Isolation Play (Dev and Lee) (8 page)

“
You’re crazy! Listen, you’re doing it, or, or, you find a new agent.” I don’t say anything. “No, I didn’t mean that, but please, you gotta do it.”

“
All right. Jeez, shut up.” I press my fingers to my eyes. I’d forgotten about the headache I get whenever I talk to him.

“
You’re gonna be great.” He’s back to his normal register again. “You’re gonna be at the Port City ‘D’ Hotel, it’s right on the water, it’s beautiful.”

“
You already booked my room?”

“
Hey, I know you, I knew you’d do the right thing. That’s what you did Monday, right? The right thing. There’s all kinds of contracts waiting here for you, commercials to do, there’s a Chevali nightclub and a Yerba Sporting Goods store and...get this...a national chain of sportswear! Ultimate Fit!”

“
Great.” I look around and notice that there’s nobody in the locker room. Shit. I’m late for film. “I gotta go.”

“
Sure, kid, no problem, just tell me if you’re good with the Ultimate Fit guys, because they want to send a crew out on Thursday.”

“
Jesus, Ogleby, I can’t do it Thursday, I have practice.”

“
They just want to film you practicing. So is that okay?”

“
No!” My tail lashes back and forth. I take a breath. “Good-bye.”

“
Okay, but wait—”

Sometimes the only way to end a conversation with Ogleby is to hang up on him. I still have like forty voicemails on it, but I don’t have any more time. So I toss the phone in my locker and run down to film. Of course, everyone else is already there, and when I open the door, Coach Samuelson says, “Thanks for joining us, Miski. Twenty-five hundred if you’re late to a film session again.”

There’s muttering from a few of the players, but I don’t see who. I slink into my chair and avoid meeting anyone’s eye, focusing on watching the plays from the previous week’s game. As we go through them, though, I get into it. I want to watch my interception again, but we only look at it once. I can see through the helmet the intensity in my eyes and I remember the feeling of knowing, being perfectly in tune with the game as I step in front of the coyote and pluck the ball out of the air. My fingers flex as we watch, gripping the memory of the football. It felt great. I’m hungry for more.

Coach Samuelson says, in his lupine growl, “Good anticipation, Miski.” Then we move on to the three completions they made to that same coyote, and though I tackled him two out of three times, Steez points out where I could’ve swatted the ball away.

It’s not just me, though. On every play the coaches run through who hit their assignment, who was slow to the play, who showed good reflexes. There’s at least three of us mentioned on every play. By four-thirty, we’re mentally exhausted, ready to do some lifting and let it soak in for more drills tomorrow.

Fisher and I spot each other in the weight room. We don’t talk much, except when he skips the shoulder presses, flexing his left shoulder. “Musta slept on it wrong,” he says.

I try to remember whether he took a hit to the shoulder on Sunday. “Did you see the trainer?”

He glares at me. “I just slept on it wrong. Do your presses.”

We only have to be here ’til seven, and after that we can leave if we want. They bring in protein bars (approved by the league) in case we want to stay, and I always do. Sometimes I just run for an hour on the treadmill. Tonight, Gerrard and Carson want to do an extra hour of practice, so we grab some guys from the practice squad and run out to the field.

I don’t think the practice squad guys would have been as eager for just me or Carson, but the smarter ones know how much Gerrard talks to the coaches. Being seen working your ass off for the team when you don’t have to scores you points. Sometimes, when the three of us practice, we just do two-on-one, one of us defending while the other two play quarterback and wide receiver. If we can get practice squad guys, though, that works better ’cause it allows us to work with each other, which is what we really need to work on at this point. Also Carson and I suck at throwing the ball.

So five practice squad guys play offense, and we defend with a couple more guys in front of us for a defensive line. Gerrard tells the practice QB to run basic plays and improvise when he wants to. It’s exciting for me, almost like a real game, ’cause I don’t know what’s coming. They get some of the same rush. When they beat us for a score, they whoop and trash-talk. When we stuff ’em, we taunt ’em right back. And Gerrard, in between coaching me and Carson, points out to the squad guys things they could be doing better.

By the time the session ends, we’re all hot and panting, even in the cool evening air. Still trash-talking, shoving and play-punching each other, we head to the locker room and strip out of our uniforms.

Ever since I came out to the team, I’ve taken to waiting to take my shower until most of the team is done. Gerrard and Carson don’t mind, but I don’t know about the practice guys. Anyway, Fisher’s still in the weight room, and I wanted to ask him how to deal with reporters. My voicemail box is full again.

When he finally gets out, a few of the backup guys who stayed for extra work are showering, too. I hesitate, but Fisher just jerks his head at me to follow him in. We grab showers on the empty side of the room. Across from us are Pike and Kodi, a polar and brown bear who are backups on the defensive line. The only other guy in the shower is the otter who’s our backup kick returner, a little ways down. I know Pike and Kodi from when I was a backup and we worked out together with the second team. They’re both huge, half a foot taller than me and probably seventy-five pounds heavier. Pike, actually, backs up Fisher’s position. He’s stronger, but not as fast, even though he’s probably eight years younger.

They mostly ignore us. Pike’s talking about how much he benched this week, so loudly everyone in the shower can hear. Kodi’s mumbled responses are only audible to the polar bear, who keeps the conversation going. The otter finishes up and walks out while we’re talking.

I tune them out while I ask Fisher’s advice in talking to the media. “Just be bland,” he tells me. “Tell them everything’s great. Talk in roundabout ways. Don’t tell them anything hard and factual, because they’ll take it out of context. ‘The team is supportive’—probably you shouldn’t say ‘behind me’—and ‘I love the fans,’ always get that one in there, and ‘it’s all about what I do on the field.’ That oughta be good enough for ’em. Soon enough they’ll get bored.”

I feel a little bit of a pang. There’s some panic in having all these people after me, sure, but it’s a nice feeling, in a way. “What if they ask me about,” I glance at the bears and lower my voice. “Lee?”

Fisher shrugs. “Same thing. Bland, positive.” He looks up at the bears as they turn off the shower.

Pike raises a paw to us, walking by, and nods to Fisher. “Hey, your shoulder doin’ okay, there?”

“
It’s fine.” Fisher lingers a moment longer, staring after them.

Pike’s eyes pass over me on their way back to Kodi, walking behind as the brown bear makes a remark about going to the Sea Shack for dinner. Kodi does hesitate in the middle of his sentence as he goes past me, but only for a second. If my coming out bothered him, he’s making an effort to keep it hidden. I know he’s never said anything bad about me, anyway.

It’s nice that they feel comfortable, treating me like just another teammate. Pike paying attention to Fisher’s workout, though, is a little obsessive. Sure, if Fish is going to be injured, Pike needs to be ready. Still, it feels predatory to me. I know guys do what they have to to stay in the league here, and getting a starting position adds years to your career, even if it’s through a lucky break, like mine. I just don’t like him sniffing around Fisher like a vulture. Not all the backup guys do it. I didn’t do it with Corey.

Back home, it’s another dinner of pizza and a night of video games. I call Lee and tell him about the Today Show, after telling him how Ogleby almost cost me twenty-five hundred bucks. He’s excited—about the show, not the near-fine—and says he’ll be happy to come to Port City with me. “I’m pretty sure it’ll be positive coverage,” he says. “They’re usually pro-gay. Or at least neutral.”

“
I hope so.” I hadn’t even thought about that. “Did you check my league e-mail box?”

“
Yeah. Mostly junk, a couple interesting letters. I’ll forward them on to you.”

“
Thanks. How was work?”

“
Alex and Paul were talking about it.” He sounds like he’s going to say more, then doesn’t.

“
Did Morty?”

Now he sighs. “He was with the GM all day. Our losing streak has gone from unfortunate to embarrassing. I don’t think the right fix is to fire the scouts, but they get desperate when they get embarrassed. Heard from your parents any more?”

Should I follow up on his work situation? My days as a Hilltown Dragon, suffering through loss after loss, are not so remote that I don’t feel a twinge of sympathy. Maybe later. “No, but I wouldn’t expect it. My brother hasn’t called either.”

“
Gregory the hotshot lawyer?”

“
He has a TV commercial now, did I tell you? He hasn’t e-mailed either. I’m sure my parents told him.” I pause. “Any...reaction online?”

My phone beeps. I take it away from my ear and glance at it, then put it back.

Lee’s heard the click. “Who is it?”

“
Ogleby. He’ll leave a message.”

Lee laughs. “I can hear him drooling from here.”

“
Please don’t make me picture that.”

“
Fair enough.” He pauses. “Online—well, Corcoran released a quick statement. Just said you’re a member of the Firebirds family and he has no plans to trade you. Bland and positive.”

“
Better than nothing.”

“
Much. You keep up your end of the deal. Be a good player. Don’t miss any more meetings.”

“
Steez would kill me.”

“
At least it sounds like nobody else on the team will.”

“
Fisher’s looking out for me.”

“
Yeah, I’m more worried about the Millenport game.”

I feel the warmth of his worry in my chest, creeping up to blossom into a smile. “You don’t have to worry. It’s a home game. I’d be more worried if I were going to Millenport.”

He tells me about a player his co-worker Alex is watching, at a college just outside Millenport. I tell him about our practice session with the backups. We make arrangements to meet in Hilltown to drive up to my parents’ place on Monday—or Tuesday morning if we lose, and I have to practice Monday, which he assures me won’t happen. We hang up with a kiss.

Wednesday I have to focus on our plays. Steez drills us over and over on the new ones. Even though I’m doing the same plays I was three weeks ago, something about being a starter makes them feel more urgent, more important. This week, whether it’s just the fact that it’s become routine to glance over and see Gerrard and Carson in every practice, or the fact that I’m not worrying in the back of my head about someone finding out my secret, I’m a lot more comfortable. I like to think it shows in my play, but of course I wouldn’t get that feedback from anyone but myself.

I make the mistake of picking up my cell phone before lunch and I spend the hour shoveling lean burgers into my mouth with one paw and flicking through messages with the other. I don’t even get around to listening to the voice mail, because there’s like fifty texts. Someone must have passed my number around to the reporters. I recognize Dwight’s name, from the Sporting News, and Frank, the ESPN otter. Ten or eleven of the other names I recognize from TV, but the rest are all obscure. Half of them say “left u vm” or something like that. All of them are asking for follow-up comments: how has the team reacted to my outing, have I gotten pressure from the coach, have I gotten threats from other players or fans, have I gotten support from any players or fans, and so on and so on.

I start texting some responses to the names I recognize, half a burger still sitting in front of me. I dash off a couple off-the-cuff replies before hearing Lee in my head telling me to be careful what I say. Then I focus on it, and I focus on it so much that when Gerrard punches me on the shoulder, I’m surprised to look up and see the room mostly empty.

“
Don’t get fined,” he says.

I nod, finish up the last message I was sending, grab the half burger, and cram it in my mouth on my way out the door. I’m the last one out on the field, but I’m on time. Steez narrows his eyes but doesn’t say anything. But Colin, standing with two of his friends, mutters, “Prima donna,” loud enough for me to hear it.

They all laugh. Fisher, nearby, snaps, “Hey. When you got reporters actually wantin’ to talk to you, Colin, then let’s hear what you think. We’re all on the field here. Let’s go.”

Colin’s ears flatten. He mutters something else, but it’s too low for anyone else to hear. Gerrard sees me looking his way and taps my shoulder. “Let’s work,” he says, flicking his large ears.

We do some basic footwork, sprints, and then go in for a film session by group. Gerrard, Carson, and I head in with the rest of the defense to watch the Millenport offense play. I find it hard to focus on watching what they’re running because I’m still trying to compose text message responses in my head, wondering what the voicemails all say. Christ, snap out of it, I tell myself when I realize that I have no idea what the last play we just watched was. If I don’t concentrate here, I’m going to let myself and Lee down.