Divisions (Dev and Lee) (18 page)

We stalk back to the sideline, frustrated. Their kicker is all jitters at this point and misses the extra point, or maybe we block it again, I dunno, I don’t even bother to watch. It’s 26-14 and time is winding down.

“If we had a quick-strike offense,” Zillo mutters, next to me.

“Next week,” I say.

He doesn’t take his eyes from the field, but his ears flick my way. “You think that Strike guy is…you know…?”

“What?”

He avoids looking at me. “Well, he dresses all flashy, and…”

“Oh. Lee says no,” I say. “I guess he’d know better than I would.”

“Mmm.” The coyote’s impassive.

On my other side, Gerrard snorts. “Doesn’t matter if he sleeps with fish,” he says. “Long as he can play.”

Charm, behind us, booms, “Hey, you being discriminating against people who sleep with fish, Coach?”

Gerrard ignores him. I turn around and lift my fist, which he taps with his. “You’re pretty relaxed.”

He shrugs. “This point in the game, they ain’t gonna have me kick anything. If we’re close, we’re going for it.”

“I guess so.” We all stare out at the field, where Jaws is getting momentum together for another run. “Think we can get two scores?”

“Think you can grab an onside kick?” Charm elbows me.

“He’s not going out for the onside,” Gerrard says. “Zillo’s going.”

This is a change from a couple weeks ago, not that we’ve had to onside kick in several weeks. Lots of guys play special teams (the guys on the field for punts or kicks) and some other role, and I had been on the return team until I got promoted to starter. They kept me on the “chase” squad—the guys they put in to execute or defend an onside kick—until a few weeks ago, when Corey got himself suspended.

“You should be out there,” Charm says. “They need a guy who can really go after balls.”

Zillo makes a choking noise that sounds like he’s trying to strangle a laugh. I grin and say, “If the football was shaped like a boob, you’d be out there on every play.”

“Fuckin’ A,” he says. “If the football was shaped like a boob, I’d never leave the fuckin’ stadium.”

That breaks the tension a little, and it helps even more when Aston tosses a short pass to Ty and the fox darts past defenders to fall into the end zone. We cheer and jump and get ready for the onside kick. Zillo runs out with the rest of the chase squad, and the rabbit who is better at punts and onside kicks goes out to try to give it back to our offense. Charm has tried onside kicks two or three times, and he just can’t get the hang of kicking it into the ground so it jumps and hops. “I like to
score
,” he says, often.

In this case, even though the kick is executed well, it skitters just beyond the reach of our guys and a cougar in maroon wraps his arms around it. Zillo comes back and slams his helmet to the ground as Gerrard and Carson and I are putting ours on. I pat him on the shoulder and say, “Nothing you could do,” but he doesn’t respond, and I have to run out to keep them from getting a first down.

They run and run and run, every time ticking the clock down a little more and making us use timeouts so it doesn’t keep going and run out the game. But we stack the line and they don’t get their first down, so they have to kick back to us.

On our side, we have to throw and throw and throw, and all the receivers run down the sidelines so they can run out of bounds and stop the clock after a catch. The Yerba defenders know that’s where they have to run, and they follow there, leaping to break up the passes. On fourth and ten, Aston chucks it down the middle of the field in desperation, where it’s grabbed by a coyote in maroon and that’s the end of the game. We lose, 26-21. So much for impressing the Yerba staff. So much for cruising to win the division. I look up to where Lee is sitting, wondering what he’s thinking. I could’ve done a lot better.

We congratulate the Yerba players, but most of our guys just want to head back to the locker room, so after a couple paws shaken, I start to trot back. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the Yerba mule deer, the one who said, “Good gamble,” watching me, but when I stop, he turns and trots back to his own locker room. So I just turn back and do the same.

“This is a tough loss,” Coach tells us. “Tomorrow’s a travel day, but at Tuesday’s practice, we’ll have a new player on offense, and management—we think he’ll really help us put up more points, put less pressure on our defense.”

“We can handle the pressure,” Gerrard says.

Samuelson gives him a thin, lupine smile. “Of course you can,” he says, “but it’s better to be out there with a 14-point lead than a seven-point lead, wouldn’t you say? So I want all of you to make him feel welcome. We believe in him and we wouldn’t have brought him to the team without interviews, without the assurance that he’ll be part of the team and not a distraction.”

“How can he not be a distraction?” They’re the first words Zillo’s said since the onside kick.

Coach goes on. “We’re still nine and four, and we’re in good shape to win this division. That banner can still fly over our field. I am proud of you guys and the job you’ve done, and now we just have to start preparing for Freestone. We’ve got three games left, and they’re all winnable—but I don’t want you guys looking ahead to the game with Hellentown. We’ve got the talent to win out.” He pauses. “But we’ve got to win it. It’s not going to come to us.”

Despite the pep talk, we feel kind of lousy still, and it doesn’t help when Gerrard says, ostensibly to me, but loud enough that everyone can hear it, “And next week we’re going to be more focused.”

Lots of expressions around me go sour. Guys go quiet. Gerrard goes on, “It’s no problem to go out and have fun as long as you don’t let it affect the game.”

I feel like he’s talking to me, like I let the team down. I’m not going to say anything, though my stomach twists for a moment. Vonni, though, doesn’t have any such reservation.

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” he says, stalking over half-dressed, his chest and shoulder fur all askew.

Gerrard turns and faces him. “Means exactly what I said. Coach lets us go have fun and he expects us to be able to handle it.”

“Like remembering to touch a guy when he goes down,” Carson adds.

“Oh, fuck you both,” Vonni says. “I touched him, the ref just didn’t see it.”

“Neither did the replay,” Gerrard says.

“You know, I didn’t see you guys putting any pressure on the quarterback all day. How many more picks did you get than us? Oh, right. Zero.” He holds up a paw, thumb and forefinger circled to make an ‘O.’

“We ran our routes,” Gerrard starts, but Ty comes over to chime in.

“Hey, there were a bunch of us out. Don’t pick on Von. He had as good a game as any of us did.”

“Apparently some of you handled the night out better than others,” Gerrard says.

Vonni gets up closer, in his face. “Fuck you, old timer. I’m tellin’ you, that had nothing to do with it. And you should know.”

Gerrard leans forward until their noses are almost touching. “I can handle myself,” he says. “You want to back off.”

They glare, and Vonni’s tail is all bristled out, and then I catch Charm’s eye and in a flash I think about what he would do and I step forward almost before I have a plan. I put a paw on each of their shoulders. “Save it for Freestone,” I say. “Come on, we had some bad breaks.”

I apply gentle pressure, and Vonni backs up slowly. Gerrard looks at me and nods, and then says, “But if there’s any clubs you know in Freestone, go Sunday night.”

That makes Vonni lay his ears back again. “Don’t fucking start picking on Dev,” he says. “Blame me, but this ain’t on him.”

“Hey,” I say. “He’s not blaming me. Look, it’s cool.”

“Dev did his job today,” Gerrard says. “Mostly.”

“We both got turned around in the fourth,” I say. “It wasn’t just me.”

“I’m just saying,” the tall coyote says, loudly, “that we should stop worrying about trades, stop thinking about what happened a couple nights before, and just play the game.”

I can’t say anything about thinking about being traded to Yerba, because that’s not even something that’s been discussed. I wasn’t thinking about it seriously. Gerrard’s talking about the trade for Lightning Strike, and how our receivers were bitching about that and maybe letting it affect them on the field, whether they were trying too hard to impress or just not thinking about the play. But I see Vonni ready to go off again, even with Ty kind of holding him back, and so I say, “Yeah. That’s what we’re all paid to do. We’re professionals.”

“Then let’s act like it,” Gerrard snaps.

He turns back to his locker. Vonni’s still glaring at him, so I step forward to help Ty calm the other fox down. His ears are still back and his paws are almost fists. “Self-righteous motherfucker,” he growls as we walk him back to his locker.

“Yeah, but he’s our self-righteous motherfucker,” I say, borrowing a page from Charm.

Vonni looks at me. “I wasn’t thinking about her, I swear. I thought I touched the guy.”

“I know. Everyone’s just pissed off,” I say. “Just a bunch of us had an off day at the same time. Including me. I shouldn’t have jumped for that interception.”

“Ah,” he waves a paw, “you had a good shot at it.” His ears come up, and he takes a breath. “It happens. Okay, I’m cool.”

We finish dressing, we talk to the media. There are still a couple questions for me about how it felt to play in Yerba: did any of the players give me shit about being gay, did I see the signs and did I feel more welcome here, and would I consider playing here next year? I give the standard answer to that. “I’m just focused on finishing this year in Chevali, getting our team to the playoffs, and bringing home a championship.”

When you say boring platitudes to the media, they leave you alone pretty quickly. Fisher taught me that, among lots of other things. I used to wonder why athletes all said the same things, and then when I came out and just wanted the fucking reporters to leave me alone, I figured it out. Whenever I get asked about being the UFL’s—hell, the country’s only out professional athlete, I just say, “Everyone has been respectful. It’s business as usual.” Now they don’t really bother me anymore, and I can focus on football games.

But I’m annoyed at Gerrard’s accusations. Even if they weren’t meant for me, I had been thinking about going to Yerba, and maybe that lack of focus stopped me from making the one play that would’ve saved our game. That’s the thing about football. If I, if anyone on the team, slips and misses one play, that play could cost us a game, and a game could cost us a season. There are 60 to 70 plays for one team in a game, and three or four players involved in every play, and any one of those might be crucial. It’s not like life, where you can see the big moments coming and prepare for them. In football, you have to be prepared for a big moment every single fucking second.

***

It’s easier to confess to Lee over the fancy dinner he drags me to than it is to talk to the guys in the locker room. “I got distracted thinking about playing at Yerba.”

“Lots of guys on your side screwed up,” he says.

“Thanks.” I look away from him, up at the impressionist paintings on the walls, the dark ebony dishware cabinet, the ancient-looking doorway ten feet from us. Of course, the back wall with the door to the restrooms isn’t much farther; this is a small place, only about ten tables in the one room.

“You did good,” he says. “Come on, you know it. That screen pass was a gamble.”

“That’s what the deer said.” I scratch my chin, remembering.

“The Whalers guy who caught it?” Lee asks. I nod. “Well, he was right. Make it and you guys win the game. You can’t say it lost you the game, though. They didn’t even score on that drive.”

“But it kept the offense off the field.”

“Yeah.” He lifts his glass of wine—white, chardonnay, of course—and sips delicately. “Aston wasn’t exactly cutting it up out there. I still think you guys need a left guard more than you need a Lightning Strike, but I’ll be interested to see what Aston can do with a receiver who really lets him stretch the field.”

“Our wideouts do a good job,” I say, but he hears the lack of passion in my voice and answers only with a flick of the ears. “Well, he’s coming, for better or worse.”

“He’ll make you better.” Lee grins. “I’d also like to see what Aston could do with more time to set for his throws, but I think it’ll be good for you guys all the same. The media says you should win the division now, this loss notwithstanding.”

“Hellentown beat Freestone.” I poke at the green salad, swirling lettuce around in the sharp-scented tan dressing.

“And you get to do that next week. You still own the tiebreaker.” Lee picks up a forkful of his salad. “Just win out and you’re in. Heck, just win two of three and you’ve got a pretty good chance anyway.”

“What if we don’t?”

“You know,” he says, “this salad cost twenty dollars and you’re not enjoying it at all.”

I look down at my mess of a plate. “Sorry,” I say, and take a bite. It really is good, crisp lettuce and sharp, sweet vinaigrette, with pine nuts and a pungent, crumbly cheese. When I stop worrying about football and let myself enjoy it, I feel a lot more like I got my money’s worth.

“So,” Lee says, “You going to tell me what happened with Vonni?”

“Oh!” I look up from the salad fast enough that dressing drips down my chin. I dab at my fur with a napkin. “Yeah, so. He didn’t make it back for curfew, but he shows up the next morning. And we’re all teasing him, like, man, out all night.” I wasn’t teasing him because I was still worried he was going to be freaked out over what happened. “And he says no, he got back around twelve-thirty. So Pike asked him what happened with the girl, and he says, all I had to do was show her my Firebirds ID and she was ripping at my pants like I promised to marry her.”

“Marry her.” Lee squints. “He’s already married.”

“That’s what he said.” I spread my paws.

Lee shakes his head and takes another drink of wine. “Straight guys,” he mutters. “Honestly. So then what?”

I lean forward, ‘cause this is a classy place, and tell him the rest in a whisper. “He says she just opened her mouth and went to town.”