Over the Middle: A Sports Romance (7 page)

I
can't believe it
.

"Dad?" I ask, seeing the familiar silver-streaked hair and broad shoulders that I hadn't seen in at least six months. "Dad!"

My father turns around, and there's a look of surprise on his face. "Duncan? What are you doing here?"

I shake my head and approach him. We're outside the team hotel, and everyone is getting ready for breakfast, but I have a few minutes. After the past few days, I could use some good luck. "It's the team hotel. We're going to have breakfast before heading over to the stadium. You know, the Clement game is today?"

“Oh, no, I didn't," Dad says, and my mood immediately darkens. Why else should it be any different? He hasn't been at any of the other forty starts I've made for Western over the past three years. "I'm in town on business. Meeting with investors, you know. New project upstate."

That's Dad, always looking for a new angle. I see he's wearing a wedding ring again. I hadn't been notified.

"So, what's her name?" I'm cold, my mood going from glum to black, and I can hear the excitement draining out of my voice as I look him in the eye. "You know, you didn't send me an invitation."

"I didn't? My mistake. I remember telling my secretary to send out the invitations."

“What's her name, Dad?"

"Tawny," he says with a leer that tells me exactly what Tawny Hart looks like. My father has very consistent tastes: tall, long hair, and a body you could bounce a quarter off any part of it, even if it is surgically enhanced. In fact, to him, a girl just isn't a woman without a little silicone somewhere.

"Where'd you meet her?"

"She was a massage therapist at a club I frequent," he says, and I try not to roll my eyes. Great. He met her at a rub-n-tug. Wonder how much she charged for a handy. "She and I just clicked."

"Uh-huh. Well, if you have a chance, think you can make it to the game? I'm sure I can get you in if you don't have tickets."

Dad shakes his head and looks at his watch. "Don't think so. Meeting's going to run all day, so . . . another time. Really, though, I've gotta go. See you later, Duncan."

"Yeah, Dad . . . bye."

* * *

T
he reporter is
in my face, and it's not the day that I want to do any of this shit. The past two days have been terrible, and it’s only because the Athletic Director insisted that I'm doing this.

"I'm telling you, college football fans, what a game we've got for you today. The Western University Bulldogs host the Clement Golden Spartans, in what a lot of folks are calling the biggest game in the first half of the season. Western and Clement have traded the conference championship back and forth over the past few years, with whoever wins this game normally going on to clinch the conference title."

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Last year, we took Clement, and two years ago, they took us. Big fucking deal. The yapping announcer goes on.

"Things are a little different this year, as the Pacific Football Conference has followed in the footsteps of many of the other major conferences and implemented a championship game system. That doesn't make this game useless, of course. There are still major impacts for the national championship at stake, as well as the fact that whoever wins this game holds the edge for the conference championship, as the team that finishes the regular season as the conference champions will host the championship game."

Will this guy hurry the fuck up? I need to get taped. I need to see Carrie. The past two days, she's barely said anything to me, and I'm not able to focus. I can't get past Wednesday night, and I want this to be over with. Then there was my Dad . . . fuck this. I need outta here.
Now
.

"With us now is Duncan Hart, the star tight end of the Western Bulldogs. Duncan, thanks for joining us. I know you're going to be getting ready to play soon."

"I'm always ready to play," I say into the mike, just letting my mouth go. I don't care any more. "But what's up?"

"Well, Duncan, in pregame analysis, it's going to be a tough battle between Western's spread offense, and Clement's vicious defense. In speaking yesterday with Nick Hostler, the Clement defensive captain and linebacker, he says that he's looking forward to it. It seemed very interesting. He was quite interested in you, in particular. Any idea why?"

Because last year, I smoked his ass . . . not that I would use those exact words in an interview. I know I’m a trash talker, but I try to be smart about it. “Nick's the sort of player who wants to test himself against the best. It's one of the things I like about him."

"You say one of the things. What's the other?"

"He keeps testing himself against me, and he keeps failing the test," I say with a smirk.

After the interview is over, Coach Bainridge pulls me aside. "Really, Duncan? Did you have to bad mouth the other team two hours before kickoff?"

"Don't sweat it, Coach," I reply, brushing him off. “It wasn’t that bad—just a little gamesmanship. If anything, it should get the fans riled up. Hostler knows I hate him, and he hates me. Some kiss-kiss words before the game won't change that. Besides, I need to get ready."

"You’d better," Bainridge says, giving me a look, "because your practice the past two days has been garbage. Get your head right."

I'd like to get my head right, but it seems that I've got everyone and their fucking brother trying to stop me from doing it. I go to the trainer's room, where Carrie is finishing up taping Tyler's ankle—he rolled it a little on Tuesday—then she turns to me. "You know, you don't need the elbow tape anymore. That thing's stronger than it was before your injury, by this point."

"Just give me my security blanket and let me have some peace of mind," I reply, holding out my arm. Carrie goes to work, wrapping the first layer of pre-wrap around my elbow, totally silent. I fume for a moment, then launch in. "Well, Duncan, why yes, I have had a great morning. In fact, I was just enjoying a wonderful conversation with my friends about whether to have granola or pancakes with breakfast tomorrow. How's your day been? Oh, I'm doing fine, Carrie. I saw my father before breakfast, where he blew me off, and I've just completed an interview with a national cable network, where I probably came off as an asshole, pissed off Coach Bainridge, and now, the one person I really want to talk to won't even speak to me. Other than that, my day's going to hell!"

"And that's my fault?" Carrie asks softly, looking up at me. "It's my fault that you treated me like shit on our date and came off as that cocksure asshole that I just got finished telling you I didn't like? In case you didn't notice, you're the one causing your own problems by not being able to think about what the hell comes out of your own mouth. Before our date went south, I was having a good time, because I told you, there are two of you. There's the you who’s intelligent, one hell of a ball player, and a guy I happen to like. Then there's the you that, like you said, is an asshole. Your choice, Duncan. I hope to see the first guy more."

Carrie leaves the training room, and I'm left alone, steaming in my own anger. Finally, in frustration, I punch the supply locker next to me, putting a dent in the metal side, but doing nothing to relieve my frustration. I head into the locker room and get strapped up, still not sure what's going on inside me.

We get the kickoff, and jogging out to the huddle, I'm off balance. Normally, I'm the guy who's settled down while the defense are the ones who are pressed out of control, but this time, I'm the one bordering on the edge, seeing red, and we haven't even started.

"Duncan? Hey, Duncan!"

"What?" I ask, growling. "Just get me the fucking ball," I hiss, going up to the line. I drop my hand down and look across to the Clement defensive end, sneering. "You're my bitch."

"We'll see," the end sneers back, and suddenly, the ball snaps. I'm caught off guard. Isn't the play supposed to be on two? The end fires off the line and plasters me, driving me back and down to the turf before I'm barely out of my stance. Tyler, who was expecting me to release to the outside, is forced to throw across his body to our split end on the other side, who at least caught it for a three-yard gain. "You’re gonna have a long fucking day, boy."

The words are no joke, as at halftime, I have no catches, and I've spent more time on my back than I have since freshman year. Jogging down the tunnel to the locker room, I'm pissed, and we're losing, fourteen to ten.

"Duncan, you okay today?" Tyler asks me after Coach Bainridge gets done chewing out the offense's collective asses. He's quiet, and the long streak of dirt on the front of his shirt shows that he's not the only one who's taken a few hits out there so far. "Seriously, you sick or something?"

"Or something," I say, and Tyler nods. He opens his mouth, and I hold up my hand. "Don't ask."

"I won't, but I need to know. If you're fucked up, I need to check down faster, go to the other options," Tyler says. I feel kinda bad for him. His stats are nearly as horrible as mine, and our only touchdown is because our special teams ran back a punt to the four-yard line, so close a child could have punched it in for a touchdown. "Do I need to check down?"

"You do what you need to do,” I say, still pissed. "We'll take care of it in the second half, okay?"

"All right," Tyler says, but I can see he's not convinced. He moves off and starts a discussion with Coach T and some of the other guys for the rest of halftime while I stew.

The second half starts, and our defense stuffs the Clement offense for a three and out, so we're ready to go soon. Going out to the huddle, I can see it in the eyes of everyone in the huddle. They're not confident in me, and it pisses me off more.

I line up, ready to go. Tyler’s called the same play that got me injured in the Green and White Game. The problem is that my route is a crossing route right over the middle of the defense, supposedly at a depth that is too deep for the linebackers but too shallow for the safeties to jump on things. If I run it right, it's a great seam route. If the linebackers are on it, I can get laid out, especially if the pass is high.

The ball snaps, and I cut across the middle. Tyler takes his three-step drop and releases the ball, just a little high, but you expect that with a pass over the middle of the line. I go up for the ball. It's still a few feet from me . . .

I get blasted in the chest and chin, throwing me to the turf so hard and fast, the wind is knocked out of me. I look up to see Nick Hostler grinning at me, but he takes off before I can do anything, and I realize that Tyler's pass has been intercepted and we're scrambling to stop the free safety who caught the ball from doing anything.

My sights are on Nick Hostler, who's trying to block for his teammate. I charge at him, but he's too far ahead, and the Clement safety goes in standing up for a touchdown. I see the ref raise his hands, and I can't hold it back any more. "Touchdown? What the fuck do you mean touchdown?" I scream into his face. "Were you so fucking blind you missed the pass interference?”

"Back off, 83," the ref says, giving me a warning. He's a home ref, even if he is paid by the conference, and he's not going to throw a penalty on me unless he has to, not after we already gave up a touchdown.

“That’s bullshit!” I scream. “You’re fucking blind!”

The ref tosses his penalty, blowing the whistle, and I feel hands pulling me back, but I don't care. I lose my cool, going at him even more, and it’s obvious to me even while I’m yelling at him that I’m not even mad at the missed call. I’m pissed that things in my life aren’t going how I want them and looking for a scapegoat.

The ref throws another flag, blowing his whistle twice, and I’m ejected from the game.

I stare at him, ready to charge, fighting against whoever is holding me back, when Coach Thibedeau comes around and throws a cup of water in my face. "Duncan! Get a fucking hold of yourself!"

I stop, shocked. What the hell did I just do?

"Get to the locker room," Coach Thibs says, his voice gentle now that I'm at least a bit under control. "You got ejected. You're not allowed on the sidelines. We'll talk about this after the game. Coach Taylor?"

"Yeah?" Coach Taylor says, and I see he's already there, probably ready to physically escort me from the field if he needs to. Hell, he was probably one of the people holding me back.

"Walk Duncan back to the training room. And make sure he's calmed down, okay? Just . . . ditch your gear and calm down."

The fans, for the first time in three years and four games, are booing me as I leave the field. I cringe, and I feel like running, but my pride keeps me walking as I reach the tunnel, even as I feel some joker spray me with a cup of ice and probably Coke, since the stadium doesn't allow beer. I feel Coach Taylor behind me, but I'm empty. I don't feel it any longer. I just make my way to the training room, unstrapping my shoulder pads as I walk.

"You need anyone to talk to?" Coach Taylor asks when I pull my gear off and sit down on the padded training table.

“I’m fine.” But I don't feel that way. “I’m just frustrated. You're not pissed, Coach?"