got any plans tonight, my man?” Murray asked.

“No,” Michael responded, leery. First DiPalma, now Murray? What was with people lately? It had already been a long three days of practice. Day in, day out, he and Higgins, the defensive coordinator, worked with Johnson, demonstrating to him the formations they expected Seattle to show on Sunday. Surprisingly, he soaked up the coaching like a sponge, asking the appropriate questions at the right times and demonstrating the natural instincts that elite athletes were born with. While he was still a rookie know-it-all, the bastard was almost as talented as Michael was. Plus, he’d done a halfway decent job of keeping his mouth running only at moderately annoying. Michael wanted to sock him in the mouth only about twice a day on average, which was a whole lot less than he’d anticipated.

Tonight, all he wanted to do was get through his workout, go home, finish watching the tapes, finalize his notes, and go to bed. And think about the woman who was constantly on his mind.

“Good. Then you’re free to come over. Be at my place by seven-thirty.”

“Why?”

“We need to talk.”

“Talk here.”

“Can’t.” Murray started laughing. “Look, come on over tonight and do not be late. It makes me cranky.”

“Who else is coming over?”

“No one. Just you. Don’t make me pull the captain card on your ass. And no, pretty boy, this ain’t a date,” Murray winked at him as he turned around and walked away.

~ * ~ * ~

Right on time that evening, Michael made his way out to the suburbs to Murray’s house in Lake Oswego for the first time in the five years since he’d moved to Portland. Murray lived in a sprawling, six bedroom, cedar-shingled contemporary situated on several acres of prime Lake Oswego land right on the lake the town derived its name from. The house sat high on a hill ensuring that no curious or intrepid passers-by could casually intrude on the solitude Murray demanded. Miniature lights lined the driveway up to the house. The landscaping was tiered all around the approach to the house. The grounds were beautifully manicured with sprawling oaks, elms, pine trees, and rose bushes. Two huge, professional looking planters flanked the front door as Murray greeted him.

This was undoubtedly the prototype for the kinds of houses that most of his teammates and all of his coaches lived in. Big, beautiful and privileged.

“Thanks for coming,” Murray said, full of jovial good cheer as he welcomed Michael in to a large foyer bisected by two staircases on each side.

Michael remained mum. All he wanted to do was blurt out his questions about why he was there, fire up the Jeep and hit the road home. But he’d learned long ago that silence could be both a sword and a shield. So he kept his questions to himself.

“Why is it that this is the first time you’ve ever been here?” They both knew Michael couldn’t say he’d never been invited. Murray had extended numerous personal invitations to him as well as the team-wide invites all through the years, both on and off season.

He shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“What’s the difference tonight?”

“I didn’t think I had a choice,” Michael responded with mild annoyance tempered with interest.

Murray laughed. “I can’t believe you’ve never been out before. You have missed out on some serious good grub, my man. As well as my incredible company,” Murray stated as they made their way into a gourmet kitchen that took up what appeared to be the entire rear of the house. The kitchen sparkled with glossy green marble countertops, maple cupboards and a variety of different appliances. A steel refrigerator was off on one side separated by countertops leading to a six burner stove that looked like it could cook enough food to feed the entire Tide. A large rectangular island dominated the middle of the kitchen, flanked by bamboo stools that invited guests to sit down, settle in for awhile, and take a load off. A big fireplace crackled with life to the left. Recessed lighting and shiny floors made the entire room glow.