Blitzed (24 page)

"Eighteen, nineteen years," I say, thinking back.

"Exactly. And in all those years, I have stood by your side, and sometimes, pushed you in directions that you weren't exactly ready for.”

"Like cheerleading."

"And good comic book characters, remember that too," Dani says before her smile disappears. "But no matter what, I've stood by you, Whitney. You're my best friend and sister, and I love you. But this isn't an easy truth to say, and you’re probably going to be angry at me."

"Then say it,” I reply, knowing what is coming but still loving her enough to keep my cool. "Say what you need to say."

"Your daughter is angry at
you
, Whitney, not the bullies. She is angry at her mama and she doesn't know how to deal with that. You're her mother, the woman who has raised her and always been there for her, and you hurt her when you cut Troy out of your lives."

"I did it for her own good," I say woodenly, and Dani gives me a frustrated look.

"Her own good? Fighting and biting is her own good? And what about you? You've lost what, ten pounds since he left? And it's not a good weight loss either, it's a stress and heartbreak weight loss. Never mind what it's doing to Troy as well."

"What do you mean?" I ask, despite myself. "I . . . I've intentionally avoided keeping up on the football news."

"Hold on, let me show you," Dani says. "It's all over the Football Network."

Dani reaches out and snags the remote control for her TV, turning it on and punching in a number. The channel changes to the Football Network, which is pretty busy as it is a Monday night, although the game is on a regular cable station and not a premium one like FN. In its place are the normal pundit shows and highlights of Sunday's games. "Just a minute, I see it coming up."

I see it on the sidebar of the program too: 'T. Wood Troubles?' I blink, feeling a stab in my heart at just seeing his name. "What is going on?"

"Hold on a minute, like I said. Honestly, have you been happy this past month?"

I want to protest, but shake my head, my chin dropping. "You know I'm not."

"I do. You've been miserable all month, and I'm not the only friend of yours who’s—wait, here it is."

I look up as the title bar on the bottom of the screen changes over. The announcer launches into the story. "And in further developments out of Jacksonville, newly acquired linebacker, Troy Wood, who is in the middle of a season that some are calling one of the best second year rises in recent history, is making news for something else—his fines from the league. Specifically, his violation of the League's uniform policy, which states that players are not allowed to display any personal messages on their bodies."

The video cut over to a shot of Troy getting ready for his most recent game, his white uniform blazing in the bright early autumn sunlight. "Wood, however, since being traded to Jacksonville, has worn a piece of tape around his left bicep. While that isn't a problem, according to the league, what he has
on
the tape is."

On the screen, Troy looks at the camera, and I see in his eyes not a hint of happiness or of the man who loved playing football. Instead, I see the cold eyes of a man who’s getting ready to unleash violence without a hint of remorse or care for his own well-being. Suddenly, Troy smiles, and shows the camera his left arm, where two strips of white athletic tape have been wrapped. Side by side, in huge letters that nearly stretch from the top of one tape to the bottom of the other, are the letters, WN-LN.

"While a seemingly minor infraction of what many people say is an overly strict rule, the League office is cutting Wood no slack. His first infraction brought a six thousand dollar fine, and for the past two games, he's been fined twelve thousand dollars each. In order to avoid penalties themselves, the Jacksonville Wildcats have also fined Wood five thousand dollars for each of the past two weeks. So far, the four letters on his bicep have cost Wood ten thousand dollars for each, but when told by the league to remove the tape, he has so far refused."

The video cut over to a shot of Troy in the locker room, surrounded by reporters and microphones. "I told my coaches and the League that while I understand and respect their position, the tape doesn't come off until our next bye week, when they will be replaced by a similar tattoo."

The announcer's voiceover obliterates the rest of what Troy is saying, and the video cuts to highlights of his performance so far for Jacksonville. "When asked for clarification on the meaning of the letters, Wood has so far refused all requests except from head coach Eric Morgan, who will only state that Wood's statement is a personal one, and that it is his prerogative. To quote Coach Morgan, 'Troy's a grown man. He has said he understands the consequences, and he’s willing to deal with them.' The League is still . . ."

Dani mutes the sound and looks at me. "Forty thousand dollars. Now I don't know about you, Whitney, but that's a lot of money. Pete might clear that this year after taxes, but I'm not sure. I know for damn sure that you aren't seeing anything close to that working at the Gallery until you get your private clients ordering stuff again. And yeah, Troy's probably making forty thousand dollars a week, but I don't care about the money. What scared me more was that look in his eyes."

"Yeah," I admit as the story changes to another highlight reel. "But I can't take responsibility for it."

"Bullshit."

I don't think I've ever heard Dani speak in such a dismissive term to something I've ever said before. "Excuse me? Is that your
professional
opinion?"

“It is," Dani says, only a touch of heat in her voice. "I love you, and like I said, it hurts for me to say this, but pull your head out of your ass. You're miserable, Troy's down there in Florida tearing people apart and collecting fines like some people collect Slurpee cups, and your daughter is on the borderline of rage. And it's because of
your
decision, not his. He asked you to go to Florida. Hell, he begged you to at least let the two of you try the long distance thing, and you cut him off at the knees. Tell me, did you at least tell him in person this time, or did you write him a letter or maybe send a text message?"

I stop, gawping at her. "That's low, Dani. That one was real low."

Dani nods, her eyes reflections of my own pain and hurt. "Maybe. But I won’t stand idly by as my sister and the second best man I know in the entire world tear themselves apart. Not
again
. I love you, but you’re wrong in this, and all three of you are paying the price."

I get up, setting my cup down. “You might be right. I need to go. I . . . I need to think."

There's no rancor in Dani's voice as she walks me to the door and opens it for me. "I'll still be here, if you ever want to talk with me again."

I nod and squeeze her hand. She maybe has pissed me off, but I still love her. "I know. I love you, Sis."

"I love you too. Go think."

When I get home after driving the long way back in order to spend more time thinking, I see that Mom has already had Laurie change into her pajamas, and the two of them are sitting on the couch, snuggled up and reading one of Laurie's Little Golden Books. "I'm back. Mom, I need to apologize to you. I know you're just trying to be helpful."

"Thank you, sweetheart. Would you like to take over? I need to use the bathroom.”

"Actually, I'd like to talk to Laurie. You spent a lot of time today coloring at the Gallery. Think you can you show me your pictures?"

She moves off Mom's lap so that Mom can leave the living room, but she doesn't say anything. I go over and sit down next to her, taking her hand. "Laurie? Can I ask you something? Are you angry with me?”

She barely moves her head, but the tiny nod she gives me nearly breaks my heart. "Mama wants to understand. Please help me understand. I know that sometimes, kids don't always say things that are troubling them, and I was hoping that you might be able to show me. I thought your pictures could help. Could they?"

Laurie nods again, and I slide off the couch, getting on my knees in front of her. "I promise, no matter what you drew, I won't get mad, and I won't raise my voice or yell or anything like that. I want us to not be angry, to be good together again."

Laurie nods and gets off the couch, going over to the chair where she'd put her little school bag and bringing it back. "Don't be mad, Mama," she said in the tiniest voice I've ever heard her use as she unzips the bag and takes out the sheaf of papers inside. She hands them to me, and I see the top one, a man in a black shirt and white pants, wearing a black helmet and a number 51 on the front. The second is another giant 51, and the third brings tears to my eyes as the three stick figures that make up the family—the man and little girl with blond hair, the woman with auburn—are separated, frowns and tears rolling down their faces.

"Oh, Laurie," I moan, putting the papers aside. "Mama has been so foolish."

I pull her close, hugging her. "I want Daddy back.”

"I want him too, Laurie. I need him too."

"
T
roy Wood
! We love you!"

I look up as I leave the practice facility to see the group of fans that have assembled around the gates. We've won two of our last three games, and the way the team is rolling, we've got a chance at maybe making the playoffs. With the success comes the fans again, and apparently, I'm becoming a sex symbol in Jacksonville, because for the past two weeks, I can barely leave the stadium without having women almost throwing themselves at me. Actually, one woman did throw herself at me, hurling herself into my arms after the team got back from a road win at New York.

The guy I used to be would’ve been loving it. They are Florida girls, after all, sun tanned and bikini toned, and they are lined up when I occasionally pause to sign autographs. It's part of my tradeoff with the team. They keep the league off my ass other than the fines for my arm tape, and in return, I sign more autographs and do some more photo ops.

The problem is, the last thing I want to do is a photo op. I know when I've looked at them in the paper later, the look in my eyes is that the last place I want to be in the world is taking the photo, which isn't fair to the groups. It's not that I don't appreciate fire fighters, or the Make-A-Wish foundation and what they do, but other than learning the Jacksonville system, I don’t want to be anywhere but home. The rest of the world just seems . . . not worth the trouble or the effort, and it’s too painful to boot.

"You’re turning into a recluse," I mutter to myself as I get into my now-leased Caddy and drive home. In probably the only move that in hindsight surprises me, I went all in on my house, buying a four-bedroom house on the outskirts of Jacksonville, one with a pool, a garage, and plenty of space, all on a full acre of land, which, while not huge compared to what some of the guys have, sets me back a pretty penny. Even if the price of land isn't all that over the top in the Jacksonville area, especially when compared to the current land rush in the Seattle area, a restricted access subdivision and a lakeside lot are pretty expensive.

I know why I did it, though. I had been thinking of Whitney and Laurie when I went with the agent to see the property. I had seen a room for Laurie, and space where I could put up a play set for her. I saw another room that we could use as a home office, and even a spare for a nursery, and a master bedroom that I would be able to share with Whitney. I saw a fantasy, and I let my fantasy guide my decision.

Ah well, at least the price isn't unmanageable. Ironically, my play for the team has led to me making even more money than I was making in Seattle, even after the fines, because I've picked up a few bonuses that the team has in place for good performance. Two interceptions, a touchdown, and once getting League Defensive Player of the Week have more than covered the fines from the front office.

I turn onto the Interstate, leaving the stadium area behind to make the twenty-minute drive to my house. While I'm driving, I get a call on my phone, so I drop it into the slot on the dash of my car to connect it to the in-car system. "Hello?"

"Troy? It's Cory. How are you doing in Florida?"

"I'm okay, Cory. How's San Fran?"

"Much better since the Hawks still suck ass," Cory says with a laugh. "One win. One fucking win, and it's only going to get worse. Now we just have to worry about Arizona."

"Maybe, but don't gloat too much. I still have a lot of friends on that team, remember?"

Cory sobers and clears his throat. "You're right, sorry. Anyway, I wanted to call because there was an actual withdrawal on that account you asked me to set up for Laurie. The fifteen hundred dollars a week account?"

"Yeah, I know which one you're talking about." After Whitney cut me out, I had to go to other means to get the accounts for Laurie set up, so I went through Cory. The account was set up in Laurie's name, but Patricia Nelson was given signatory access to the account. I would’ve told Cory to add Whitney, but she never returned his calls to get the information.

“There was a withdrawal of ten thousand dollars. I wanted to double check the numbers, and it's legit. Anything you want me to do?"

"Is there any sign that the money is being stolen?"

"No, totally legit withdrawal. Whitney herself is on the ATM video taking the money out. Now I know that's technically a violation. I mean the card's in her Mom's name, but you know what I mean."

I nod before I remember that I'm on a phone. My car does have good sound quality. "Okay. Well, keep the money going in, and if the balance drops below five hundred, give me a call. Keep monitoring it. I'm sure Whitney's using it for the right reasons. Patricia wouldn't have passed over the card otherwise."

"All right. Hey, did I tell you? Your patronage has gotten me a promotion. I actually have my own office instead of just a desk now."

"Congrats. How many secretaries have you tried to seduce on that desk so far?"

"Give me time, Troy. Give me time. Hey, personal note, and then I'll let you go. I can hear the car engine and I know cops can be a bitch about talking while driving. I don’t know what the law is there. You're doing okay with everything, like personal wise and stuff?"

"I will be—I'm making it, at least."

"Okay then, I'll let you go. Keep your head up, and keep your eye on the ball. Helps on the tackles, you know."

Cory laughs and hangs up the phone. I think about what he said about the money, and part of me is at least grateful that Whitney is using it. Hell, maybe she’s using it to get Laurie a trip to Disneyland or something. I have faith in her. She's going to use it for the right thing.

I get off the Interstate and onto the smaller streets that lead to my subdivision, my mind tired after a long day of practice. I'm just glad that tomorrow is a day off and that I'll be able to sleep in before getting ready for the next game.

When I get close to my house, I see something that makes me stop short, slamming my brakes. There's a car parked in front of the house, and in the late afternoon shadows by the front door, I swear I see two people sitting. I must be seeing things, though, and as I pull closer, I realize I'm not. I barely even notice when I half run over the curb pulling into my driveway, knocking over my mailbox, and slam the car into park, the little blonde girl already up and running toward me. "Daddy!"

"Laurie!" I call out, scooping her up and swinging her around in a huge circle, hugging her tight. "Oh, baby girl, I’ve missed you so much. I love you so much, Laurie."

"I love you too, Daddy," Laurie says, and I hold her tight until she squirms a little, I'm holding so tightly. "Daddy, I need to breathe!"

"Sorry," I say, setting her down. I'm so enchanted by her that I barely notice Whitney coming up until she's only a few feet from me. I look up and can see that she's nervous, afraid that I will reject her. But I can never do that. "Laurie, take the keys and run inside. How long have you been sitting out here?"

"Only a little while. What's inside?"

"Cold water," I say, looking down. "Keep yourself safe in Florida, and drink a lot of cold water, okay? Besides, I need to talk to Mama."

"Okay. When you come inside, I have something to show you. I drew pictures!"

"And I want to see them," I promise sincerely. "Give me a few minutes, okay?"

"Okay.”

Laurie takes off like a jackrabbit up the lawn, and I'm face to face with Whitney, silence between us. I look into her beautiful face, and I can't be angry. I can't do anything but tell her the truth. "I missed you."

Whitney nods and reaches out, taking my hand. "I missed you."

"I'm so glad you’re here."

Whitney nods again, then trembles, starting to fall to her knees. I catch her and hold her as she sobs, begging me in a choked voice for forgiveness that doesn’t have to be given. Instead, I hold her, kissing her temples and telling her it’s okay. "Whitney, it doesn't matter. I love you."

"Troy, I was so foolish. I'm sorry."

"No, you don't need to be sorry. I should have told you about the trade. I'm sorry. Whitney . . . if you don't want me to be a football player, to live the League life, I won't. I'll retire after this season if you want me to."

Whitney shakes her head and hugs me tight. "No. No matter where you go, no matter if it's Jacksonville, New York, Los Angeles, or even Cleveland, I want to be with you."

I know what to do, and without hesitating, I get down on my knees. "Then let's do it the right way. Whitney . . . will you marry me?"

Whitney is so surprised that she doesn't even move except to make a tiny little squeak that catches us both off guard. She clears her throat and tries again. "You really want to marry me after all I’ve put you through?”

I nod, taking her hand. "I want us to be a family more than anything else in the world. Be my wife, and let's not deny that we are meant to be together. No matter what."

"No matter what," Whitney echoes, then smiles. "Oh yes, yes, I’ll marry you, Troy. On one condition."

"What's that?" Her and her conditions.

"We do it
after
you play in the Pro Bowl."

I grin and pick Whitney up, carrying her toward the door to the house. "Well, that'll be in February . . . sure. March or April is a great time to get married. Although maybe June is best."

"Why June?"

"I know exactly who I want to be my best man, and he's busy until then."

I set Whitney down on the edge of the slate porch that leads indoors and see Laurie looking at us with hope in her eyes. "Mama?"

"Yes, honey, we're staying," Whitney says. "We're going to stay together."

"Come on," I say, taking Laurie's hand on one side and Whitney's on the other. "This place has four bedrooms, and I want you to pick out which of the three empty ones is going to be yours. And tomorrow, maybe we can look at taking you furniture shopping."

"Really? My own bedroom?"

"Uh-huh. Welcome home, baby girl. Welcome home."