Out of Position (49 page)

“Yeah.” I snap the phone shut. “Good thing, too.”

Brick has been glancing our way. When he sees me shut the phone and stand up, he ambles over. I tense up. I have no idea what to expect.

We stare at each other for a moment. He clears his throat. “Hey,” he says. “You comin’ back out?”

“Yeah.” I squeeze the phone.

“Good. We’re gettin’ killed out there. You want I should shut that fuckin’ big-lipped motherfucker up?”

Fisher’s looking at me. I shake my head. “Let ’im talk. I’ll take care of him.” My shoulders relax and my tail uncurls. I grin at the big bear. “Thanks.” He just grunts and ambles away.

Coming out through the tunnel, the yells and taunts start up. Even though I was expecting them, I flinch. In the security of the locker room, it was easy to summon my courage. Here on the field, I’m in danger of losing it again. It’s like I stepped into my apartment and found a police copter outside shining a light on me. There’s nowhere I can hide.

Coach finds me right away, pacing the bench in front of the backup defense. “Am I sending you in?”

“Where’s section one-sixteen?” I ask him.

He stares at me like I’m crazy, which I guess I can understand because I kind of am. “You need to know that?”

“Put me in,” I say. “But where’s one-sixteen?”

He points to a part of the stands just past the edge of our bench. “Don’t go climbing up there. You’re on in two minutes.”

I raise a paw, already jogging past the bench. Colin, who was sitting on the bench watching, gets up to follow me. “You’re not going back in,” he says. “Come on, you’re getting killed out there.”

“Mind your own fucking business.” I scan the sections. I don’t see him. Two thirds of the way up, two thirds of the way up. Nothing. Icy doubt taps my heart.

“I know you want to prove yourself,” he says in his church-proper voice, “but you’re hurting the team.”

“Speaking of hurting the team,” I say, “I think there’s a bit of the bench getting cold.”

“Nobody else thinks you should be on the field,” he snarls. “It’s nothing to do with being able to handle your… lifestyle. It’s because
you
can’t handle it any more.”

“Leave me alone,
teammate”
I snap.

Down the line, Gerrard yells my name. I still don’t see Lee in the stands. “The best thing for the team is for you to sit down,” Colin says.

Gerrard yells my name again. I turn away from the stands. Was Lee just lying to try to make me feel better? I bump Colin’s shoulder on my way past him to join the defense on the field. It’s juvenile and immature, and it makes me feel at least a little better, more prepared to go out there and hit people.

The stallion picks up right where he left off. “Back for more, cocksucker?” he yells. “Bring it on, fudge-packer. I’m gonna fuck you up so hard your boyfriend’s gonna feel it.”

Fat chance, I think, and then the ball is snapped. They come right at me again, running to the weak side. Gerrard’s ready for it, so between the two of us, Brick, and Fisher, we hold them. Going back to the line, Gerrard says to me, “You listening to me? Watch the dump off. They love cutting that slot guy across the middle on second and long.”

“Dump off,” I say, looking at the stands. All I see are signs: “MISKI SUCKS” and “HOMO-SKI.”

“Hey!” he barks. “Get your damn head in the game. You got this one series to prove yourself.”

“I’m in,” I say. I turn away from the stands, but the image of the crowd of people stays in my head. Just because I can’t see Lee, does that mean he’s not here? It comes down to that, to whether I choose to believe him or not. If I think he’s lying, that he sent me that text because he was feeling sorry for me, then I should go tell Steez to take me out right now.

The stallion is jawing again, but I can’t hear any of the words. Christ, I wish it didn’t take me this long to work things out. For the first time this game, I look at the formation they’re lining up in and I see what Gerrard is talking about, the slot receiver cheating to the inside, leaning into his route before the snap. I see it all unfold in my head, his quick paws slipping between Brick and Fisher to grab the ball. I can see the spot of turf where it’s going to happen.

Gerrard’s looking at me. I give him a quick nod. I stare across the line at the stallion, trying to bore a hole in his ridiculous long head with my eyes. My blood pumps. Lee is in the stands because he has to be, because I belong here on the field and he belongs here with me. Nothing else matters. I know he’s watching me as surely as I know where the coyote is going to be in seven seconds.

Six. Five. Four.

Three. The center snaps the ball. The offensive line moves as one, forward into us, protecting the quarterback. We jump after them as one, a split-second later. The red wolf in the navy blue uniform cocks the ball in his paws.

Two. The coyote springs across the line, between Brick and Fisher. He looks back at the wolf. I’m already moving forward. One. The ball is in the air.

Zero. I step in front of the coyote and reach out my paws. The ball slaps into them. I bring it down.

Time speeds up again. The field is clear in front of me. Fisher’s seen the interception and the stallion spinning to lunge at me from the side. He cuts the horse’s knees out from under him, a beautiful illegal block that the refs will not see to throw a flag on. I juke to the side and sprint, giving it all I’ve got. I feel everything click, the world turning under me as I skim its surface. The end zone is so close I can reach out and touch it.

I get tackled from the side. Instinct kicks in; I cradle the ball to me as I fall, though paws are trying to rip it free. I hit the ground under a pile of navy jerseys and hear the shrill whistle. I still have the ball. Paws reach in, muzzles bite. Even in bed with Lee, I never got groped this hard. The whistles keep going. The paws slow, then stop. Everyone around me, a sea of navy, gets up slowly, reluctantly. I lay there, holding on to the moment as tightly as the ball, until Fisher and Gerrard grab me and haul me to my feet, clapping me on the back.

“Flags?” I ask, dizzy, still holding the ball tightly.

“No flags!” Gerrard screams even though the crowd is silent except for scattered boos. “No flags!”

One of the officials comes over to get the ball from me. I give it up and look, out of old habit, to the stands. There, one section over from where Coach told me one-sixteen is, about two-thirds of the way up, a fox is standing. I can’t see any detail from here, but I don’t have to. He’s looking at me and I’m looking back at him, and the last piece of the world clicks into place.

This would be the perfect ending for my story, and if I could stop time and live in that moment forever, I’d be sorely tempted to. I get mobbed back on the sidelines, stumbling my way through pats and bear hugs until I get to Coach’s long lupine grin. “Nice job, Miski,” he says. I stand with Gerrard and Carson on the sideline and watch us punch the ball into the end zone for a 7-3 lead. Everything is perfect, everything is going to be all right.

But if I end the story here, I won’t be able to tell you how I scream at the team on the sidelines to get going, I’m so pumped up; how on the next series, Brick gets flagged for a penalty on a vicious hit where he throws the stallion to the ground; how I drop their running back for a loss, not once, but twice; or how Fisher takes out the stallion, leaving me a clear path to the quarterback for one of four sacks we get in the second half. I won’t be able to tell you about the field goal Charm adds to regain his confidence, how the 10-3 score holds up to the final whistle, how Coach gives me the game ball and how, when I say I’m going to soak it in for fifteen or twenty minutes before showering, a good two-thirds of the team wait with me.

Most importantly, I won’t be able to tell you about the post-game press conference.

We’re all freshly showered and dressed, kidding and joking. Winning solves a lot of problems, Coach likes to say, and for the moment, I feel good about the team, and about my place in it. Coach comes over and jerks his head to the exit. “Come on,” he says. “Time to meet the press. They want you.”

Fisher pats me and Gerrard as we follow Coach’s wagging black tail. I’ve seen the media room in our stadium before, but of course haven’t spent a lot of time there. The ESPN otter, Frank Evien, is actually there, and so is a ringtail that I think is from the Sporting News, and about thirty other reporters. The buzz in the room jumps when we walk in.

Coach gets the first seat, with me in between him and Gerrard. Behind us is a big wall of the Aventira logo. I sit down and have the same surreal feeling of being the center of attention, only surreal because I haven’t had it since college. I used to bask in it, then. Now there’s an undercurrent of worry, knowing what questions may come up, but I resolve to keep it about football at the same time as Gerrard leans over to me and says, “Keep it about the game.”

The ringtail gets the first question, identifying himself as Dwight from the Sporting News. He asks Coach about the game plan and the rejuvenated defense. Coach sings my praises for a while, and the next question is for me, from Frank. He wants to know if I did anything different to prepare for Aventira. I tell him that my success is all due to Coach’s plan, and I give Gerrard full credit for setting me up to be in the right position at the right time. They ask Gerrard about the defense, about me and Corey (he and Coach both deflect questions about Corey: “Devlin is our starter next week, after that, we’ll see how it works out, but he’s making a case every week.”). I’m just starting to relax a bit, and then an older raccoon, in the back, raises a paw.

“Craig Michaels, Outsports.com. For Devlin,” he says. “Would you care to address the recent rumors regarding your sexuality that have been appearing on the Internet?”

The room goes quiet. “No,” I say shortly.

“Oh, come on,” says a familiar voice from the back. “We all know it, we just want to hear you say it.”

Everyone turns to the figure I know is there: a spotted skunk in a silk shirt and khakis, with a tweed blazer thrown over it. The team’s media liaison, a weasel named Vince, walks around the room towards him. “I’m sorry, sir, what publication are you with?”

“I’m with TightPants.com,” Brian says.

Vince checks his clipboard. “You’re not on the approved list,” he says.

“But I’m the one who broke the story about Miski,” Brian says, smirking directly at me.

Vince makes a signal, and a couple bears in Aventira security uniforms that had been edging toward Brian now walk directly toward him. He shies back with a familiar mix of panic and indignation, saying, “I see how it is. Nobody wants to hear the truth!”

“Sir,” Vince says, “I’m going to ask you to leave, and if you don’t, these gentlemen will escort you out.”

Brian looks back and forth at the bears, then points up at me. “Tell the truth!” he yells.

Vince makes a sign, but the bears are already moving towards Brian. “The truth!” he screams, and then darts out of the room.

There’s a moment of silence as all the reporters look at each other. Then they turn back to the podium like an offensive line just after the snap. Paws go in the air, voices jockey for position, and Vince runs back to the front of the room with his paws up, trying to keep order. I can’t hear his voice, but I hear Coach’s deep growl cut through the chatter. “We’re only going to answer questions about the game.”

“Coach,” someone calls from the back, “what’s your position on gay football players?”

“Can you confirm the rumors about Devlin?”

“Devlin, what’s your comment?”

I see Coach’s ears go back. Gerrard’s are already back. I lean forward to my microphone. “Listen,” I say, “we’re here to talk about the game. There’s nothing else to discuss.”

It takes them a little while to calm down. We answer a few more questions about the game, but they’re almost formalities. As soon as he can, Coach ends the conference. We march back to the locker room in silence. Coach stops just outside it, turns, and jabs me in the chest with a finger. “That needs to stop,” he growls.

Gerrard waits just in the doorway, watching. I spread my paws. “What do you want me to do?”

“You know that skunk. Do whatever it takes. I’m not having this distraction around.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Hey, you need any support from the team, you name it. But this is your issue, and you gotta deal with it.”

“Fine,” I say, knowing I’m gonna need Lee on this one, big time.

My phone’s blinking all the time now. I pick it up at my locker, weighing it in one paw. Gerrard comes over. “Listen,” he says. “You play like you did today, all this other stuff will just go away.”

“Wish I could believe that.” I look at the blinking light, counting in my head. Ogleby twice, probably, my parents, Caroll maybe. Lee.

“The guys really pulled behind you.”

“Easy when I’m winning the game,” I say. “What about… when I have a bad day?”

He grins and punches my shoulder. “Just make sure your bad days are pretty good.”

What about when Corey comes back,
is what I wanted to say. Is he just building up my confidence because he’s stuck playing alongside me for now? I’m brooding as I flip the phone open and listen to my six messages — I was off by one. Ogleby called three times, and Caroll didn’t call at all. Some other agency did, wanting to know if I’m interested in changing representation.

I delete that one. Ogleby’s an idiot, but I’ve heard enough horror stories about other agents that I don’t want to risk changing without a personal recommendation. Ogleby called during the first half (depressed), during the second half (ecstatic), and again during the press conference, nearly incomprehensible on that last one. All I can get out of what he’s saying is that he’s setting up a press conference in Chevali on Monday afternoon for me to deny all the rumors formally. Seems like he should’ve consulted me, but whatever. My parents are ecstatic, but then, they called right at the end of the game and probably didn’t see the press conference. And Lee called right after the interception, knowing he’d get my voicemail, telling me that he believes in me.