Raiders Night (7 page)

Chris showed up for practice, but he looked pale, thinner. Said he'd been up all night with a stomach virus. Coach Mac made him wear a red singlet along with Villanueva, who had a broken wrist after all. Injured, no contact. Chris ran routes, caught some passes from Brody's backups, held for Patel, and returned kickoffs. He didn't make eye contact with any of the seniors, and none of them talked to him. Matt stared hard at Chris several times, willing him to look back. He didn't want a conversation, he didn't know what he would say to the kid, but he wanted some kind of signal he was okay. Nothing.

It was a good practice, maybe because they focused so hard to make Chris invisible. Nobody mentioned him. Ramp made a lot of noise, clapping, yelling, reminding everyone it was only a few days to the opener. Matt wished he would shut up, but he was also glad one of them was acting like a
captain. What's wrong with me? Talk to Monty about adjusting the dosage again? This was no time to be down.

School will start tomorrow, he thought, and I'll be back in that long, narrow tunnel of football, parties, and classes, moving straight ahead from game to game without having to think too much about anything else. I hope.

In the locker room after practice, Chris grabbed his street clothes and headed for the door without showering or changing.

“Missy Chrissie,” yelled Ramp. “You going to the girls' locker room?”

Chris walked out without even turning around.

Pete said, “Leave him alone.”

Ramp just grinned. “Jealous?” He grabbed his dick and waved it at Pete, then swaggered off to the showers.

Matt wondered what was going on in Pete's head. “Wassup?”

“Ramp's an asshole.”

“There's a news flash.” He punched Pete's shoulder. “You were right on.”

“So why didn't you back me?”

“Why make a big deal when we need to be a team?”

Pete shook his head and walked away. That wasn't like him either.

 

Classes were okay. Coach Dorman, who was a guidance counselor, was teaching a health unit, Psychology of
Personality, that might be fun. Dad called Dorman “the touchy-feely coach,” but Matt liked him. He seemed like someone who would listen. A lot of jocks and almost all the seniors on the football team were in the class. Dorman said he was going to give them one of the tests that NFL clubs used to evaluate potential draft picks.

Dad wasn't sure that was a good idea. “They could use those results against you,” he said. They were eating dinner, and he was going over Matt's class schedule.

“Who would do that, Larry?” Asking a question like that was the closest Mom would get to disagreeing with him.

“Listen to the radio. Check the web. You can't be too careful these days.”

“I listen to the radio and I'm careful,” said Junie. He seemed happier now that he was back at his cafeteria job.

Dad ignored him. “Matt, you don't want to lose a scholarship because of some headshrinker's opinion.”

“What do you think they'll find out?” said Matt. He knew he should leave it alone, but the old man was getting under his skin again.

“They'll find out Sarah likes you,” said Junie. When everybody looked at him, he said, “She told me not to say anything.”

“I'll bet she did,” said Dad.

Mom said, “Matt, have you officially broken up with Amanda?”

“You think Sarah's gonna be angry?” said Junie.

“It's just what she wanted,” said Dad. What was he pissed off about now? He stood up. “I got letters and e-mails from schools I never heard of.” He stomped off to his den.

“She'll be glad you told me, Junie.” Matt felt heat spread down from his stomach. Like to hook up with Sarah again. Be a way of cutting loose from Mandy without going through all the breakup drama. Once they'd been pushed together the spring of their junior year, a super couple whom everyone else wanted to hang around, he felt trapped with her in the social spiderweb.

“Matt?” said Mom. “You and Amanda?”

“What's the big deal?” He stood up.

“How you treat people is a very big deal.”

“Got homework.” That always worked.

Brody's parents had begun throwing a barbecue the night before opening game, right after the last pep rally, back in Freddy's day, when Brody and Matt were allowed to hang out if they helped with the cleanup. It was a major event this year because Matt and Brody were stars, and Rydek catered it. All the seniors on the varsity and their parents and girlfriends were invited, along with school and town big shots and the coaches. The cheerleaders and the Select Chorus were invited. Dad supervised the grills and Mr. Heinz handled the bar, making a big show of not handing drinks to the football players but winking and looking away when they grabbed beers out of the coolers. Tyrell didn't show. Mandy was fluttering around in her cheerleader queen mode, flirting with the older men and making a big deal of ignoring Matt.

You had to hand it to her, he thought. You'd never
know Mandy had been a clumsy fat girl in middle school. Then she had what Terri called “a makeover summer.” The beginning of freshman year, nobody recognized Mandy at first. There was a rumor the new girl was a movie actress researching a role. When they figured it out, Mandy became an instant celebrity.

Sarah was helping Mom and Junie shake out the chips and arrange the corn and the salads. Matt was impressed by how smoothly Sarah had moved in. She was really nice with Junie. Mandy barely noticed him. Sarah made herself useful, got her hands wet and dirty. Mandy had always acted like someone who was born to be served.

Why am I comparing them? Mandy is probably the best-looking girl in school. She worked as hard at cheerleading as he did at football. Sarah's pretty good-looking and has a beautiful voice. Must have worked hard at that, too. He liked the way she jiggled under her tank top.

“Those jugs real?” asked Ramp.

“You'll never find out,” said Matt.

“At least you're straight,” said Ramp.

“What?”

Ramp lowered his voice. “You think Pete's gay?”

“Takes one to know one,” said Brody. “You wanna lick my balls again, Ramp?”

“I'm serious,” said Ramp. Matt thought he looked more sly than serious. “He's been acting queer lately.”

“What's that mean?” snapped Matt.

“I always figured him the weak link,” said Ramp.

“I know what you mean,” said Brody. “He's sensitive, cares about people. He isn't a day-old dog turd like you.”

Ramp took it because he had a plan, thought Matt. He could almost hear the machinery whirring in Ramp's brain. It reminded him of Dad switching gears in a conversation. Ramp said, “Pete talks to his girlfriend about Raider stuff.”

“So?” said Matt.

“So you're a Raider all the way or you're not, that's all. What I meant by weak link.”

“I know what you boys are doing.” Mr. Koslo strolled up. “Deciding which one of you carries the Conference Cup in the town parade.”

“The State Cup,” said Brody. “This is our year.”

“I love it.” He slapped Brody on the shoulder. Mr. Koslo was a lawyer in the city who owned a lot of real estate around Nearmont. A few years ago, he raised a million dollars to renovate the field house and build a new weight room. Dad liked to be around him but behind his back said he was a crook who paid off politicians.

The mayor, Pastor Jim, and the police chief came up. They started talking Raider football, but Matt could see they wanted to hang out with Mr. Koslo. They didn't notice as Matt, Ramp, and Brody drifted back to the party.

Matt waited until Ramp went for a beer. “He's trying
to split us up, like Tyrell said.”

“Where is Tyrell?” Brody looked around. “He was invited. You think that was his dope stash?”

“You believe that?” Matt stared at Brody until he shrugged. “He ever try to sell any dope? No. Ramp's spreading that to keep everybody off-balance, off his own ass.”

“Wouldn't have thought he was that smart,” said Brody.

Patel sauntered up and slipped each of them a beer. “You get busted, it didn't come from me.”

“If they tortured me, Jay, I wouldn't say your name,” said Brody. “By the way, what is it?”

Patel grinned and wandered over toward some girls waiting to be pushed into the pool.

The party didn't feel right to Matt. Something was off, like static on the radio, confusion in the huddle. Is it just me, he wondered, thinking about Chris and Tyrell, is it Mandy, making people notice her ignoring me? Or did people know that something had happened at camp? It looked all right, parents clustered at one end of the big yard, kids at another. Mrs. Heinz was down to her bikini and Corndog couldn't get close enough. Mr. Heinz and Dad were side by side at the grill, probably talking college football programs. They still had hopes for a package deal, Brody and Matt to the same school. Colorado had shown some interest in a package, but after the sex scandal broke
Dad stopped answering their e-mails. He thought that if Colorado was penalized postseason games and TV appearances, it could affect Matt's exposure for the NFL draft.

Matt turned on the mute when Dad started talking scholarship, about playing colleges off against each other, getting the best deal. Just get me out of here. His grades and SATs were good enough for a top school so long as he had a good season. He had the best shot of anyone in the Back Pack, but none of them ever seemed to begrudge his chances at big Bowl school. Brody and Tyrell would end up somewhere good. Pete might have to settle for a mid-major school, but football wasn't as important to him. Ramp's SATs and grades weren't good, but there were plenty of schools willing to take a chance on a mad-dog linebacker.

Why am I thinking about this?

Because you got to get out of here.

Matt watched Sarah and Junie giggling together as they served salad. Is she doing this just to get closer to me? I hardly know her and she's acting like a member of the family. He looked around again for Tyrell and spotted Mandy making sure everyone saw her flirting with Coach Dorman. Should I be feeling sorry for her trying so hard? I hardly feel anything for her.

“Ready to rock?” Freddy Heinz always looked a little down. Maybe the greatest athlete to come out of
Nearmont, all-state in football, basketball, and baseball. Nike was giving him shoes in middle school. Now look at him.

“Tomorrow's the day.”

“Team looks good, even that retarded brother of mine.” Freddy caught himself. “Sorry.”

“'S okay.” It wasn't, but hell, Freddy never meant anything mean.

“What happened with that big tight end, the phenom?”

“Who?” It took him an instant to realize Freddy was talking about Chris.

“He sure looked good in June.”

“You saw him then?”

Freddy lowered his voice. “Coach Mac asked me and Brody to give him a little tryout, off the record, when the kid wanted to transfer. He didn't want to buy some other coach's problem unless it was worth it.”

“Problem?”

“Got too friendly with another guy, know what I mean?”

“Not really,” said Matt. “He tell you that?”

“Ramp told me. You think it's bullshit?”

“From Ramp?” Matt made a face.

“Know what you mean. So what happened? I didn't see him at practice last couple of days. He get hurt in camp?”

Matt looked at Freddy but couldn't read him. Did he know something? But Freddy wasn't tricky. Matt said, “Stomach virus.”

Mr. Heinz called everybody over for toasts, and Matt never got the chance to find out if Freddy knew anything more.

Matt burst off the line at the snap, racing down the sideline toward the left cornerback, who stopped to brace himself for the collision. Mistake. Matt juked around him.

Put it in my hands, Brody.

He glanced over his shoulder for a snapshot of the field. Brody was still scrambling, pumping the ball, looking for a receiver. It was taking too long. His protection had collapsed around him in piles of red and white jerseys. Even Tyrell and Pete were on the ground. Ramp and Heller were covered.

I'm right here, Brody.

Searching
. The word flickered in a corner of his mind the way it flickered on his cell phone screen when the signal faded. We're losing it, he thought. That hot wire between us has been disconnected.

He cut again and headed back to give Brody a target.

The crowd roared. Brody was down. A fumble. A white jersey, big and slow, was lumbering away. The crowd was jumping, screaming. West Closter was the weakest team in the conference, an easy opener for the Raiders. If we lose this one…

Matt took off after him. He could catch that three-hundred-pound wheezing freight train, but he might not be able to bring him down from behind. Cut him off, collide at an angle. It'll hurt, but it'll work. There was no way the ball carrier could avoid him and he didn't try. He let Matt slam into him and merely grunted, dragging him three yards before he fell on top of him. The officials had to untangle them, help them both up. Matt and the big West Closter kid looked at each other and nodded. Clean play—they had both done their jobs.

Matt waved the trainer away, but she pulled him off the field. He started to feel the pain in his ribs as West Closter pounded through for a touchdown but missed the point-after kick. The whistle for the half blew. It was 6–0.

Coach Mac was ranting in the locker room. They were quitters, whiners. They didn't deserve to be Raiders. They were lying down like sissies. Ramp picked it up, yelling at individuals, Heller, Pete, pussies, Hagen, Boda, gonna stuff tampons up your asses, Brody's just posing out there, Tyrell's sleepwalking, even the great Matt Rydek needs to step up. Ramp reamed himself for not hitting harder. The team stared at the grimy concrete floor of the
visitors' locker room as the managers handed out orange slices and sports drinks. Student trainers rewrapped ankles and wrists, cleaned cuts and bruises, and sprayed on antiseptic. Matt peeked under his jersey. The skin over his ribs was red and swollen.

“We're flat,” said Tyrell, sitting down next to him. “Nice tackle. Humongous mother.”

“Didn't get his license plate.” Matt smiled at his own joke.

Tyrell laughed.

Ramp loomed over them. “Why you laughing? You stoned?”

Tyrell cursed and started to stand up. Matt pulled him down. Ramp walked away.

“Someday, I'm gonna split that cracker's skull,” said Tyrell.

“Get in line,” said Pete. Blood was caked on the bridge of his nose. He looked at Matt. “You okay? I heard that hit thirty yards away.”

“Nothing,” said Matt. Try to use the pain to make me sharper, he thought.

Chris had dressed for the game but never played. He stayed in a corner of the locker room during halftime and sat alone with the scrubs at the end of the bench. Once Matt thought he was trying to catch his eye, but he looked away. Didn't want to lose concentration. Maybe after the game.

They weren't any better in the second half. If West Closter had a decent quarterback, we'd be way behind by now. Everything was a beat off, last season's team tightness gone. Brody had no confidence in his protection, so he was hurrying his throw or handing off too fast. Or keeping the ball and losing yards. Tyrell was getting pounded. Coach pulled him out to rest for two downs, and the offense totally stalled.

“Throw it to eighty,” yelled Dad.

He had appeared midway through the third quarter, announcing himself in his bullhorn voice. “Let's go, Raiders. Let's go, Raiders.” He was catering a fancy party but must have ducked out. Matt had hoped he wouldn't show. Dad could get especially obnoxious at away games. “Let's go, Raiders. West Closter sucks.”

Shut up, thought Matt. He tried to avoid looking toward Dad but couldn't help himself. Dad had worked his way down to the first row of the grandstand behind the Raider bench. He was wearing a red and black Nearmont cap and a No. 80 jersey. Great. In another few minutes he'd be on the field behind the bench even though Coach Mac had gotten the conference to make a special rule banning unauthorized people from the field. That was aimed at Dad.

Time out. Villanueva was balancing a white plastic board on his wrist cast while Corndog drew Xs and Os. A new play they'd learned at camp.

Matt faked a cut at the snap, then streaked straight downfield. He heard a grunt and a laugh. Ramp must have put his helmet into the middle of a white jersey. He stopped at the whistle and turned. Tyrell had made a five-yard gain.

Back in the huddle, Brody was All-Brody again, acting sure of himself. He grinned at Matt. “Hunkies go long.” An old joke from PeeWee.

This time, the cornerback didn't brace for the hit, he stayed up on his toes, so Matt bumped him out of the way and kicked into higher gear. He sensed the ball, it was on a string from Brody's hands to his, it was going to come down into the soft cup of his palms when he reached the end of its flight.

The “oooooh” of the crowd told him the ball was overhead and he was alone. Pain shot up his flank as he stretched for it. He felt it settle into his hands, drew it into his chest. He blotted out Dad's screaming. He needed to hear the breathing of the defenders.

The safety had the angle on him and was coming fast. Maybe I can juke past him, stay inside the white line, don't think about the hit, let it happen. Maybe twenty yards to go, got a chance, every foot counts, keep going, keep going. He thought he might have stepped over. Whistle.

He flipped the ball to the ref, who put it down twelve yards from the goal line.

Dad was on the sideline screaming, “You blind, he was in bounds, you work for West Closter?”

Tyrell and Pete slapped Matt's helmet. “Way to go.” Everybody was trying to touch him. This was the best. We're back on track. If only the old fart would shut up.

Coach Mac sent a manager to Dad. The conference had also gotten together on harassing officials. There could be a penalty.

In the huddle, Brody said, “Same thing.”

“They'll be expecting it,” said Ramp.

“Just block,” snapped Brody.

Matt crossed right, then streaked down the sideline again, taking the secondary with him. Ramp opened a hole for Pete, who ran straight down the middle, drawing in the corners. Tyrell took a handoff down to the two yard line. All-Brody sneaked over for the touchdown, and Patel kicked the extra point. They held on, 7–6, to the final whistle.

Dad was waiting at the bus as they climbed in for the ride back to school. “What's wrong with you?”

“We won.”

He tried to push past, but Dad grabbed his arm. “You got to stand up for yourself with the zebras—they'll walk all over you. Don't be such a pussy. Good thing the Penn State guy didn't show.”

Even Ramp looked away as he passed them. Matt pulled free and climbed on the bus. Brody made room for
him on the backseat.

Coach Mac stormed up and down the aisle, yelling at everyone except Patel. He kept them sweating and stinking on the bus for a half hour in the West Closter parking lot, going over blown assignments and missed opportunities, while West Closter fans kicked the bus and cursed them. It was funny in a sick way.

Back at Nearmont, they showered and dressed in silence.

On the way out to their cars, Brody said, “You coming to Terri's tonight?”

He had forgotten about that. “I guess so.”

“Wear a helmet. Mandy'll be there.”