Divisions (Dev and Lee) (42 page)

To my right, about ten clusters of people away, is a very large mass of people around what I assume is a bar, because the people working their way out of the crowd carry full drinks (mostly beer). To my left, much closer, is a large stage, empty. Beside it, next to me, an older fox and younger one, both in dark suits and Firebirds ties, confer with a weasel in a sleek grey suit and plain gold tie. Behind them, a pudgy armadillo in a badly-fit suit picks at his claws while a bobcat plays with his phone.

The older fox notices me, and says something. The weasel turns and comes over, and I recognize Vince, the press liaison. “Can I help you?” he says.

“I’m Lee,” I say. “Wiley Farrell. I’m here for Dev Miski?”

“Oh!” Vince’s ears come up and he smiles. “Sorry, I didn’t recognize you. Come on, I think he’s over here with the defense.”

He leads me through the crowd. I recognize Aston, the tall wolf with a female wolf on his arm, talking to a smaller wolf whom I think is the backup quarterback. The first player I see that I really know is Pike, the huge polar bear, and when I see him, I see Kodi next to him, sipping from a beer. Then we get around them and see Charm, and Dev’s with him, and Strike is there, painted up in his red and gold fur dye.

“There you go,” Vince says. “Hey, Miski! Found this guy loitering around the doors.”

Dev’s eyes light up, and he raises the paw that isn’t holding a beer to gesture me over. “Thanks, Vince,” I say, momentarily second-guessing myself because we’re not really on a first-name basis, but he’s already hurrying back.

“It’s Lee, isn’t it?” Strike says, even though I just saw him four days ago. He’s holding out a paw, so I shake it.

“Yep. Good to see you again. You guys played great today.”

“Not great enough.” Dev frowns momentarily, then recovers his spirits. “Got to do it again next week, huh?”

He lifts his beer. Charm toasts him. Strike’s paws are empty. The cheetah says, while Dev and Charm are drinking, “Did you see the game?”

“Yeah.” I’m not sure what else to say.

Dev lowers his beer and says, “How’d I do on my routes?”

“Uh,” Strike begins, but the question’s obviously meant for me, so I pre-empt whatever he was going to say.

“You were good, really crisp. Almost as good as I’ve seen you all year.”

“’Cept once,” he says.

I tilt my head. “In the third quarter? You were a little late to a tackle…”

“No,” he says. “First quarter.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and I’m just deciding whether or not to press when Strike says, “You know a lot about football?”

“I was a pro scout for the Dragons,” I say. “Looking around for a new position now.” Which reminds me that I should look for Rodriguez or Corcoran. Not now, though.

“Ah. Good luck.” At least he doesn’t have the bad manners to ask why I got fired. That or he doesn’t care enough, because he shifts topics immediately. “I know I can beat that coverage next week. I know their moves now, I’ll be able to just cut past them and get open at least once or twice.”

“And if they keep doubling you,” I put in, “they’ll have to leave one of the other guys open.”

“You’d think,” Charm says.

“I tried to coach those guys on how to get open,” Strike says. “They don’t really want to listen to me.”

“Huh,” I say, because everyone else is looking down at their drinks.

“Yeah, it’s sometimes frustrating, you know, trying to be helpful and having people just ignore you.”

“I know what you mean,” I say, and then, because Dev is looking more and more grim, “Wasn’t this supposed to be a dinner?” I lift my nose and can smell sautéed scallops and roasted chicken, but it’s faint and there’s no food in sight.

“Thought so too,” Dev says. “There were appetizers.”

“Were.” Charm grins. “Now it’s just beer.” If he’s suffering any from missing that kick, he’s hiding it pretty well.

“Getting our playoff checks,” Dev says. “Owner wants to make a big deal out of it. But I think most of us are just getting drunk.”

“Don’t get so drunk you can’t drive,” I say.

“Why d’you think I called you?” he says.

I arch an eyebrow, my ears going back a bit. “Really? Just to drive you home?”

“No,” he says right away. “Not just for that.”

“It’s great that you’re here,” Strike says.

Both of us turn to him. I can’t think of anything to say except, “Thanks.”

Then there’s an awkward silence, fortunately broken by a loud voice that cuts through the chatter around us. “Hey, guys, Mr. Corcoran is going to make a speech, and then we’ll hand out your checks.”

“And then we’re out of here,” someone behind me mutters.

Charm turns to them and says, “Not like you’re not going to see us all again in twelve hours.”

“Twelve?” I say to Dev.

“Well, not us.” He gestures to Strike. “We’re flying out to Crystal City for the commercial, but then we’ll be flying directly to Hellentown after. Everyone else is flying out there tomorrow. Coach wants to practice at Hellentown all week, get used to the humidity, keep us away from distractions.”

“Does that mean I shouldn’t come to Hellentown?”

I was half-joking, but he looks at me and says, “I dunno. Maybe.”

My ears go back. “Maybe?”

“I dunno. We can talk about it tonight.”

Strike leans in. “It might be best. Supportive or not, you’re a distraction that isn’t about football.”

“Lion Christ,” Dev says, but just then the P.A. squeals with feedback and everybody turns to the stage. John Corcoran, the elder of the two foxes who’d been standing by the door when I walked in, takes the mic in one paw. The other fox, who must be his nephew, if I remember right, stands just behind him with both paws clasped behind his back. They’re both a paler russet than I am, but they look a lot nicer in their suits than I do in my polo and jeans.

“Players, coaches, trainers, staff,” Corcoran begins, in a raspy but firm voice, and I settle in. It’s going to be one of those speeches.

He goes on about how when he bought the team, his friends made fun of him. He talks about hiring Coach Samuelson, and how some people called him a players’ coach who couldn’t manage games. It’s all delivered in that awkward attempt at patter I’m used to hearing in speeches from guys who are not good at speaking. I’m sure when Corcoran’s giving a business report he’s brilliant, but there’s a lot of stuff that he obviously wrote and rehearsed before coming here. Sometimes when you have a week to prepare, that can actually hurt you.

Because he’s waiting for reactions and not often getting them, the speech is full of awkward pauses and seems much longer than it actually is. He talks about how long it’s been since the Firebirds were in the playoffs, and he talks about what the team means to the city and the state, and he talks about the rivalry with Hellentown.

This is the only part where he gets really animated, and the team sort of wakes up, too. Charm pumps his fist and one of the offensive linemen says “Screw the Pilots,” which is funny because it comes in a lull and Corcoran kind of chuckles nervously, his ears flicking over to the side. I follow them and see one or two reporters standing there taking notes. “Now, now,” he says, “We, uh, don’t want to give them any bulletin board, er, locker room material, you know?”

“Screw the Pilots!” Someone else says it louder, and then it becomes a chant around the room, and finally Corcoran laughs, and leans forward to the mic.

“All right, all right,” he says. “Screw the Pilots!”

Big cheer, cries of “Yeah!” and laughter all around. The room relaxes. “Whatever happens from here on out,” Corcoran closes with, “I am just so proud to be standing here in this room right now, and I will tell you, I have never been happier to write out checks for a total of two million dollars.” And his tail wags, which is charming because for most of the speech he kept it really still.

Of course, at the mention of the two million dollars, everyone cheers, and many of them raise their drinks, and things become even more jovial. Corcoran doesn’t mention the division bonus they’re not getting, so at least he’s that savvy. “Mark’s going to hand out your checks. Come on up whenever you want and pick them up, and…” He looks down. “I guess Coach wants to say a couple words.”

Another guy behind me groans softly. I turn and see Pike, and he catches my eye. “Nothin’ against Coach,” he says. “I don’t want this to turn into one of those deals where everyone has to get up and say something.”

“So go get your check, big guy,” Charm says, and gestures. “They’re linin’ up.”

I can’t see over the six-foot-plus crowd, but Pike turns and says, “Hell yeah,” and starts to make his way over there.

Kodi, trailing behind him, raises a paw and says hi to me, and impulsively, I walk up to him and stay alongside as he follows Pike. “Hey, how’s it going?”

“Oh, good,” he says. “Losing sucks, but…um. Yeah. How are you?”

“I’m good,” I say. “I’m talking to the Firebirds about doing some outreach to the gay community.”

“Oh?” He’s interested but trying not to show it.

“Yeah. Not sure how it’ll go, but one of the things I want to do is help other gay football players feel comfortable enough to come out.” I keep my voice low, very low, and at first I think he doesn’t hear me, because he doesn’t react at all. “I’m sure there must be more out there,” I add.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess. By the numbers.”

We reach the back of the line, and Pike turns around. “What’re you gonna spend your forty grand on?” he asks Kodi. “Me, I got my eye on this sweet gold watch.”

“Oh, uh,” Kodi says. “Maybe a vacation.”

“How about you?” Pike grins at me. “What’s Dev gonna spend it on?”

“Vacation, maybe? Savings? I don’t know.” I raise a paw. “I’m gonna get back to him, but…congrats, guys.”

I meet Kodi’s eyes, and he says, “Thanks,” an echo beneath Pike’s loud, booming answer. I kind of want to encourage him to contact me, but I don’t want to do it with Pike watching. So I just walk back and find Dev, who’s talking to Charm as they make their way with the crowd to get in line. Dev still has a bottle in his paw; Charm’s hands are empty.

“Strike decided he didn’t need to get his check right away,” Dev says, though I didn’t ask.

“So we did.” Charm grins. “How you doing, Mrs. Gramps?”

“I’m good. You okay?”

“Sure,” he says. “Couple beers, couple tits, couple dreams about that kick, I’ll be fine. Go out next day and kick again.”

“Got a girl lined up?” I return his grin. “One of the ones downstairs?”

“Nah. We came up through the side door. There’s girls downstairs?”

“Yeah. Waiting for drunk players to come down and get a hotel room.”

“Hmm.” Charm strokes the bottom of his muzzle and looks at Dev’s beer. His little ears flick around. “Maybe I need another drink.”

“I’ll save your spot,” Dev says.

I look at Dev. “There was also one guy. A fox.”

Dev shakes his head as Charm walks off. “Fucker doesn’t give up.”

“Oh, I don’t think he’s after you anymore.”

“Good.” He pauses and looks around. “Who is he after?”

“I couldn’t tell.” I step in a little closer. “So you don’t want me to go to Hellentown?”

He sighs. “No, I do. I just.” He runs a paw between his ears. “Are you going to be upset about the Strongwell commercial? I know I told you no to that PSA spot, but I really can’t…I mean, this playoff game is huge.”

Bigger than the well-being of hundreds of thousands of gay people? I push that thought down. “So if I promise not to talk about it…”

“I know it’s really important to you,” he says.

“It’s not just me,” I snap, and then I take a breath. “Yeah. It’s important.”

“I know,” he says, and his muzzle twists up. “It’s important to Brian, too.”

I fold my arms and flatten my ears. “Yeah, it is,” I say, lowering my voice. “Does that automatically make it invalid?”

“Are you taking his side?”

“It’s not black and white. There’s not one side and another.”

He flicks his ears around. The players in back of us are still kind of talking, but lower, and the bear in front of us is quiet. Dev points at my chest. “You always told me to keep my mind on football.”

“I did.” I force my ears up. This is what I’d decided for myself, but he’s being so adamant about it, and talking about Brian puts us both on edge. It’s hard not to argue. “During practice and during the games. Life still goes on around your games.”

“It’s just four more weeks,” he says. “Can’t it wait? Oh, I guess not. Brian said there was something else you were supposed to ask me about.”

I search his eyes in return. “We don’t have to do this here.”

“No, go on. Tell me.”

He’s angry, but not furious. A little buzzed, I think. Well, at least here in public he won’t start shouting. “There’s a meeting they want you to go to. With some politicians in Potomac, a week from Tuesday.”

“Two days after the playoff game? No.” Soft, velvet steel. “I can’t. I’m not prepared, I’d be coming right from a game, and we’ll probably—I can’t take the time to do it.”

“That’s what I told them.”

He narrows his eyes. “But you said they ‘want’ me to go to it. They still want me. So you haven’t turned them down yet.”

I draw in a breath. “I have until the first.”

“Doc, it’s no. I can’t. Even if we lose.” His whisper grates harsh against my ear, and there’s some alcohol on his breath. “I’m not going to be in the mood to strut around some fucking politicians.”

His complete refusal piques me, even though I agree with him. “Course not,” I say. “It’s not your place to fix the wrongs of the world. Especially not during playoff season.”

The bear in front of us half-turns, ears swiveled to us, but Dev doesn’t notice. “Who the fuck asks a football player to fly to Potomac in the middle of the playoffs?”

“I didn’t schedule that meeting,” I say.

“Was it some sort of fucking test of me, or you, that Brian set up?” His eyes glare down, challenging me.

“Yeah. Brian totally has that power over senators, but,” as his ears go back and he ducks his head to his beer, “look, you know what, forget it.”

His ears stay back and his tail’s lashing. We shuffle forward in the line long enough for the bear to lose interest. I push all this stuff down, tell myself over and over that I’d already come to the same conclusions, that Dev and I really agree. Maybe if I repeat it enough, I’ll start to feel it.