Raiders Night (8 page)

Sarah stuttered on the phone when he said he'd pick her up and they'd go to Terri's. He liked catching her off guard, poking a hole in her self-confidence. It made him feel a little bigger, more in control after the day's whippings. She said she hadn't been at the game, in fact she was still at work. She seemed hesitant to give him her address, said she'd meet him at the party, but he insisted on picking her up at home. He needed to get his way.

He thought he had gotten the address wrong when he pulled up at the ugly new condos near the highway on the edge of town. A square of concrete boxes with decks overlooking the parking lot. She was standing out front, looking good.

“The new house isn't ready, so we're renting here for a few months.” She was talking fast as she climbed in. “It's a drag—everything's in storage. How was the game?”

“We sucked.” He was surprised that he felt like telling her about it. “We weren't executing, we weren't working together.”

“Sounds frustrating.”

“We knew what to do but we couldn't do it.”

“I know that feeling. Sometimes when the chorus isn't tight, you feel like a little kid again, everything's out of your control.”

He felt comforted by her understanding, but alert, too. You don't want someone trying to get into your head, like Terri. Do you? Mandy never tried. That was a relief for a while. Then he figured she just didn't care. All-Mandy.

He liked the looks they got when they walked in. Shock and awe. Mandy scared people. No bitch rules Matt Rydek. He wondered if he was giving himself a pep talk.

Patel waved from across the room. A girl was hanging on him. He was a hero tonight. Wouldn't be running beers. Ramp lumbered by, did a comical double take at Sarah, then grinned and winked. Matt turned away and looked for Brody. Somebody handed them beers.

Pete slouched up. “Watch your ass. Mandy is volcanic.”

“Vesuvius? Mount St. Helens?” Matt tried to remember more volcanoes.

“I'm serious. WYA. Hi, Sarah.”

“Hi, Pete.” She took Matt's arm and steered him into the thick of the party. Clumps of kids peeled away to let them through to Mandy, the queen on a couch, snuggling up to a guy who had graduated a few years ago. College guy.

Brody was sitting nearby with Terri. How'd they get so tight? Everybody looked a little wasted already. Brody gave him a little head shake. Take off.

Too late.

“Look who dragged the cat in.” Mandy sat up. “You've got some fucking nerve, Matt, showing up with that fag hag.”

Even if he wanted to split now, he couldn't, kids pressing in all around them. Hard to breathe. What was he trying to prove?

The college guy piped up. “Maybe you should just leave, pal.” But he didn't stand up. No threat there.

“Maybe you should just kiss my ass, pal.”

The college boy started to untangle himself from Mandy, but she held on to him. She knew Matt could take him.

“Just get the fuck out,” Mandy said. “Take that Wal-Mart slut with you. Did you do her mother, too?”

“You loser,” snarled Sarah. He could feel her body vibrating against his. “All that liposuction and you still can't hold on to your man.”

“Whore!” Mandy launched herself off the couch,
right at Sarah, her red-tipped fingernails clawing the air.

Sarah froze. He heard her gasp.

Instinct and training clicked in. He spun Sarah out of the way, dropped a shoulder, and let Mandy slam into it. There was a
thunk
and a moan. He reached out to grab her as she fell, a mistake, and the red claws raked his cheek. He let go, and she slumped to the floor, crying and sucking air. The party swarmed around her.

Ramp was laughing. “Nice block, Rydek.” He raised his hand for a high five. Matt ducked under it and pulled Sarah through the crowd and out of the house.

They drove around for a while, not talking, listening to a new CD without hearing it. They ended up three towns away at a diner packed with middle-aged couples who must have just come from a nearby cineplex. Nobody here we'd know, he thought.

Sarah was pale, her eyes red rimmed. She pushed her French fries around her plate with her fork.

“You okay?”

He had to say it twice before she said, “I'm really sorry.”

“For what?”

“I guess I had something to prove. Stupid.”

“I took you there.”

She looked up. “We should put peroxide or something on your face.”

“Wouldn't want to get cat scratch fever.” It just came out. Funny line.

It got a smile out of her. Some of the color came back into her face. “It was so embarrassing.”

“She should be embarrassed,” said Matt. “She acted like a jerk.”

Sarah reached across the table to touch his cheek.

The good warmth spread down from his belly. “So, you gonna take me to the emergency room?”

Her tinkly laugh was back. “I was thinking of intensive care.”

They drove back to the condo. Her mother was out of town working, she said. It was a small, neat apartment. It looked like a motel suite. A cat saw Matt and scurried away. Sarah led him into the bathroom, sat him down on the toilet lid, and found peroxide and gauze pads in the cabinet.

There was a splash of pain, then they were kissing, pulling at each other's clothes. He palmed a condom before his pants came down.

He didn't remember how they got to her bedroom. They swept stuffed animals off her bed.

She wasn't shy, didn't wait for him to make the first moves, like Mandy. She seemed as fierce and hungry as he was. It excited and scared him, her hands squeezing and tugging all over his body. He had to concentrate to match her energy. Some part of him wanted to hold back, to stay on guard as their bodies slipped over each other on flimsy layers of sweat.

“Matt!” Her hand was on the bruise over his ribs. He bit his lip. The pain chewed up his side. “That must hurt.”

“It's nothing.”

“I've got something.” She was gone.

He took a deep breath. Mistake. A sledgehammer banged his ribs.

She was back with a small plastic jar. “Old family remedy. Just relax.”

He tried to relax. When was the last time he totally relaxed with a girl? A soft hand glided over the bruise; the cream stung a little at first, then heat seeped into his skin. He let himself sink into the bed.

“Better?”

“Better.”

“I want to make you feel good, Matt.” She kissed him.

“You do.”

“I mean really. Not just, you know.”

He felt the heat off her body like a dry bath. He stroked her smooth soft cheek. They took in each other's breaths. It was very peaceful. He could feel all thoughts drain out of his mind.

“Matt? I lied to you,” she said. He couldn't see her features clearly in the bedroom. “I live here with my mom. She's a night inventory manager for Wal-Mart. I work there, too. My dad walked out on us after his big birthday party. We had to sell the house.”

“Must be tough.”

“Everybody's got problems.” She spread more cream on the bruise. The pain faded. “Your dad's a piece of work, too.”

“No kidding.” He felt safe here with her.

“You stand up to him. I love how you protect your brother.”

Safe but a little scared, too. Can she see inside me? “Junie's a good kid.”

“Is Junie his real name?”

“Junior. He was named after Dad, but I think Dad's sorry now.”

“That's so sad. Everything's on you.” Her other hand stroked his face. “All that pressure and you're still so strong, so steady. Most people would be druggies.”

He laughed at that. “If you don't call steroids and Vicodin drugs. For starters.” Why was he telling her this?

“Isn't that dangerous, the steroids?”

“Not if you're careful. I got somebody helping me, knows what he's doing. Steroids are healing drugs. I can work out harder and repair muscle faster.” He'd never talked so freely to a girl before. It felt good. “It's not like I'm doing coke or crank. These are prescription drugs.”

“What about side effects?”

“You got to pay the price if you want to make it.”

“Make it?”

“Division One. Maybe the pros.” Definitely the pros, but you don't want to jinx it.

“Is that what you want to be, a pro football player?”

“Sound crazy to you?”

“No. I wanted to sing at the Metropolitan Opera.”

“Wanted?” This felt so easy, so warm. Too easy, too warm. WYA. He didn't feel sexy. He felt…happy.

“I had to stop taking lessons after Dad split. It's very expensive. There's a lot of travel to workshops and teachers, voice, diction, repertoire. And you're not even sure until you're in your thirties that you have a chance.”

“That's when most football players hang it up.”

She laughed. “I'll take over the spotlight when you're finished with it.”

“You have a beautiful voice.”

“Thank you.” She started rubbing in cream again.

He pushed the jar away and pulled her close.

Something was wrong. He wasn't hard.

Never happened before. Was it the Vics? After the game, he'd popped one, another with a beer before he drove to Sarah's. Another beer at Terri's. Was that enough to lose a woodie? Vics and brew don't mix.

“Sorry, I—”

“It happens.”

“Not to me.”

“Sometimes it happens”—she sounded dreamy—“when you're with someone you really want. Someone you really care about.”

Never happened with Mandy, even after a game,
floating on beer and Vics. In bed, he and Mandy shared the zone. They knew each other's moves.

Sarah held him for a while. He felt small, childish. Like she was his mom. When she went to the bathroom, he pulled on his underpants. He needed to be covered.

“You want something? Beer, wine. There's Diet Coke, orange juice.” She was smiling as if it were no big deal, he thought. It was a big deal. Was she trying to make him feel better because she felt sorry for him? “Ice cream?”

“I'm sorry.” He felt ashamed. His father's face, twisted with anger at Junie, popped into his head, then Sarah comforting Junie. She's good with boys who aren't normal.

“For what?”

“You know.”

But she didn't. Or pretended she didn't. Finally, as if remembering something from long ago, she said, “Oh, that. You're tired and all beat up. You're not a machine.”

“I should go.”

“Why?”

“It's late.” He had no idea of the time.

“We could watch some DVDs.” She didn't want him to leave even though he couldn't execute. Why? So she'd have something on him? “Let me put more salve on the bruise.”

He needed to get out of here. Now. He followed the trail of clothes they had dropped, dressing piece by piece in different rooms. Back in the bathroom, he popped
another Vicodin and washed it down with water cupped in his hand.

She followed him in. “Was it something I did?” She sounded desperate. That scared him. “Please, let me—”

“Gotta go.” He didn't look at her as he hurried out.

He felt better outside. There was just enough of a breeze to dry the sweat. He was dizzy. He bumped his head getting into the Jeep.

He thought about getting on the highway and letting the traffic take him somewhere, anywhere, but he was having trouble focusing on the road ahead. He didn't want to go home. Nowhere to go. Too much to think about.

A siren sliced into his brain. Flashing red and white lights grew into a poisonous flower in his rearview mirror. He pulled over.

“Matt?” The cop poked his head through the open window. “You're all over the road. Been drinking?”

“Pain pills.”

“Been there.” Big guy, thick neck. He had played. “Some shot you took today.”

“You at the game?”

“Never miss 'em. You live on Harrington, right? Can you follow me? I'll get you home.”

“Thanks.” Some part of him wanted to say, Bust me.

He had to concentrate to stay in his lane. A memory popped up, Dad waking him up to show him off to the poker game in the rec room. Mr. Heinz and the mayor
were there. They were all smoking cigars. He had scored three touchdowns in the PeeWee championship game that day. Dad gave him a cigar. They all laughed as he started to get sick on the second puff.

He tasted the vomit again as he followed the cop home.

On Sunday, the e-mails starting piling up from screen names he didn't recognize. He never got that many messages except from the football coaches and managers, mostly schedules and reminders and pep talks. He was no writer, so he never encouraged e-pals. He preferred quick cell phone calls or even text messages. But by the time he checked, late on a long, sluggish Sunday, there were at least two dozen unopened messages. The sight of them drained what little energy was starting to seep back from protein shakes and amphetamines. He hadn't felt like eating and his ribs ached. The Vics were making him nauseous.

Dad had left early for a wedding. After a while, Mom and Junie had given up trying to drag him out of bed. They were going to church and then to a town fair. Junie loved fairs. But there was no way Matt was going to be around people today.

Brody had called to invite him over to watch the NFL games on his monster plasma screen, but Matt said he had to go with Mom and Junie. Brody forgot lies, too. The thought of Mrs. Heinz in her bikini made him remember last night. What happened? Am I losing it? I'm not gay. Was it the steroids? Who could you ask about that? Monty? Feel weird.

What did Sarah really think about a guy who couldn't get it up? Mandy called her a fag hag. Maybe that's why she likes me.

He'd pushed her out of his mind and slapped the mattress until Romo understood she was welcome to jump onto the bed. They snuggled for a while, then went downstairs to cuddle on the couch and watch the games. These guys are so huge, Matt thought, so ripped and fast, so willing to sacrifice their bodies on every play. Imagine the drugs they were taking. What do I have to do to get to the NFL? Switch to cornerback? Gain fifty pounds?

After the Giants game, he'd caught the back end of a Yankee doubleheader. He loved Jeter. Class and talent and guts. And a real captain and role model. Didn't have to call meetings and yell at guys, he thought, just showed them how to act by example. Baseball was my game, too, until the football trophies started coming in. Man, I loved the outfield, all alone until suddenly you are the only one between the ball and an extra-base hit. Some great catches sophomore year on the JV, hitting a ton. They brought me
up to the varsity for the final two games of the season. Got hot.

But Dad and Coach Mac said he had to make a choice. The lifting programs for baseball and football were different, and spring football practice was too important to miss. This is the age of specialization, said Coach Mac. You've got to pay the price, Matt. Dad thought his chances for a full ride in Division One were better in football than baseball. More scholarships available. More TV exposure. And pro baseball was turning Latino—you'll be up against all those Dominicans willing to work for the minimum to escape their island. It was another year or so before Matt began wondering if Dad just didn't want him to succeed in baseball because he didn't make it.

He had wanted to play baseball, but he caved. He let Coach Mac and Dad make the decision for him. The cocaptaincy was part of the deal to tie him up, he later thought. It was announced at spring practice junior year, and it made him feel responsible to the football team. He never really wanted to be a captain, to be in charge of other people, to have to worry about them. Not his thing. Just wanted to look out for himself and his friends. When it was announced, some of the guys said they were glad they could go to him instead of Ramp, and that made him feel better.

He still missed baseball. Something so clean and true about baseball. You weren't so dependent on guys you didn't trust to watch your back.

When he heard Mom and Junie pull into the garage, he went up to his room and closed the door. Poor Romo whined and tried to scratch her way in, but with her inside it would be impossible to keep Junie out. Matt wasn't up for his brother's energy, for the minute-by-retarded-minute replay of his day. He felt ashamed for thinking that.

Then the anonymous e-mails drove everything else out of his mind.

“Think you can get away with it?”

“Dream on, asshole.”

“No wat u did.”

“U suck shit.”

“WYA.”

He deleted the rest without opening them. He didn't recognize any of the addresses, but they were probably from Mandy's friends. He knew that crap goes away after a while if you don't respond, don't let them think they're getting to you. But what if it's about Chris? Creepy seeing him sitting on the bench like a ghost. I should try to talk to him at school tomorrow. About what? Matt was sweating.

He didn't want to think about it. He let Junie into the room and listened to the endless play-by-play of church and the town fair. He let it wash out his head. Another Vic kept him smiling through dinner.

Dad wanted to talk to him afterward. Grabbed his
arm and pulled him into the den. Closed the door. Pushed him into a wooden chair.

“What's going on?”

“About what?”

“Don't play with me, Matt.” He had the no-expression mask on and his eyes were slits.

What did Dad know? The e-mails, Mandy, Sarah, Chris? The world was dropping a box over his head. Hard to breathe. Maybe I should just spill it all out before I smother and die.

Stay cool. Can't go on like this.

“Can't go on like this.” Did Dad say that, or me? “Not if you still plan on Division One.”

“Just the first game.” What are we talking about? Matt thought.

“Do you want to go D-One?” His face was an inch away, too close to see clearly, but the stink of red wine made Matt gag. “DO YOU?”

He breathed. “Yeah.”

Dad pulled back, stared at him, then suddenly collapsed back into his recliner. “Oh, man.” He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “You don't want to end up like me, Matt, working all the goddamn time. I want you to have a life, get somewhere.”

Matt felt uncomfortable. Where's he going with this?

“You gonna tell me what's going on?” He lowered his voice. “Maybe I can help.”

Matt remembered a documentary about kids who walked across fields in Cambodia looking for unexploded mines. Most dangerous job in the world. One misstep,
kaboom
. Here goes. “What do you think I should do?”

“Execution, it's all about execution.” Dad sat up, smiling. He loved to lecture. “Brody's not looking for you fast enough, he's thinking about himself. He's trying to pile up personal stats, so he's scrambling all the time. I've talked to his dad, friggin' Wall Street blowhard.” Dad was cranked. “Brody should stay in the pocket until he can hit you. Hand off to the little monkey once in a while, even to Pete, slow as he is, as a change of pace. Too bad that new kid didn't work out. What's his problem?”

“Chris Marin?” He felt a chill saying his name.

“Wasn't he supposed to start?”

“Got sick.”

“Or scared.” Dad smirked. “Be surprised how many guys can't take the heat, fold in the clutch. They get sick, get hurt, drive into a tree just because they can't pay the price.” He reached out to grab Matt's shoulder. Matt tried not to flinch, almost succeeded. Dad didn't notice. “I know you'll do what you need to do. Make us all proud. Glad we had a chance to talk.”

“Yeah,” said Matt. He nodded as Dad patted his butt and steered him out of the den. Didn't step on the mine. Maybe I will someday.