Raiders Night (13 page)

Reporters were waiting outside the house, but he opened the electronic door with the remote in his Jeep and drove straight into the garage. Mom's car was already inside. Let Dad park in the driveway and deal with the vultures.

Coming up the back stairs into the kitchen, he heard Junie wailing his one note. Mom turned from the stove to grab Matt, hugging so hard, the steady ache of his ribs flared into pain. The cream wasn't working anymore. Did he need Sarah to rub it on?

“The first reports…” Mom started crying. “It was so long before we knew you were all right.” When she let him go, she gasped. “That's blood.”

“Turned him over to see if he was breathing.” He remembered Chris's eyes. They seemed peaceful. Did Chris think he was going to die, that it was all over?

“The radio said he'd live but the doctors wouldn't
know for a few days how much brain damage he suffered.”

Dad stomped in, jacked. “They were on me like white on rice. Told them I couldn't talk, ongoing investigation.” So he had gotten his face on TV. “We need to make a plan.”

“About what?”

“Can't let this get spun, the media, Marin's lawyer, the antifootball crowd, make it seem like—Come back here!”

He was on the stairs before he realized he was moving. He slammed his door and locked it.

Make a plan?

He felt nauseous. He hadn't eaten since lunch. Headache, too. Ribs hurt. He dug out a Vic. Never let pain get ahead of you—slows healing. Monty said that; the trainers, too. He washed the pill down with some warm Captain Morgan from the flask. Tasted like Romo's piss. He'd tasted that once, by mistake.

Junie's one note needled into his brain. Matt played an old Bone Patrol CD. Always counted on that one to smother anything, but it wasn't working anymore.

If I had answered his call, his e-mail…

Clear your head, Matt. Focus.

On what?

Homecoming game?

Be nice to talk to somebody. Just kick it around the way the Back Pack does. What do we talk about? Girls, football, lifting programs, girls, music, movies. All-Brody would make a joke. Tyrell's been so quiet lately. Pete
might talk, but can't be sure where his head's at. Matt felt sad. These are my best friends. Who else is there? Forget about Mom, Dad, Monty, Coach Dorman, Mandy. He dug through some pants until he found the
Nearmont Eye
business card. Paul Barry. Home phone, cell phone, beeper, and two e-mail addresses. He put it on his desk. Maybe sometime.

Sarah.

Of them all, she was the only one he might be able to talk to. She would listen, maybe even help him sort out the mess in his head. But could he trust her? Maybe she told someone about what happened that night in her apartment. Didn't happen. Her fag friend Daniel.

Get past the past.

That's all I ever do.

He needed to get out of the house. Be great to work out, but he didn't want to talk to Monty and the ironheads. They'd want a bloody play-by-play. A night run? He remembered that Bergen Central had a lighted track. It was more than a half hour away, but worth the trip if he could clear his head.

Getting out was easy. The wailing of Junie's recorder covered his footsteps. Mom was watching TV and Dad was yelling into the phone in his den, door closed. The TV cameras were gone, the street deserted as he backed out of the garage.

Quiet evening in the suburbs, people eating, watching
TV, cruising, walking dogs. Matt felt lonely, almost teary. Suck it up, stud. You're going to get out of here soon, away from all this shit. Away from Dad. Like it's all Dad. Still be football, and still be you, Matt.

The Bergen Central track was busy—some varsity athletes, mostly older joggers—but there was room for everyone and he felt better being in a flow with other people. He settled into an easy stride, enough to get the blood moving and open his lungs, not enough to rattle his ribs. He ran for almost an hour, winding down into a slow jog before he stretched on the grassy soccer field in the middle of the oval.

“You from Nearmont?”

Two boys and a girl, his age. He remembered he was wearing a Raiders T-shirt. And that Chris had gone to Bergen Central. How had he let that slip his mind? Or had it?

“Yeah.”

“Were you there?” The kid looked serious, even sad. That made him feel better about talking to them. He nodded.

“Hey, it's you.” The girl was pointing to him. “Your picture was on TV. Mike Ryder?”

“Matt Rydek.”

“You were the one grabbed the gun from Chris.”

He looked down, spread out his hands. One of the kids said, “You don't want to talk about it?”

“Did you know him?” asked Matt. “Why did he leave here?”

The kids looked at each other, and when one of the boys nodded, the girl said, “His dad went to jail for, like, stealing from his company? And some of the older kids gave him a hard time.”

“That's it?”

“Well, it got really bad. Chris started fights—he had a real attitude some days. He got suspended after he broke a kid's jaw. His mother needed to sell the house anyway, so they moved. What's going to happen?”

Matt shrugged. “They're trying to decide about the Homecoming game.”

“It was just on the radio,” said the girl. “They're gonna play, but not at Nearmont. Some neutral site.”

Matt wasn't surprised. He wondered if Dad had helped work out that deal.

“Football.” One of the boys shook his head. “Wouldn't want to miss the big game.”

“You guys must be soccer players.” He liked them and said it in a way that made them laugh.

“Lacrosse. Good luck, Matt.” They waved and started running their laps.

He got lost on the way home, taking an unfamiliar road even as he knew it was a mistake. So we'll play the game, pretend nothing happened, and everything's just fine and I go to Michigan and win the Heisman and get
drafted by the Giants and play in the Super Bowl and always know that some kid got wrecked for the rest of his life and even got blamed for it and I just stood around with my thumb up my ass because all I ever think about is me. Can I live with that? Is that what a real man does?

I'll get my ticket out of town, but I'll still be me.

And Chris? He was in trouble and I didn't do anything. I was his captain. He thought I was his captain. He should have been able to depend on me. I can't even depend on me. So what if I say something and there's an investigation and the season's canceled and I don't get a major Division One scholarship and I end up at a no-name school close to home, Dad on my back? Is that better? Who does that help?

He drove fast on the dark road. The turns came up before he was ready for them. Sometimes he took them on two screaming wheels.

Big headlights blazed, a truck coming right at him, and he wondered what it would feel like to drive right into all that hot, dazzling light, the end of all pain, all the Vicodin in the world in one massive, final dose.

He thought of what Dad had said about guys who couldn't take the heat, who drove into a tree because they couldn't pay the price.

A horn blasted and he swerved.

He pulled off the road and waited until he stopped shaking. Then he slowly found his way home.

He was a hero, and it felt bitter and wrong. Kids honked and waved on the drive to school. It took him almost fifteen minutes to make his way from the Super Senior parking lot to the big front doors, usually a two-minute walk. Kids wanted to shake his hand, talk to him, touch him; one jerk actually wanted him to autograph his photo on the front page of the local paper. It was his football picture. He pushed past the kid. In the lobby, teachers and staff applauded when they saw him. Mandy ran over and threw her arms around his neck. Cameras flashed.

“You saved our lives.” She whispered into his ear, “I love you, Matt.”

He felt phony, dirty. He unpeeled her and trotted to homeroom.

There was a feeling of celebration in the halls. One
of us is lying in intensive care, half his head shot off, and we're all so happy. The story had blown into a Homecoming float of a story. Chris's little gray revolver had become an AK-47, and he planned to wipe out the school after he wasted the football team. Probably had bombs somewhere.

I could have stopped it, Matt thought. All I had to do was hit Reply on my computer. Call back.

There were assemblies and group counseling sessions. Be aware of other kids who might be troubled. Talk to somebody if you feel bad. Thanks. He hit the mute, coasted. Coach Dorman held his class and Matt sat in the rear with the Back Pack.

“Anybody?” Dorman looked around the room.

Patel raised his hand. “Those tests you were going to give us? Would that have picked up Marin's homicidal tendencies?”

“Great question, Jay. The NFL in particular has been using psychological evaluations to…”

Matt let it fade into a dull buzz. Homicidal tendencies. What bullshit. More like delayed self-defense.

Coach Dorman grabbed him on the way out. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You kept shaking your head while I was talking. Something you want to tell me?”

For a moment, he did. Dorman looked sincere. But he
was a coach. “Sorry, just brain farting.”

“You have every right. But if you feel the need to talk, get it out. Your folks, Pastor Jim, a coach, you know I'm here for you twenty-four/seven. You went through something there, like combat or 9/11.” He patted Matt's shoulder. “The greatest interception of your career. So far.”

He mumbled something and left the classroom. I blew the interception, Coach.

The team didn't dress for practice because the police didn't want them in the locker room. It was still a crime scene. State and county cop cars were on the grass outside the field house, and cops patrolled the yellow tape. There were a couple of TV crews hanging around.

Matt noticed a Rydek van parked outside the back entrance to the cafeteria. Dad was at the meeting about the Homecoming game. He'd be handling the food at the neutral site. Would he be picking up Junie today? Matt switched his cell back on in case Junie called for a ride. He caught up with Brody and Pete. They had nothing to say to each other.

Coach Mac stood in the middle of the fifty-yard line and waited while the assistant coaches assembled the entire squad in a circle around him. The TV crews stood on chairs behind the squad and taped.

“Listen up, gentlemen. I'm going back into a meeting about tomorrow's game.” He raised his hand to shut down the shouts. “But it's only a game. What you went through
yesterday was what football prepares us for. Captains!”

He waited until Matt and Ramp were standing on either side of him. He took their hands and held them up. “What these men did yesterday made me feel that what I do is worthwhile. I know some of you roll your eyes when I talk about the meat grinder of training camp, about getting past the past. I know some of you shut off when I say, ‘If you can be a Raider, you'll know you can be one helluva man.' Well, this was what I was talking about. In years to come, on Raider Pride Night, instead of reading that letter from number 75, they'll be telling the story of numbers 80 and 47 in the fight of their lives. Raiders Rule!”

The waves of sound slammed against them. “Raiders Rule! Raiders Rule! Raiders Rule!”

Coach Mac waited for the echoes to fade away. “Got to go back now. Are you ready to play?”

This time, the sound seemed to make the turf shake under them. Maybe I'm just feeling woozy, Matt thought. Coach Mac dropped their hands and marched through a path the team opened for him.

Corndog yelled, “Let's walk through some plays.”

“You heard Coach,” roared Ramp. “Let's do it.”

“You believe this shit, Matt?” said Tyrell. “Motherfucker's just going to walk out of this.”

“What should we do?” said Matt.

“I don't know.”

Matt grabbed Tyrell's sleeve. “I'm serious, man. You got an idea?”

Tyrell shrugged loose. “You the captain.”

I'm the captain.

Matt's phone rang. Ask Junie to wait for him, or come watch practice. “Wassup, CyberPup?”

“Matt?” It was Sarah. “In the cafeteria. It's Junie. Hurry.”

He pushed through the team and sprinted to the cafeteria. There was a crowd in one corner. He elbowed people out of his way.

Junie was on the floor, on his back, screaming. His legs and arms were in the air, shaking. It had been a while since he'd had a fit. Sarah was kneeling beside him, trying to comfort him. Dad stood nearby in a half crouch, looking bewildered.

The recorder was on the floor, broken into two pieces.

Matt dropped to his knees, then got low enough to slip an arm under Junie's head and cradle it.

“'S okay, Junie, Matt's here,” he crooned, rocking him. “Everything's cool, CyberPup. Matt's here to take care of you.”

Junie stopped screaming. After a few minutes, the shaking legs fell to the floor, trembled, relaxed. His eyelids fluttered. “Matt?” He slumped against Matt's arm.

Sarah held his hand and stroked his leg. “Daniel can get you another recorder.”

“Don't want one.” Junie was blubbering.

“Show's over,” Dad barked. He began waving people away. “Let's go.”

“Daniel said you were sounding good,” said Sarah.

“He said that?” Junie sniffled.

“I thought so, too,” said Matt. “It was louder. You were holding the note longer.”

Sarah smiled. “Daniel said you were ready for a new note.”

Junie smiled.

“You can take him home?” Dad was leaning over them.

“Sure.”

“Meeting,” said Dad. “About the game.”

“The game,” said Sarah. She waited until he left. “Anything else we should be doing?”

“He'll be okay now.” Matt dropped his arm behind Junie's back and sat him up. “Ready to rock 'n' roll, CyberPup? Let's get you home.”

Sarah helped him pull Junie to his feet. He wobbled for a few steps, then seemed to be getting steadier.

“I'm sorry,” said Junie.

“Not your fault.” They said it together, looked at each other, and almost laughed. Bit their tongues. Junie'd think they were laughing at him.

“I didn't mean to break it,” said Junie.

Matt looked at Sarah. She said, “Your dad came out of
the meeting, he was arguing with the principal, and Junie was playing his note. He screamed at Junie to stop, and Junie got upset and twisted the recorder a little too hard.”

Matt stroked Junie's head. “Sometimes I get so upset by Dad, I do something I don't want to do.”

“Really?” He leaned against Matt all the way out to the Jeep. Sarah held Junie's hand.

They pushed Junie up into the passenger seat and faced each other.

She said, “Well, um, I…”

“Sarah? Can we go someplace and talk tonight?”

She clenched her brow. He wondered if she was hesitating. Had he read her wrong? But she was thinking. “Our place?” she said, and laughed. “That diner.”

He almost bailed out, imagining they would go back to her apartment again and the same thing would happen again—wouldn't happen again—but as if she were reading his mind, she said with a sad shrug, “Mom's home tonight.”

“Seven?” he said, and she said, “See you.”