Out of Position (48 page)

I can’t stop tapping my paws, looking around the locker room. It’s not just the still-new feeling of starting; it’s that combined with the feeling I had the first game of my rookie season, or the first game of this season in my new position. It’s the feeling I used to get before exams. None of the other guys are that excited until we get to the pre-game, an hour before kickoff, when we start to engage in our little rituals. Fisher kisses a picture of his wife. Gerrard sits staring between his knees, his long muzzle murmuring plays and configurations to himself. Jaws shadow-boxes against the wall. Aston walks around the room touching each of the starters on the shoulder as if he’s blessing us, saying, “Game time. Game time. Game time.” I’m heartened when he doesn’t skip me.

Me, I just sit, curl and uncurl my tail, and wait for the signal for us to run out onto the field. When we do, finally, I jump up and am one of the first guys out. I’m running through the section of the tunnel that is open to the sky when I hear a voice above me: “Hey, faggot!”

My steps falter, but only for a moment. “Miski, blow me!” someone else yells. Something warm and wet hits my ear.

I slow and start to turn, to look up. Fisher’s at my side, grabbing my elbow. “Come on,” he says.

“Yeah, come on up and get me!” the voice yells down, growing fainter as we round the corner of the bleachers. Other voices join in: “I got something you can stick…” “Fuckin’ pussy!” “Cocksucker!”

I get to my place on the sidelines and stand there, staring straight ahead. In the crowd opposite us, I can see a huge pasteboard sign that reads, “MISKI THE FAGOT.” I look away from it. It makes me think of Lee, and last night’s conversation. I know where the scouts sit, clustered at the fifty-yard line halfway up the stands. I scan that area, but I only see one fox, and unless Lee gained a hundred pounds overnight, it’s not him. Doubt makes my muscles twitch and stomach churn.

Coach walks by, his clipboard held in front of him. He stops in front of me, facing to my right, but doesn’t look at me. “Got some new fans,” he says.

“Sorry about the distraction,” I say, focusing on the black fur of his muzzle, his ears curved slightly back, his red and gold shirt with the Firebirds logo on the chest.

White teeth appear in a long grin. “You okay?”

“Ready to go kick some ass.”

“Good.” He keeps walking down the line.

I fidget all through the national anthem, through the player introductions (on the film of the game, the catcalls when my name was announced are almost a roar, but I don’t even hear them) and the coin toss, until we’re out on the field for the first defensive series.

It’s a beautiful day, clear and chilly, perfect football weather. I huddle up with Gerrard and Carson and we get into our set. The offensive tackle across from me, a beefy stallion, catches my eye. The way we’re lined up, our defensive tackle and defensive end on my side are between me and him, but to either side, meaning he can look right at me.

“Hey, fag,” he yells across to me. “You get near me, I’ll shove my cock down your throat.”

The defensive end is Fisher. Making his first start due to injury, the defensive tackle is Brick. Fisher’s tail, which had been lashing from side to side the way it always does when we get set, freezes. Brick actually looks back at me for a moment, then snaps back to attention as their quarterback comes to the line and starts the play. It’s a standard run up the middle, doesn’t call for me to get near the stallion.

We line up again. Again, the stallion starts his trash talking, nasty shit aimed at me.

“We’re all ready over here, fag. You’re gonna be on your knees the whole game. Come by the locker room after and we’ll give you something to suck in your mouth.” It’s hard to tune him out. I look up to the stands. The “FAGOT” sign is gone, but there are a bunch of others, day-glo colors and big ugly words and all. It looks like it’s Asshole Day at Veterans Field.

The play starts, running to the opposite side. I cover the slot receiver, a lanky coyote, but it’s another run. Nothing for me to do. I line up again, stare past the stallion and try not to listen to his words, or think about the signs in the stands, while all the while the voice in my head is telling me that it’s never going to get better, that it’s going to be like this for the rest of my career. The weight of so many people focusing their claws and teeth on me, all that hatred based on nothing more than a rumor on a website, is daunting. I’m pretty good by now at shutting out the outside world and most of my inside world to focus on football, but I’ve never had sixty thousand people screaming about my most private life.

I miss the snap. This is pretty much the worst thing I can do, and what’s worse, the play is coming to my side. I scramble to get into position, but it’s too late. The coyote I’m supposed to be covering grabs the ball and zags past me, getting another ten yards before Gerrard brings him down. He and Carson shoot warning glares my way as we line up again.

And still, I can’t stop thinking about my father, wanting to see that I’m a real man; the look in Lee’s eyes when I accused him of outing me. I can’t shut out the stallion, who shoved me, laughing, after my botched play. They run another play for the slot receiver right away, which lets me know they smelled blood and are going to pick on me ’til I make ’em stop. This time, I’m at least in the right spot, and I know I need to make something dramatic happen, so I swipe at the ball.

I miss. He goes down the field another five yards. On the next play, Gerrard cheats to my side and they don’t notice. They run it to us and we stuff the play. The jeers and trash talk get worse and worse. Next play, incomplete pass. They have to punt. I trot back to the sidelines and get chewed out by Steez.

And I can’t get out of my own head. I know I’m better than this, I know I need to be able to prove it, and I know that if I’m letting them get to me, I might as well just hang it up right now, walk away from the team after this game. That kills me, that thought that someone was able to ruin football for me to the point that I’d rather not play than play like this. Get angry, I tell myself. Who the fuck are they? What do I care?

Before I know it, I’m out there again. I clutch at the anger, using it to tune out as much as I can. It works, but it doesn’t really help me focus on the plays. I’m just out there executing the mechanics, not thinking and anticipating as I need to, not fully committed to the game. It shows, too. We stop them again, and Steez warns me that Coach has been pressing him to give my newly-signed backup some playing time. “I’m okay,” I tell him without conviction.

Truthfully, there’s only been one other time in my life that I was this harrassed, this distracted, this obsessed. That memory comes back to me like a lightning flash: sitting in my car, stalking around my dorm room, the conflicting feelings tearing me up. I got through that, I tell myself. I can get through this. But at the end of that, there was Lee in my arms. And now… I don’t know.

That’s what I’ve been trying not to think about. He kept from me all that time he was spending with Brian, and I know that while Brian’s not what he wants, Brian’s closer than I am. He could have his full-on relationship, his full life, and not have to worry about being exposed, not have to worry about idiot insecure boyfriends accusing him of betrayals worse than he was already feeling guilty about. And what all of this abuse is bringing to the fore is my picture of him sitting in front of his TV, watching the signs and thinking that sooner or later he’s going to be pegged as my boyfriend, and he’ll be catching all of that. Or, knowing him, just wondering how long he can watch me be targeted like this. He never signed up to be part of this. I came out to the team without consulting him. If he just walks away, nobody would be the wiser. And I’d be left alone, without even the support of a boyfriend against all of the assholes out there.

Loneliness and self-pity follow me out onto the field for the next series. Gerrard tells me something about the next play that I kind of register, only it turns out I didn’t really register it well. I drop back into coverage, but it’s a screen to the running back. Caught in between the two places on the field where I’m supposed to be, I try to get back to make the tackle, and that damn stallion flattens me. The running back busts through, getting halfway down the field before we run him out of bounds.

I’m on my way back to the line when Gerrard intercepts me. “Go sit down,” he barks.

I look at the anger in his eyes, then at the sidelines, where Steez is staring at me with his arms folded. Nobody says a word to me as I sit down on the bench and my backup trots out to take my place.

We hold them to a field goal on that series. But Aston can’t get anything going on the offensive end either, so we’re down 0-3 when the half ends. I wait until everyone else is off the bench before standing. I don’t want to go into that locker room, knowing how I let down the team. But I don’t want to sit all alone out on the field either. Slowly, I get up and follow the last guy down the tunnel, hearing still more jeers this time. At least I don’t get spit on.

I get close to the locker room, look up, and freeze. Coach is standing there, arms folded, yellow eyes calmly locked on me. I open my mouth, but before I can say anything, he beckons me closer. “I’m not gonna bite your head off,” he says. “Just wanna talk to you before we go in with the rest of the guys.”

A few more steps brings me within a foot of him, looking down at his black muzzle. There’s not exactly sympathy on it, but at least there’s no accusation. “I asked if you were okay,” he says. “Sounds like they’re gettin’ in your head.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologize,” he snaps. “What I need to know is if you can take this. Because if you can’t, you better hang up your uni and go home right now. We’ll buy out your contract. It ain’t gonna get any better, and it sure as hell might get worse.”

“What would Tony Calhoun have done?” I ask, to avoid answering his question.

I get a surprised look, and then a sharp bark that might be a laugh or might be a reproach. “Rigatony? He wouldn’ta brought his boyfriend to the locker room, or made a scene in front of the team. It was a damn shame about him, but you think he’s the only one had a secret to hide? You think he’s the only one got stuff written about him? You seen those blogs where they make up pictures of Aston getting buttfucked by that singer?”

“I don’t really…”

He cuts through my words. “I need guys on this team can play football. I can’t make the other team stop talking. I can’t get rid of those signs. I can’t even make everyone on my team like you. What I can do, the only thing I can do, is put a team on the field that can play the game. So if you’re gonna play, let me know. If not…” He looks at the locker room, his ears dipping a little. “We got someone who can stand on the field in your position. Believe me when I say I’d rather have you out there. Corey’s a little better, but the dropoff after you…” He shakes his head. “You got halftime to think about it. Come on, I gotta fire up the troops.”

I follow him into the locker room and slump down on the bench, listening with half an ear to his rousing speech. Nobody talks to me. Only Fisher sits near me. He doesn’t move when Coach’s speech is done, waiting for me to say the first word. It takes me a while to think of what that word will be.

“Did Tony have a boyfriend?”

Clearly, that’s not what he was expecting. He furrows his brow, then realizes who I’m talking about. “Yeah.” He ducks his head in a kind of nod. “Talked about him a little bit. That got him in trouble.”

“What could you have done to help him that you didn’t?”

Now his eyes widen, like I sank a claw into his ass. “I’m doin’ what I can,” he says roughly, softly. “I…” He grimaces. “Don’t want you to end up like him.”

“I’m almost there, Fish,” I say. “Ain’t your fault. You were right about what would happen.”

He shrugs. “It’s out now. Can’t close that box. What’s your fox say about it?”

I close my eyes. “It’s a long story.” I don’t know how I’m going to be able to get off this bench for the second half.

Something taps my paw. I look down. He’s holding my cell phone in his outstretched paw. Its red light blinks, steadily. “You got a message,” he says.

I grab the phone and flip it open. There’s half a dozen voicemails, and one text message: “
Lee 1:36 pm:
116, 2/3 way up,” it says.

The rush in my head is blinding. I lose track of the locker room, the aches in my legs and back, anything that isn’t those bright characters on my phone screen. I can feel him through the phone lines or radio waves or whatever the hell they are.
He’s here. I didn’t ruin everything.

I become aware of Fisher, watching me. Again, he doesn’t expect what I say: “Hey, Fish, where’s one-sixteen? Out there.” I gesture toward the field.

“Huh? Damned if I know. Why?”

“That’s where he is.”

The phone chimes as if agreeing with me. I look down and see a new message from Lee: “You’re better than they know.”

Fisher’s looking curious. I’m almost bouncing on the bench, energy suddenly not a problem anymore. To show off how clever and supportive my boyfriend is, I hand him the phone. He appraises it, rubbing his whiskers. “Smart fox,” he says. “I can’t figure out how to send one of those damn things.” I glare, and he grins. “About football, too.”