Rookie Mistake (15 page)

He’s not leaving L.A. Not yet.

Trey touches my hand. “Sloane.”

Impulsively, I weave my fingers through his, our palms falling flat and warm against each other, grounding us. Tethering us together as we await the coming storm.

“Booo!”

He brings the back of my hand slowly to his lips.

“With the fourth pick in the NFL Draft…”

He kisses it softly, his eyes closed.

“…the California Kodiaks select…”

On the table between us, his phone begins to ring.

August 13th

Charlie Windt Stadium

Los Angeles, CA

“Take your time, Rook!”

22, 71, 6, 54, 51, 48

“Come on, pretty boy, show me what you got!”

Hibbert, Lowry, Lefao, Olynyk, Fiso, Matthews.

“How’s that hand feelin’, baby?! You feelin’ strong?!”

I am. There are eleven reasons in red that I shouldn’t be, over a thousand pounds of angry Tampa Bay Buccaneer defense shouting at me over the line of scrimmage, but I’m not sweating. I’m not scared, and I have only six reasons why I shouldn’t be.

22, 71, 6, 54, 51, 48

Hibbert, Lowry, Lefao, Olynyk, Fiso, Matthews.

This is my offensive line. This is my family. My first, last, and only line of defense.

It’s all I need.

Three minutes left on the clock.

Kodiaks 7 – Buccaneers 10

This is a pressure situation, or it should be. They’re using it to test me. To see how sturdy my nerves are, but they’re testing the wrong guy. Even though this is only an exhibition game, a glorified practice that has no bearing on our season, I don’t feel pressure. Not on the field. If there’s anything about this game that feels exceptional to me it’s the fact that I’m making a point. I’m proving that they were right to bench their starting quarterback and put me on the field. They were right to draft me. Right to trade the farm to get me. The guys on the field with me are psyched, running excitedly to huddles, playing with me like I’m a shiny new toy they got for Christmas. One that can actually hit a receiver, unlike the last guy. The guy sitting on the bench staring daggers at me.

I’d feel guilty about that if I didn’t think it was the smart choice, but I know I’m better than he is. Coach Allen does too.

Sorry, Newhouse. Better luck next year.
I think dryly.
I hear Canada’s hiring.

I line up behind Lefao, my center. He’s a six foot, two inch, three hundred and ten pound hammer from American Samoa. He calls me ‘brotha’ and protects me like a baby. He also doesn’t flinch when I put my arms through his legs, my face in his massive, orange Spandexed ass.

“Red forty-two!” I shout down the line. I turn my head the other direction to repeat it. “Red forty-two! Hut! Hike!”

The boys knew we were going on the one count. They’re locked and loaded, springing into the fray just as the ball rises up in Lefao’s hands to drop into mine. I immediately fall back five steps as he launches forward to smash into the defensive line that’s coming for me. They explode in a mass of pads and helmets that crack loudly as they shout at one another, fighting each other like animals. The stadium has erupted into chaos with them, but I tune it out. I hone in on the beat of my heart. I listen for the ticking of my own internal clock as I breathe slow and even.

One…Their coverage is tight…Two… Their right tackle is loose…Three…My wide receiver can’t get clear…Four…I’m going to get hit.

I curl around the ball, ducking my head and falling to my right. I take the hit as gracefully as I can while still holding onto the ball. I feel my heartrate spike as he makes contact, a pain in my hand erupting out of nowhere and disappearing just as quickly as it came. It’s a reflex at this point, one my body learned from the National Championship game. Every time I take a hit I think I’ve broken that hand again. My mind immediately assumes the worst.

I’d give fucking anything to make it stop.

The whistle blows as my ass hits the ground, mowed over by a sweat soaked giant that’s crushing my chest.

“Better stay down, bitch,” the tackle growls at me. “You’re going to be on your back all day.”

“You’re confusing me with your mom,” I grunt out.

He leans his elbow on my chest. “What the fuck did you say?!”

Before I can answer him, he’s off me. He’s pulled away by his own guys to avoid a penalty, but I don’t for one second think he’s gone for good. He and I will circle back to this conversation later.

The laughing blue eyes of Colt Avery appear above me as he offers me his hand. I take it, letting the stout running back pull me up off the ground. “You alright, man?”

“Yeah, I’m good. He barely touched me.”

Avery laughs as we jog to the huddle. “Dude, he was so up in your shit he probably got you pregnant.”

“I hope not. I’m not ready to be a mother.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Domata?” Coach Fallon, the offensive coordinator, barks in my ear through the headpiece.

I’m still getting used to the fact that I’m mic’d. That the entire coaching staff can hear everything I say.

“Nothing, Coach,” I assure him. “What’s the call?”

“Two seconds.”

“Sorry about the hit,” Fiso apologizes, his round face solemn. “He got the drop on me.”

“Don’t sweat it. Just save me from another one, alright? I might have pissed him off while he had me down.”

“While he knocked you up,” Avery corrects.

Anthony scowls at him. “What the fuck?”

“I might have talked shit,” I admit.

“Making our jobs harder, brotha!” Lefao laughs, smacking my shoulder hard.

Really hard. So hard he knocks me back a step, out of the huddle. I sigh, regaining my footing.

I’m not a small guy. I’m taller than most of my offensive line, something that comes in handy when I’ve gotta see over their massive heads downfield to my receivers, but I’m leaner by half. They forget that sometimes, getting a little overzealous with their celebrations, and I’m not the only one in danger. In the first quarter Hibbert picked up Tyus Anthony, our five foot nine, hundred and eighty pound wide receiver, and I had a real moment of fear where I thought he’d crush the guy with his hug. Anthony is small by any standards, but when a guy is that fast, that slippery, you’re willing to forgive his size in favor of his speed.

But every time you see a tackle coming his way, you drop to your knees and pray to every great god in the sky for his protection. That’s just common sense.

The radio in my helmet comes to life, Coach’s voice pounding in my ear. I stare at the turf in the middle of our huddle as I listen to his orders.

“Okay!” I shout, getting the attention of the ten men surrounding me. “Tiger seven, dive left! Go on one! Ready?”

They clap in unison, each acknowledging that he understands his part in the play. We run to the line of scrimmage, lining up quickly. The clock is already running. We have thirteen seconds left.

I line up with my shoulder in Lefao’s ass again. I wait as he checks the line, looking for signs of a blitz, and I hope Fiso is paying attention. Finally Lefao settles, taking hold of the ball with only four seconds left on the play clock.

“Red forty-two! Red forty-two!” I shout quickly. “Hut! Hike!”

Lefao hands me the ball as I fall back, taking three steps behind the line. I look downfield like I’m searching for an opening but what I’m really watching is my right side. I’m waiting for Avery to run behind me for the hand off. The rest of the field falls away in a swirl of colors and curses as I look for him, but he takes me by surprise. He’s there before I expected, faster than I thought he could be. I bring the ball down to drop in his hands just as I raise my right as though I’m about to throw. No one is fooled by my acting, but they don’t have to be. Avery is already on the move. He hits a wall, but instead of stopping he dives head on into the fray, tucking the ball in tightly as he rides the wave of defensive lineman to gain four yards.

He hits the ground. The play is dead. Olynyk helps him up, giving him a swat on the helmet as he springs to his feet.

It’s third and six. Three minutes to go.

“Where the fuck did you come from?” I laugh at Avery when we reach the huddle.

He gives me his cocky grin, opening his arms wide. “I’m everywhere, baby.”

“Jesus, man, have they clocked you against Anthony? You might be faster than him.”

“Don’t get stupid,” Anthony snaps. “He can’t roll with this.”

Avery points at him, still smiling. “I’m coming for you.”

“Yeah, I’ll be waitin’.”

The play comes through on my radio. The guys see it when I stare into nothing as I listen, all of them falling silent as they wait.

“Slants dirty open!” I shout to them. “Check with me if I call Blue thirty-three change to Tiger two drive. Go on two! Ready?”

Clap!

I get behind Lefao, watching him check the line for anything he doesn’t like. He spots it just as I do; two defensive linebackers are inching forward. They’re going for a blitz. They’re going to try to sack me again.

“Blue thirty-three!” I shout, adjusting the play. “Blue thirty-three! Hut! Hut! Hike!”

I fall back with the ball, hesitating. Counting.

One… My line picks up the blitz, keeping me protected in the pocket… Two… Avery takes the handoff from me…Three…He drives into an opening between Lefao and Olynyk… Four… He smashes through the line… Five… Avery is tackled. He drags the linebacker another two yards past the point of contact, because the wild son of a bitch just won’t stop. Finally they drop in a heap half a yard from the line.

It’s forth and one.

“Your call, Domata,” Coach calls over the radio. “Line’s at the thirty. We’re in field goal range for Castillo. He’s warmed up and ready to kick if you don’t want to run it.”

I take a breath, my hands on my hips. My head down. Coach, the huddle, the sideline, hell, the entire stadium waits for my decision. The nation watching the game on television waits for me to decide. It’s a lot of pressure. That’s why Coach Allen is giving me the choice. He wants to see what I’ll do. Do I have the balls to go for it on forth and inches? Do I think I’m ready to roll with this team into the fray like that, or do I want to play it safe? Do I want to keep my cool?

One look in the eyes of my guys and I know my answer.

“We’re running it,” I tell them, simultaneously telling Coach Allen. “Grizz RT over, go on two. Ready?”

Clap!

As we run for the line I know this is a rarity. In the NFL you don’t go for it on the fourth down, not when you’re thirty yards from a touchdown. You kick the field goal and get those points on the board. That’s the smart way. The safest way. It’s the way you go when you feel nervous about taking a risk, but that’s the thing about me; I don’t get nervous.

“Blue seven! Blue seven! Hut! Hut! Hike!”

I know the play is going to fall apart the second I get the ball in my hands. I can feel it in the way the line is scrambling to cover me. The way Anthony is darting around, desperately trying to get free of his coverage but they’ve doubled up on him. He’ll never get clear. Three seconds have elapsed and I have to look for other options or I’m going to get sacked. I run to the side, pulling the pack with me. I’m searching for Avery, hoping he put on the boosters again and will show up open downfield, but he’s lost in the struggle. He’s dead to me. Anthony too.

I’m just starting to consider running it myself and hoping to get the down when I spot Matthews miraculously appear in the end zone. His coverage is coming but they’re three steps behind him and if I lead him he’ll clear them, no problem.

I plant my feet. I make the throw. High and tight, an easy spiral for Matthews to get under. The line cracks, the world shifting away from me, following the ball as it arcs across the perfect blue sky.

Matthews gets under it. It nails him in the chest. He gets his arms around it, his feet planted in the end zone.

Touchdown Kodiaks.

The stadium goes insane.

I rush through the crowd, smacking helmets and asses, congratulating the offensive line that spared me a sack. I hurry to the sidelines, meeting up with Matthews to slap his chest and tell him he killed it. He’s subdued even in victory, smiling mildly and slapping me back.

“Hell of a throw, man,” he tells me.

I laugh. “Hell of a catch! How’d you get open?”

“Skill.”

I laugh again, shuffling out of the way as the rest of the line jostles him, pouring praise over his humble head. He listens and smiles, removing his helmet to run his hand through his light hair, but his face is reserved. Everything about him carefully held inside.