Long Pass Chronicles 01 - Outing the Quarterback (25 page)

Just friends, brilliant artist. The boy is gay. Who could blame him?

Well, shit.

The video ended. One commentator looked at the other. “What do you think? Have they made too much out of a schoolboy rumor?”

The other guy shrugged. “Maybe not. Sadly, gay guys get pretty bad harassment in college sports, especially football. The few guys who have come out may make a good show, but they still get treated badly. Ashford would be fighting it all season. Better to squash it now.”

“You know who I feel sorry for?”

“The long-suffering girlfriend?”

“No, the poor kid in that video with Ashford. He looked pretty smitten.”

“Well, as the father said, who could blame him?” They both laughed.

All the blood rushed out of Noah’s head. He grabbed the edge of the bar and took a deep breath.

Penny reached over and touched his arm. “You okay, sweetie?”

He nodded. Couldn’t get words out of his dry mouth.

Who could blame him? Nobody could blame him as much as he blamed himself.

W
ILL
SAT
on the bench in the locker room. Way early. All alone. He couldn’t stand being home another minute. His father practically vibrated with excitement over the game and the glory. He didn’t. Funny he’d thought about killing himself. No need. He felt dead already.

That probably ought to be explored, but, shit, he was so tired.

“Will?”

He turned and smiled at the stocky, gray-haired man who guided a bunch of his life. “Hi, Coach.”

“You’re not usually one of our early birds.”

“Yeah.”

“Nervous?”

“No. I just wanted out of my house. My father’s driving me nuts.” He laughed.

The coach sat on the bench beside him. “He seems like he’s pretty involved in your career.”

“You could say that.”

“I caught some of the press conference on the local news last night.”

“Yeah.” He sighed.

“You’ve been in the eye of the storm lately.”

Will nodded.

“Hard to make decisions under pressure.” He stared at Will’s tightly clenched hands. “But you’re good at it.”

Will looked into those direct brown eyes, lined from all that squinting in the sun. “Am I?”

“You’re a quarterback, Will. You have to decide whether to pass, run, or punt, who to pass to, and how far, with three-hundred-pound guys running at you. Hell, man, that’s good practice for life.”

He grinned. “I guess.”

One of the running backs came in, and he and the coach both nodded. Coach sat up a little straighter. “I always tell you guys about commitment, focus, and giving your all. They’re important lessons. But I don’t think I spend enough time on happiness.”

“Happiness?”

“Yeah. It’s a clue the universe gives us that says, ‘Keep going. You’re on the right track.’ Take Jamal. When that guy’s on the field, he’s one big bundle of happiness. Stomp him, plow him down, he gets up smiling. Even if he wasn’t such a fabulously talented center, he’d still succeed because football makes him happy and that’s why he does it.”

“A clue, huh?”

“Yep. Have a great game, Will. You’re one of the best quarterbacks I’ve ever seen. Smart, fast, accurate.” He stared at him for a minute like maybe there was a “but,” and then he smiled. “It’s a pleasure working with you.” He patted Will’s arm and walked toward his office.

“Thanks, Coach.”
Okay, on with the show.

An hour later, he was dressed, pep-talked, and poised to run out on the field for the opening game of their season. Jamal looked over his shoulder. “It’s gonna be a good game, man.”

There was that happiness the coach talked about. It made Will smile. “Yeah, it is, buddy.”

Jim Sawicki, the second-string quarterback, walked up to him. “Just want to say have a great game, Will. You’re an inspiration. I want to have hands just like you.”

More of that happiness. Sawicki glowed with it. The man was right where he wanted to be. “Thanks. You’re an inspiration too.”

The kid actually blushed. “Thanks, Will.” He ran to the front of the line, waiting to enter the stadium, since the bench players got introduced first.

The cheers and band music floated in as each player ran on the field. Loud and enthusiastic. Nice. He was glad the fans were happy too.

Jamal went out before him. Huge cheers, stomping, and bass drum pounding. The cheerleaders screamed, “Give me a J, give me an O—” making it to Jones by the time he’d run onto the field.

The drums began a roll. His turn. He prepped himself for the lack of cheerleader noise, plastered on his smile, and stood waiting for his name.

“And now, laaaaadies and gentlemen, the quarterback of the Lions, the golden boy of SCU, the man with the golden hands, Wiiiillll Ashford.”

He ran onto the field carrying his helmet under his arm and waving.

Apeshit from the stands. From beside him, the cheerleaders started, “We’ve got the Will, we’ve got the way. We’ve got the Will, we’ve got the way.”
Holy shit, what got into them?
The crowd joined in and thousands chanted his name.

He ran over to the huddle and patted the coach on the shoulder. “What’s up with the cheerleaders? They hate me.”

Coach frowned. “I informed their coach that if they couldn’t cheer for their quarterback, I had some nice freshmen dying to be cheerleaders, and I’d form my own squad.”

Will laughed.

He jogged onto the fifty for the coin toss, and then back to the bench for the kickoff. Jamal clapped him on the shoulder. “How you holding up?”

“Okay.”

“Ev told me that press thing was a bitch.”

“Yeah. She was amazing.”

“Always, man. It runs in the family.”

They laughed and got up for the first scrimmage.

Slog. The other team came from Michigan, and those mothers were big and strong. After two first downs, they still hadn’t made any spectacular yardage. Time for a long pass.

“Fifty-seven. Fifty-seven. Hut. Hut. Hut.” From shotgun, Jamal rifled the sucker into his hands.
Good
. He fell back. His running back dodged left and broke free.
Perfecto
. Will feinted left, ran three feet to lose a linebacker on his ass, and pulled back to pass.

Wham!
Hit from the side, he flew through the air. No way he’d let go of the ball. Clutching it to his chest with one arm, he shoved out his right hand to break his fall.

Thud. Oof
. His hand hit first and his chest followed. Nobody landed on his back. He glanced to the side and watched it happen. The linebacker stumbled, tried to catch himself, staggered a step, reared back, and like in slow motion, dropped his big, fat, cleated foot straight onto Will’s bare right hand.

Pain! It flashed to his head and blinded him like a blaze of fire and a black curtain. His hand! His painting hand.

The guy’s foot rose from Will’s hand, and he fell on his side.

Some part of Will’s brain registered he still had possession—the ball pressed against his chest. Sound trickled back as the screams of the crowd washed over him.

He stared at his hand. Blood welled from the webbing between his thumb and first finger, and a gash ripped down the palm, with more blood oozing.
Please God
. He moved the little finger.
Shit!
Pain.

“You okay, Will?” The ref walked over toward him. He looked around. He had possession. Momentum.

He clutched his hand to his chest and hid it behind the ball. “Yeah.” He threw the ball to the ref.
Hope there’s not too much blood on it. Get this done. Just do it
.
It’s forever.

He turned, still holding his hand, and returned to the line of scrimmage.

Deep breath.

“Twenty-two. Twenty-two. Hut. Hut. Hut.”

Another shotgun into his hands.
Ow
. He cradled it with his left until he saw the wide receiver in the open. He looked at his hand. Would it work? Ever? Pain shot up his arm as he gripped the ball, pulled back, and passed.

As the ball left his hand, blood flew in the air and splattered his uniform.

The bloody ball sailed, and sailed, and sailed—it had to be forty yards—right into the receiver’s arms. Five more running yards and he crossed into the end zone. Touchdown.

The horn sounded. End of the first half.

Jamal turned to him. “Oh my God, whaddid you do, buddy? Holy shit! That goes in the record books.”

Will stared at his hand.

Jamal gripped his shoulder. “Crap, Will, what happened?”

Will smiled. Was that butterflies flitting through his head? “I got a clue.”

“What? You need a medic.”

Will stared at the sky. His painting hand. He looked down at the red swipes across his palm and drips from his fingers. Bloody. He flexed his fingers. Hurt like frigging hell. First finger moved. Second finger moved. He smiled. Bloody, but unbowed.

The fans bobbed in the stands as the band played and the cheerleaders performed. They loved football and they all cared about the quarterback of the SCU football team. They didn’t give a shit about Will Ashford. That was great. Perfect, in fact. “Jamal, do you think your family would mind if I came and stayed with you for a little while?”

“Really? Shit, man, you can stay forever. Not what you’re used to, but all yours.”

“I don’t want what I’m used to.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“After the game?”

“No. I’ll meet you there.”

“Sure. Let’s get you to the medic.”

“I’ve got to talk to Coach first.”

“Okay. Don’t wait too long. See you in the locker room.”

The coach still stood by the bench, talking to a reporter. Will stopped a couple of feet from him. The coach looked over and his eyes got wide. “Shit, son, what happened?”

“Got stepped on.”

He frowned. “When?”

“When I took the hit.”

“You mean you did that last pass with that hand?”

The reporter was writing like crazy.

“Yeah. Can I talk to you?”

“Sure.” He nodded at the reporter. “Excuse me.” He took hold of Will’s arm and pulled him aside. “We need to get you to a medic.”

“Yeah. Jamal’s getting one.” He looked at the drying blood. “Coach, will you put Sawicki in?”

“Of course. You can’t play like that.”

Will stared at his hand. “I mean permanently. He’s a good quarterback and he’s happy on the field.”

The coach looked at him steadily, then got a little smile. “Unlike you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are you happy, Will?”

Will smiled. Really smiled like he was happy. “I’m a painter, sir.”

“Sweet Jesus, how come I never knew this? Do you take any art classes?”

He shook his head.

“Well, crap, son, that’s got to change.”

“Yes. I have nightmares about—” He held up his hand. “—this. My painting hand.”

“Could have been a lot worse.”

“That’s my nightmare.”

“So are you changing majors?”

He shook his head. “No. My father won’t allow me to do that, so I’m leaving school.”

“No.”

“I’ll get a job and work my way through art school.”

“Amazing. When did you decide this?”

“About ten minutes ago. I got a clue.” He laughed.

“If you’re as good a painter as you are a quarterback, you’ll be a huge success.”

“Thank you. The odds are against it. There are fewer successful painters even than quarterbacks, but I have to give it a try. Thanks for taking this so well.”

The coach shrugged and picked up Will’s throbbing hand, inspecting it closely. “I think I’ve known you were a loaner. When I saw all this shit coming down on your head, I wondered why you should take it when you don’t really love football.”

“Yeah. And I just got that if I’m not the quarterback, nobody will care what I do.” He laughed.

“Most people would hate that fact.”

“I might have once. Not anymore.”

“Is your painter friend going to help you?”

Whoa.
Could pain spread from your hand to your heart?
“No. He’s too good for me. As a painter, I mean.” He tried to smile.

“Let’s get you to the doc.”

D
ARK
. S
CARED
.
That about summed it up.

Will pulled up in front of the Jones’s house in an old Toyota. Complete with bandaged hand, he’d driven home and packed some clothes and toiletries into a suitcase. He’d hated not saying good-bye to Anna, but he didn’t want her involved. He drove the Ferrari to a car lot, sold it for good money—blue was unique—bought the piece-of-shit Toyota, and mailed the check for the balance to his father.

He pulled his wallet from the side pocket of the car. Five K wouldn’t go far, but he didn’t feel right taking any more than that. After he got the cash, he had mailed his credit cards to his father too. Man, his hands shook when he did that. He’d had a gold American Express since he was fifteen.

He pulled his bags from the trunk and slammed it, grabbed the bags in his left hand, then walked slowly to the front door. Was he still happy? Maybe on the field, he’d been crazy from the pain and all that bliss was a hose job?