Over the Middle: A Sports Romance (14 page)

L
ooking down
, I realize that I'm scared absolutely out of my mind. I'm wearing my most professional looking clothes, a black pencil-ish skirt and white blouse that makes me feel more like I'm showing up for a job interview than a hearing that could change my entire life.

You really should have taken Duncan up on his offer to stay the night at the apartment.

Maybe, but I was too worried that I wouldn't get any sleep. Of course, I still didn't, as I stayed up most of the night worrying about the hearing. Now, standing in front of the Honor Building, I'm still sleep-deprived and nervous that Duncan isn't by my side.

"Don't worry," he told me this morning as we talked over the phone. "I've got a nine o'clock class, then I'll be there. The hearing starts at ten, so at most, I'll miss the opening statements. Don't worry. I have your back."

I take a deep breath again and open the door, going up to the second floor where the hearing room is located. Outside, I'm trembling, and my shakes increase when I see Chelsea coming down the hallway. "Why?"

Chelsea gives me an evil look and smiles. “It's nothing personal."

She goes inside, and I give her a minute to get settled in before I go in. I look around and grimace at the setup. The Honor Board has a history that stretches back over a hundred years, and as such, the hearing room has an aura that is straight out of the Inquisition. As the Concerned—we're not Accused, and of course, since this technically isn't a legal proceeding, we're not Defendants either—I sit in the middle of a semi-circle that wraps around the outer walls of the octagonal room. The Honor Board has a "Hearing Officer," what should really be called the Prosecutor, and then the Board itself, nine members made up of five students and four teachers who sit on the semi-circle.

"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition," I mutter to myself, but the old Monty Python joke doesn't help lift my spirits. I go to the table and set my bag on top of it, taking out the notes that I'd written up yesterday to help me. Not that there was much I could do. I couldn't figure out anything that could explain away the information that they had.

I take a deep breath and sit down, looking around as I see Professor Vladisova come in, dressed for class. She comes over and puts her hand on my table. “I’m sad that we have to do this . . . because you are a brilliant student, and having you in class, even after this, has been enjoyable. I hope you can grow and learn from it.”

I look up at her, and she has an almost kind expression on her face. "I didn't do it. I hope after today, you will believe me."

"Miss Mittel, I grew up in the Soviet Union—the one thing the Soviet people came to know after so many years under the Communists was that lies can be told with a very straight face."

"You should also have learned that innocent people are often unjustly accused," I reply, feeling my inner fire heat up. Good, get angry. Harness it. It's better than being afraid. "Or were Stalin's purges not taught when you went to school?"

Vladisova looks at me, then nods. "Good luck, Miss Mittel."

She takes her seat in the rear half of the room, which is reserved for witnesses and visitors. Honor Board hearings are open to any member of the University, student and instructor alike, although I don't know anyone who's ever come to watch one of these things for entertainment.

At precisely ten o'clock, as the big grandfather clock in the corner strikes the hour, the door of the hearing room opens up again, and the Honor Board walks in. The Hearing Officer is Kent Prescott, a pre-law student, from the little I found out about him. He and I had a single meeting, where he confirmed what I'd told the Dean, but that was about it.

Once everyone is inside, the Hearing President, an old man that I didn't recognize, raps the Hearing to order.

Kent stands up from his little side desk and approaches the middle of the circle. He's dressed in a charcoal gray suit, and I bet he practiced his opening statement quite a few times. He's in pre-law, after all, and wants to be a lawyer. For him, this isn't my life. It's just practice. He doesn't even care if I'm a cheater or not.

"Members of the Board, the accusations against the Concerned are quite serious. On the morning of October twelfth, Carrie Mittel sat down, along with the other forty-two members of her class, for an Organic Chemistry mid-term examination. Except, she had an advantage over the other students. She had her smart phone with her, and she used it to access class notes. She was even so blatant about it as to get up and leave the room for a minute, for purposes that I will show to you. She then completed her test and turned it in as if she'd done nothing untoward. In fact, if it weren't for the observations of another student, she would have gotten away with it. Today, I intend to show how the Concerned blatantly cheated on her exam, and how she did it. Thank you."

Prescott sits down, and the Hearing President looks to me. "Miss Mittel, as the Concerned, you have the opportunity to speak. Do you have a statement?"

I nod, stand up, and say my peace. It’s not as eloquent as Mr. Prescott. I’m not a pre-law student who's practiced this many times, after all. But I get my point across—that I’m no cheater, and I have no idea how this
evidence
came to be.

I sit down, and Prescott starts his case. The first person up is Professor Vladisova, who tells about what she saw, and how she was approached by Chelsea Brown after the mid-term. "At that point, I remembered Miss Mittel leaving the room with her phone at one point, and staying outside the room for about five minutes."

Next up is Chelsea Brown, and I'm shocked at the fairy tale she spins. By the time she finishes, I know I’m screwed. I literally have nothing in my defense other than my word and the fact that I already had an almost 4.0 GPA. The rest of the proceeding is merely a formality, at this point. I would need a miracle.

And in my miracle walked. Duncan strolls in, wearing a suit of his own, something custom-tailored, charcoal gray, with a white shirt and a silver-gray tie that is knotted perfectly in what Dad calls a double Windsor. He walks up to my table and sets a briefcase down, and I wonder if he bought the whole get-up just for this. "Excuse me for being late."

"Excuse me?" Prescott asks. "What is Mr. Hart doing here?"

"Hi," Duncan whispers. "Sorry I'm a little late. How’s it going?”

“Can’t get any worse,” I reply. "Nice suit, though.”

Duncan winks and turns around to face the Board. “Is Carrie not allowed to have a student Advocate?"

The President thinks about it for a second, then nods. "With Miss Mittel's approval, of course."

"Of course,” I quickly reply.

"Then so be it. Mr. Hart, please have a seat. Mr. Prescott, proceed."

The final piece of evidence that Prescott offers is the flash image of my phone, along with printouts of my browser cache. When I go to get up for my
attempt
to defend myself, Duncan puts his hand on my arm and shakes his head, smirking.

Duncan gets up and reaches into his attaché case. "Members of the Board, everything Mr. Prescott has presented here today sounds very compelling. I mean, if I were in your position, I'd be filling out the paper to throw Carrie out of school already. Why not? Let's hurry this up. I hear the cafeteria is serving pot roast today, and let's face it, as a football player, I love me some good pot roast."

There are a few chuckles, and Duncan has them in the palm of his hands. I guess all the press conferences he’s forced to do makes him a natural. “The problem is that everything Mr. Prescott has said today . . . well, it's just not true. It's not his fault—he’s just been misled. Let's start with the accusation of phone usage, which this whole thing hinges on.”

Duncan goes back to his briefcase and takes out a thick brown folder, the kind that you sometimes see people turn in reports with. "I'd like to submit this report, from NuTech Labs."

"What is this, Mr. Hart?" the President asks as Duncan hands it over.

"I just got this report twenty-five minutes ago. It's why I was late. The report's pretty long, and it's got a ton of technical jargon and stuff, but the summary on the first two pages is so simple, even a football player could understand it. NuTech is one of the best firms in California in the realm of computer forensics, and their experts have testified in over two hundred cases in California courts. I'm sure you can verify this easily enough."

"We'll take your word for it. Continue."

Duncan nods, and he turns back and walks to me, ready to spring his play. "At hearing what Carrie has been accused of, I hired NuTech to do a full analysis of two phones. First, hers. Second, mine. Carrie has stated that when she left the classroom, she was making a personal call. That call was to me, as well as the text message that preceded it. I know Carrie's phone was looked at by the Western Computer Science Department, but no offense to the comp sci majors. They can't do what NuTech can. The summary essentially says that Carrie’s phone was manipulated, and that all of this
evidence
is planted.”

There's a muted mumbling around the room as the President finishes reading the summary. “I’m calling a pause to this Hearing to confirm this report. Miss Mittel, during this pause, your restrictions to activities are still in place. This Hearing is temporarily adjourned."

Professor Vladisova comes up while Duncan packs his briefcase. Chelsea has already slunk out of the hearing room without a word. "I apologize, Miss Mittel. I’ll reinstate your grade, and I look forward to seeing you next week in class."

I nod and shake hands with her. She's not a bad person, just trying to do her job, and I understand that. I look around and see that the only people left are Duncan and me. He closes his briefcase and turns around. "Like I said, I'm sorry I was late."

"I'm sorry I doubted you. I admit, I was starting to get a little gloomy,” I say, wrapping my arms around him and pulling tight. "For a moment there, I was scared."

"I know," Duncan says, hugging me back. "I didn't tell you about NuTech because I didn't want to get your hopes up. They were slow on getting back to me, or else I would’ve told you. I barely had time to print out the report and get over here."

"But you did," I reply. “Thank God for that.”

Duncan chuckles. "Come on, let's go get some lunch and change clothes. I hate wearing a suit."

As we walk out of the Hearing room, I turn and look at him. "I don't know. I think you look handsome in a suit."

Duncan looks over, his gray eyes twinkling in the dim light of the hallway. “Take it in while you can. I don’t like wearing this monkey suit,” he says, rubbing his belly. “I’m starving.”

"Me too. Let's go. You said something about pot roast, right?"

"
L
ast time
, seniors. This is your day. Enjoy it," Coach Bainridge says as the other members of the team form two lines that stretch all the way from the tunnel to the big Western logo in the middle of the field. "Just keep your heads right for the actual game."

Coach runs out of the tunnel with the other coaches, leaving just us twenty-five seniors. It's our last home game, and Coach dressed a couple of guys from the scout team who busted their asses the past four years, giving them their time in the sun. The crowd is nuts, with big cheers even as these guys go out, their helmets glittering in the fall sun.

“Sucks that your girl can't be sideline for this,” Tyler says as the defensive starting seniors are introduced. "You know, being part of the cordon and all."

"Nah, she's got seats at the fifty-yard line. I offered to her parents, but they said no, so I think she gave them to a couple of her classmates. I don't know. Either way, she's up there, so it’s all good.”

"From Monte Sereno, California. Tight end, number eighty-three, Duncan Hart!"

"Excuse me, time for my entrance."

The PA system is playing music, a remixed version of Queen's
Princes of The Universe
that somebody picked out because of my first name and my dark hair, but I can't hear anything over the physical roar of the crowd as I walk out, my arms crossed over my chest, walking out a few yards before throwing my arms out, letting the joy and roar of the crowd move me. It's different now than before, and talking with Carrie has helped me so much. I still love the crowd, I love the feeling, but I know there’s something even more important out there. When I get to the logo, I turn to the home side, where I pick out Carrie in her seat and point to her.

She sees me, and she points back, her words lost in the roar before it's Tyler's turn, and the rest of the offensive seniors. We get ready, and it's game time.

We take the opening kickoff and start from our twenty-seven.

I line up tight and drop into a three-point stance. We're playing against Washington Poly, a good team that's got a bowl berth already, but it isn't in the mix for the conference title anymore. If we win, we play Clement for the conference title next week. If we lose—well, we don't.

The WP defensive end is nearly bug-eyed as he gets into his stance, growling at me. "I'ma fuck you up today, pretty boy.”

The ball snaps, and we crash into each other, helmet to helmet, and I'm trying to drive him. I get my shoulder to the inside like I need, at least, and I push the end out, away from the run before the ball is blown dead on a four-yard gain. "Just wait, bitch. I've got your ass."

"Who the fuck is that guy?" I wonder as I go back to the huddle. “Is he trying to be
me
or something?”

"Don't you remember?" Tyler asks, laughing. “You showed him up pretty bad last year, and I’m sure you rubbed it in good after. I think he’s got it in for you.”

"Oh, yeah," I recall, thinking back to last year's WP game. It was a night game, though I didn’t quite remember the specifics. It was just another game for me.

Dropping into my stance, I get ready to run my route, a release to the flat that could net us good yardage.

I fire off, spinning off the defensive end who overextended himself trying to fight me, and into the flat. Tyler sees me open and tosses it nicely. I snag the pass and turn up field, getting tackled by two men for a twelve-yard gain. We’re off to a good start, and as Tyler comes over, he’s grinning. "We’ve got this. Clement, here we come."

The drive continues, and I line up on the left side, standing up as we spread the field, and when the ball snaps, I pop the linebacker covering me, going over the middle on a crossing X pattern. I turn and see the ball and catch it, going up before the free safety hits me, stopping my momentum. The ball blows dead, and I get to my hands and knees when suddenly, a huge weight crushes into my back, and I feel my elbow give way in a crunching snap that causes me to scream. A scuffle breaks out between the teams, but I can't do anything but lie on the turf, holding my arm and trying to stop screaming, it hurts so damn bad.

* * *

"
H
ow is it
, Coach?"

We're at University Hospital, and I'm still in my game pants, but they took off my shoulder pads, although I wish they hadn't cut my jersey off. I liked that jersey. It lasted me through a year and a half without being replaced.

Coach Thibedeau shakes his head. "We don't know yet, Duncan. The doc's going to get the X-rays back in a few minutes and—"

"Not me, Coach. The game. Did we win?"

Coach swallows, then shakes his head. "Thirteen to seventeen. We couldn't punch it through for one last touchdown."

"Who did it? I never saw who hit me."

"The defensive end . . . Petersen. He got ejected for it, at least."

I chuckle mirthlessly, then look out the window. "So Clement and Willamette for the conference championship."

Coach Thibs nods, then comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder. "Don't sweat it. You did everything possible, all season long. Twelve hundred plus yards receiving, twenty-one touchdowns . . . those are conference records that'll stand for a long time among tight ends."

"We've still got a bowl game to worry about," I reply when the curtain pulls back and the doctor comes in. "Well, Doc?"

"I wouldn't be looking for a bowl game, if I were you," Doctor Lefort says. Guess I'm lucky he was on duty tonight. "I can't confirm it until we get an MRI tomorrow, but you aren't using that elbow for a while. You're going to need surgery."

"What's the deal? Rough guess, Doc?"

He looks at me, curious, then continues. "Nothing's broken, bone-wise. But you've at least partially torn the anterior band of your elbow joint, and it's my guess, the biceps tendon too. That crunch you told me about was your elbow bending the direction it's not supposed to bend."

Coach Bainridge comes in, his face grave. "How's it going, Duncan?"

I force a smile to my face and sit up. "Not bad, Coach. Just need to rub some dirt in it, and I'll be good."

Coach Thibedeau is looking at me like I'm out of my mind, and even Dr. Lefort is shaking his head. "Duncan, did you hear what the doctor said? You need surgery."

I look at Coach Thibs and shake my head. "No. What I heard is that I have partial tears of a ligament and a tendon.
Partial
tears. Not total. So it's something that can wait until January. We've got a bowl game to win, and I intend to help the team do it."

Coach Bainridge looks at Thibs and gives him a thumb. He gets the message and gathers up Dr. Lefort to leave the exam room. Once we have privacy, Coach B sits on the edge of the bed. "What's going on?"

I take a few seconds to think about how I want to say what I want to say. Finally, the words come to me. "For four years, I've been an arrogant, greedy, selfish asshole. I've hurt this team as much as I've helped it, and I can't make up for that. For these last few games, since my suspension, I've tried, and I've found something out.”

"What's that?"

I look at him and smile. "I love football. Not the fame—I mean, that's cool too—and not the money that might come in the next few years. I love the game. I've loved being part of this team. And I won't let this team down again. So if that MRI says I can move my elbow at all, that I can even bend my arm, then I'm going to be out there. We can worry about the surgery afterward."

Bainridge shakes his head. "Duncan, if you go out there in a bowl game, you're putting your entire future at risk. One wrong hit to that elbow, and your biceps tendon gets fully torn off the bone. You lose at least a year to rehab, and nobody's going to draft a tight end with a bad bicep in the first round. You'll be lucky to get a third-round pick—if you can even play at all."

"It's my career, Coach. Besides, there are things—" my voice catches, and emotion chokes at my throat. "There are things more important than football. That's why I have to do it."

"Tell me. Tell me why, or else I put you down as unable to play in the report to the AD."

In my mind, I see Carrie, and the words come easy. "Because I love her. Because I need to be a good man for her. A
good
man . . . he'd go out and fight with his team."

Coach studies me for a minute, then nods his head. "Okay, fine, but you could be making a huge mistake. I guess I get to tell you now that the team got the invite right before I came to see you. We're going to be playing in the Sunshine Bowl."

I nod, somewhat pleased. "Sunshine, huh? That's in Florida, right?"

"Yep. Not a New Year's Bowl, though, but right after Christmas. It doesn't give you a lot of time to heal up."