Uncovered (Dev and Lee Book 4) (39 page)

Peter finds me again, holding a hot dog bun with something in it that smells better than a hot dog. “Hey, want something to eat? We’ve got sausages and beer in the other room, and nachos.”

“In a bit.” I look around. “Is there anyone in particular I should be talking to?”

He grins. “They’ll find you. Don’t worry about it, just relax and have a good time.”

“I shouldn’t worry about Jocko?”

He raises his eyebrows. “He say something to you?”

“Er. No.”

“Then no.” He indicates the betting area with his muzzle. “You putting down any bets?”

I look at the whiteboard. “I think I just want to enjoy the game, but thanks. This is fun.”

“Not a problem. So tell me what you think of the matchups?”

The studio analysts are dissecting some of the matchups on screen, but I start with my own order in my own head. “Sabretooths’ offense is better than the Firebirds’, but the Firebirds’ defense is a little better. The main reason the Sabretooths do well on offense is their left guard, and the Firebirds won’t be able to make a lot of headway against him, but they’re stronger on the weak side, where they have Fisher and Brick.”

“And Miski.” Peter smiles. I notice that Jocko and a wolf—shit, I can’t remember his title, something to do with Player Relations, but his name is Cormier, and he’s not the one who makes me uneasy—have drifted over to listen to me talk. I’d been expecting my interview to cover available college players to draft, but I do have some opinions on the game, and I hope they’re good ones. I take a breath, think of Dev as a football player and not as my boyfriend, and go on.

“He’s pretty good, too.” I smile back. “And Gerrard and Carson will cover the strong side well. I think the real trick is going to be whether the tight end can slip their coverage on short yardage. If the safeties and linebackers can bottle him up, that really stalls the Sabretooths’ offense. On the other side, well, if they get Strike the ball ten times, they have a pretty good chance of winning. Jaws can move the chains, but things will really open up for him if they establish the pass and those coyote linebackers have to back off the rush.”

“Use the pass to establish the run?” The wolf half-laughs. Jocko doesn’t say anything.

“I know it’s usually the other way around.” I try not to get nervous. Do I have to impress Jocko? Did I do something wrong on the phone? If so, what? Peter smiles encouragingly, and I go on. “But everyone knows the Firebirds can run. They don’t know if Aston can get the ball to Strike regularly.”

“What’s the matchup to watch on the line?” Peter asks.

I talk about the offensive line and the Sabretooths’ defensive line for a few minutes, and then the wolf and Jocko start arguing between themselves. Peter claps me on the shoulder and brings his muzzle close to mine. “Good work,” he says.

“Thanks.” My mouth is dry. Jocko’s the guy who’d be my boss, and he still hasn’t talked to me.

As Peter and I turn to walk away, though, Jocko calls out, “Hey. Farrel.”

We both turn, two fox muzzles looking back at him. The bear jerks his head toward the TV. “Who you like?”

The wolf digs an elbow into his ribs, and Jocko snorts. “I don’t mean like that, asshole,” he says, shoving the wolf back. “I mean, who’s he like in the game? To win. C.C.’s favored by six. You take that?”

His tone is casual but his eyes are serious, and Peter, beside me, is still. I don’t look at him or the TV, or anyone else but Jocko. “I’ll take Chevali,” I say, “and I’ll give you three of those six back.”

Jocko squints. “You makin’ that call with your head or your dick?”

“All right,” Peter says. “Let’s cut this off before I have to call HR over here. Again.” He takes my arm and heads over to the food room, but I stop him. I know I have to stand up for what I believe, and Jocko’s the kind of guy who wants people to stand up to him, I think. I hope I’m right.

“You been listening to what we were just talking about?” I challenge him. “It’s gonna be a close game. C.C.’s got a great D and a steady offense. The game-breaker is Strike, and if they hold him to a hundred and a score, they’ll keep the game close. If he gets free, Chevali wins. These guys aren’t scared to play on the road. They just won at Hellentown and Boliat. The spread is based on record and home field, and my pick,” and here I tap my head, “is based on looking at the guys on the field right now.”

Peter and Cormier both look at the bear, who nods. “We’ll see,” he says.

“I’d put down some cash—” I start to explain that I don’t have all that much, and Jocko shakes his head.

“Nah, no cash. Just a friendly bet. We’ll see if you’re right.”

Friendly. Maybe if I win. I turn to Peter. “I think I’ll have that beer and sausage now.”

They’re chicken sausages, it turns out, and they’re delicious. Hal comes into the food room as I’m heading back out. “Doing okay?” he asks.

“I think so.” I look back out toward the main room while Hal picks up a sausage. “I’m already getting interviewed.”

“How’d it go?”

“Well, nobody laughed at me…check that. The one guy did, but I think it was okay.” I tell him briefly what I said. “And I have made a bet that might be the difference between me getting hired and not.”

“You got a pretty good track record betting on your tiger. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about it. Don’t think they’ll leave it to something like that.” He checks through the door, looking at the screen. “Fifteen minutes to the game. You ready?”

I picture Dev running out onto the field, the cameras on his face during the national anthem, the handsome stripes and proud muzzle. I think about what he must be going through now, the nervousness, the strain, and how I’m not there to tell him that I’m rooting for him and that I believe in him. I think about whether he’ll be okay anyway, and I nod to Hal. “Think so.”

“Good. Because nothing you can do now is gonna change anything.” He nods toward the screen. “He’ll have his phone off already.”

“Guess so.” I could still send him a text, a note he’d see once the game was over, so he would at least know I’d been watching him.

I take out my phone and start to compose the text, and then I worry that he hasn’t turned his phone off yet. What if I send him a message and it distracts him from the game? I start to put the phone away and then I wonder, what if he’s waiting for a message from me? What if…

“Go ahead and send something,” Hal says.

“I’ll wait ’til the game’s going on,” I say.

But as we step back into the main room, I wonder. Do I have the right to send Dev a message? Can I really write something like “I love you” or “I believe in you”? Wouldn’t I have to start with “I’m sorry, and I want to talk to you again”? But then, if I start doing that, it becomes something I shouldn’t write in a text message. Maybe if I just write, “
All the other things aside, I still believe in you and you’re a great football player. Wishing you the best of luck
.”

That sounds pretty good. I type it out with my thumb, and then Peter comes up to me and asks me something about college players. “Just texting good luck to Dev,” I say, and he lets me have a minute to finish the message.

I stare at it there on my phone before sending it. All the different ways he might take it run through my mind. Do I really want to send it? Is this how I want to express myself?

“Yes,” I say aloud. Fuck the consequences. This is a big game and I’m not going to just sit here and not let him know I’m watching. I press Send, and the message goes off.

As if in response, the network coverage switches to Sabre Field in Crystal City. The game’s about to start.

Chapter 20 – Warning Signs (Dev)

Lion Christ, the list of things I’m trying not to think about as game day approaches is way too fucking long, starting with Lee, through my parents, who flew in this morning for the game with tickets I got them (I love my parents but I don’t want to think about playing in front of them), and ending with the identity of the guy whose jizz I smelled on Argonne’s breath. I feel like I’m chasing the quarterback around the field and there’s all these guys coming to block me, and I have to ignore them and focus on the target. So I show up early on Sunday, and I’m not the only one. Gerrard’s there, Carson too, Aston and Jaws and Strike, the whole offensive line, Ty, Rodo…it’s almost shorter to list the people who aren’t there, which is most of the backups, Charm and Fisher, one of the defensive line, Vonni, and a couple others.

We do some warmups until everyone else gets in, hit the training room for bandages and painkillers for those guys still in pain—Jaws is nursing a sore wrist, Pace has a sore groin muscle, and the guys who file in behind them have wrenched fingers or sore ankles. All the usual stuff. I get my ribs taped up, but I turn down the painkillers even though doc says it’s good to take one for prevention in case the ribs get hit. I don’t want anything fucking with my judgment.

On the way out of the training room, I pass Colin and he gives me a look and an exaggerated flinch. And I almost lose my shit right there, but I force myself to take one more step, one more, and then he’s in the training room and I’m out in the locker room.

Kodi comes back in from throwing up in the bathroom and sits next to Pike. “All better?” Pike says. The brown bear nods without saying anything. I look at the two of them, sitting together, and wonder that I never wondered about them before. They could be a couple, sure enough. There could be more gay guys on the team than just the one I found out about last night.

Strike tries to hand out some new energy bar he’s found, a hundred percent vegan with soy protein. I take one just to shut him up. Jaws tells him what he can do with it, and looks about ready to help him do it. The cheetah shrugs and moves on to the next person.

Aston walks around the locker room fist-bumping each of the starters, muttering, “Game time. Game time. Game time.” I watch him walk by, eyes half-shut, in his own little world, and I feel good about contributing to his confidence, if only with a little fist-bump.

Vonni keeps his headphones in. He won’t tell anyone what he’s listening to today.

Ty sends text messages to his parents or whoever his current girlfriend is, I don’t ask. Maybe one of the waitresses from that strip club.

The coaches stay in their office until about an hour before kickoff, and then they come out, remind us to shut off our phones, and talk to us. Just about general stuff, not plays. If we don’t know the plays now, we’re not going to.

“I know you know what to do,” Steez says. “Heads all in the game. Listen to Marvell.” He stabs a finger toward Gerrard. The coyote takes our looks impassively and nods. We turn back to Steez, whose ropy tail is lashing. “We take these guys. Stop the run, stop the short pass. Give our corners and safeties room. I know you can do it.” He grins, points toward the coaches’ office. “We watch lots of film. This is the smartest group of coaches I ever work with. These plays,” he pokes a finger at the playbook, “these work. Trust the plays. Game will come to you.”

We all put our paws out and he covers them with his. We expect him to give us a cheer, but he just looks around, at me, Gerrard, and Carson, at Zillo and Marais and the other backups. “I would not trade this group for any other,” he says softly.

“We wouldn’t take any other coach,” Gerrard says. The rest of us all nod.

Steez gives us a warm smile. “Win this game,” he says, and then we all chorus, “Team!” and turn our attention to Coach Samuelson.

His speech is pretty good, if not as personal as Steez’s. He tells us about the history that we’re going to be a part of, and tells us that when we strip all that away, when we forget the lights and the media and the crowd, that this is just another football game. “We played here five months ago,” he says, “and we lost. But we’re a better team now. We’re healthy, we’ve got young guys with experience and veterans with stamina, and we’ve played together for a whole season. I don’t care if this is their house—we’re going to walk in and take what’s ours. I believe in you guys. I believe we’re going to win.”

We all put our paws and hands out, even if we can’t get into a small group like the linebackers did, and Coach says, “I have never been prouder to stand in front of a group of players. I have never been more confident in the abilities of a team. On three. One, two…”

I’m focused, I’m jazzed, hopping on my feet. The guys around me are hopping too, tails flicking, ears up, grinning. We can feel each other’s tension, smell the excitement of the team, and the white jerseys and gold-edged red numbers bring us together as Coach builds the energy to a peak with his count. “FIREBIRDS!” we shout, and it’s in our throats and chests and ears and the shout echoes around the locker room even as we disperse, hurrying back to get ready. Helmets come out of lockers, last-minute taping of shoes and jerseys and tails happens, and we’re all standing, hopping, waiting to get out there.

My phone buzzes.

Because everyone’s talking, only Gerrard and Vonni, who happens to be nearby with his fox’s ears, hear it. They both turn toward me, and Gerrard says, “Thought you were supposed to turn that off.”

“Damn new phone,” I growl, and reach for it.

One of the championship officials comes into the locker room. “Firebirds, on the field,” he says.

“Leave it.” Gerrard beckons me to follow him.

“Probably just Ogleby,” I say, although Ogleby doesn’t text. Neither do my parents, who called me last night to let me know they’d gotten into town and to wish me luck (Gregory hasn’t called me; in true tiger fashion, he’s keeping to himself, and in true tiger fashion, I’m fine with that). Caroll sent me a text last night, and so did Machaine, and Mom called this morning to tell me they’d gotten their tickets and she wasn’t going to bother me for the rest of the day. In fact, there is only one person who would be sending me a text message who hasn’t already. I stare at the locker and then pull my arm back. I don’t look back at it as I follow Gerrard out onto the field.

The roar is unlike anything I’ve heard. I’ve been in full stadiums, I’ve been in full indoor stadiums, but there, people get tired after a minute or five of screaming. Here it just goes on and on and on. We’re introduced over the PA to mostly boos, but there is a large section of Chevali fans who’ve made the trip, a cluster of red in the sea of navy blue and gold, and they cheer loud enough for us to hear. Each of us turns to acknowledge them with a wave.

Neutra-Scent misters are running full blast along the sidelines, and even they can’t mask the multitudes of scents from the crowd. Vonni rubs his nose, and I see him point at the misters when Pace says something to him. And overhead the sky is a pure, clear blue, the sun blazing gold, and white fluffy clouds drift just visible over the top of the stadium.

To sing the national anthem, they bring out Kika, an ermine who’s the top-played artist in the dance clubs, and she does a kick-ass rendition (later I will find out it was taped and lip-synched, but we’re pretty close to her and she is not just lip-synching, she’s full-on belting it out even though her mike is off). A squadron of Blue Angels roars by overhead as the last notes die out, sending the crowd into another round of deafening cheers, and I wonder if I’ll ever hear anything normally again.

I wonder what Lee had to say to me. I wonder if he’s watching.

Is it even possible for me to remember the feeling of wanting to do well for him without having the annoyance at his nagging and the guilt over that annoyance, the admiration for all he’s done and the conflicted debates with myself over what the “right thing” for me to do is, the balancing between being a good football player and a good gay person and a good person overall? Can I just go out and do my best for me, for my teammates, for the fans back in Chevali?

Sure I can. It’s empty and its hollow, but that’s okay. Nobody outside needs to see that hollowness. These last few games, I’ve done pretty well even though we were fighting. Sometimes I do better when we’re fighting.

I latch onto that. If I do better when we’re fighting (
I don’t always
, a voice inside says, and I tell it to shut up), then as we’re fighting worse than we ever have, maybe so badly that we’re not even dating anymore, well then, I should be doing my best here today.

The logic is shaky, but I don’t give a fuck. For the next four hours, all that matters is that I go out there and play hard, play well, and win the damn game.

And even after all those mental gymnastics, as Gerrard and Aston come trotting back to the sideline after the coin flip, I still, still, look up at the stands. I don’t want to see my parents, sitting with the other players’ families, so my head turns from the stands just above our sideline to the island of red and gold, as if I’ll spot a red-furred head and chocolate-brown ears in the middle of all of that.

There’s a fox in the stands, wearing red and gold.

I freeze for a second, just a second, because the Sabretooths won the toss and as soon as Charm kicks the ball to them, I’m going to have to run out there and play. But if that’s Lee…

It couldn’t be. He wouldn’t come to the game, not after the fights we had. Or would he?

The Sabretooths return the kickoff to the twenty-two. I tear my eyes away from the fox, put my helmet on, and run out onto the field.

It’s been forever since I’ve played a football game. The fight with Lee, the date with Machaine, the night with Argonne, the practices and evening run-throughs and film sessions and lectures from the coaches, all of that blurs and stretches out into what feels like a month since we celebrated on the field at Boliat.

The first play, it all comes back, and it’s like I never left. They start out cautious, with a run to the strong side. I cover Carson and get blocked by one of their boar linemen—no tusks, just a clean block—but Carson wraps up the deer at a two-yard gain.

As we saw on film, the Sabretooths aren’t trying to trick us. They’re just really good. The left side of their offensive line is a pair of boars who are great at pulling to create running lanes for their two backs. The power running back, the white-tailed deer named Runningwater—he’s Native American—switches off with the quick, darting back, an otter named Hob. It’s pretty funny that the otter isn’t the one called Runningwater, yeah.

At the quarterback position, it’s hard to get more conventional than a wolf, but McCrae is a superstar. Great pocket awareness and he can run a little, so the last three years in the league he’s been in the top three fewest sacked quarterbacks. He throws a good long bomb, but he’s also got a really fast release.

That’s one of those sports-announcer phrases Lee and I used to joke about, but in a football game, it’s a good thing. And on second down, he shows it off, dropping back three steps and whipping the ball out to the tight end almost before we have time to react. I’m shadowing the slot receiver, a jackrabbit named Crais whose jerky stops and starts make him a difficult target to throw to and an absolute pain in the ass to cover. On film, I watched him juke three times and then catch a ball for a touchdown. In person in week one, I watched Corey try to tackle him and whiff, more than once. I’m determined not to let this guy beat me.

The Sabretooths’ top two receivers are a red fox and a cheetah—again, pretty conventional. They don’t have great moves, but they’re both fast. Fortunately, we have a red fox and a cheetah at cornerback, and they match up with their counterparts. I don’t have to worry about the speedsters, usually. Just the jackrabbit, the running backs, and that quarterback.

One of the things about jackrabbits is that they’re really twitchy. It’s hard to hide when they’re excited. Something we noticed on film is that this guy’s right foot stamps a lot of the time when he’s going to be targeted on a play. Just a little bit, but it’s something I keep my eye on, and on third down, Crais’s right foot stamps and his nose twitches.

“Little blue,” Gerrard calls, which is our new signal that the play’s coming to my side; he’s seen the foot too. I don’t react, just set and watch for the snap. When it comes, I’m supposed to play the gap to stop the run. Instead, I leap forward at the jackrabbit.

He’s not expecting that. He leaps to the side, avoiding my tackle, but that means he’s out of position for the quarterback’s throw. The wolf sees this and throws the ball anyway, but with more height and speed so it goes out of bounds. A moment later, Fisher’s in his face and would have sacked him if he’d kept it.

As we head back to the sidelines, Fisher says cheerfully, “Got damn close that time.”

“Yeah,” I say, finding myself staring up at the Chevali section of the crowd. “Five years ago you’d have had him.”

He shoves me in the shoulder. “Fuck you, hotshot. It’s a long game. I’ll get him.”

“Not if I get him first.”

“You’re both full of shit,” Pace says. “We got a couple safety blitzes in the playbook and I’m gonna get him before either of you do.”

By this time, Brick’s caught up with us. He only hears Pace’s comment, but he knows right away what we’re talking about. “McCrae, right? Yeah, none of you cats is going to get him.”

“Oh, like you are.”

The bear grins. “Nah. If I had money to put down, I’d bet on Gerrard.”

Down the line, the coyote flicks his ears, but doesn’t chime in. Fisher waves a paw. “Ah, what do you know? You wanna put money down?”

“Can’t,” I say before Brick can answer.

“What do you mean?” Fisher says. “We did in the playoffs.”

We look at him. “No, we didn’t.”

“Sure we did.” He turns to me and frowns. “I bet you that I’d get four tackles…wait. That wasn’t you, was it?”

“The coaches talked to us before every game about betting and bounties and shit,” Pace says. “Don’t you remember?”