Over the Middle: A Sports Romance (15 page)

"
A
re you insane
?"

Duncan shifts the sling strap around his neck to get a better seating for the padding and chuckles before reaching out and taking my hand with his good one. "You're about the third or fourth person to ask me that exact question this morning. Can we at least get back home before I have to answer it again?"

I roll my eyes and nod, carrying his bag over my shoulder. We get on the bus from the hospital to his apartment, and as we ride, I can't help but feel better. Seeing him down on the turf, holding his elbow and trying not to scream, I'd been so scared. What made it even worse was that, as Duncan's girlfriend, I couldn't get past the nurses at the front desk. I wasn't family, and I wasn't one of the coaches. I was just some girl. Thank God Tyler saw me and snuck me in a side door.

"I owe a date to a very star-struck nurse for this one, so make it good," he whispers as I go by. "I have a feeling I'm going to regret the date."

It was helpful to see Duncan in the hospital, and now, riding the bus next to him, I'm even happier, even if his plan is crazy. "So are you gonna tell me why you're thinking of sacrificing yourself and your future for this?"

Duncan thinks about it, then nods. "I've got a laundry list half a mile long. I can't begin to name them all. When Coach B first came around, I said it was for me, to become the man that I want to be instead of the person I am. I told him it was for you for the same reasons. But that's only part of the truth."

"What do you mean?" I ask, already moved by what Duncan said.

Duncan puts his arm around me and gives my shoulders a squeeze, smiling. "I do want to be a man who’s good enough for you. That's not a lie. But when you don't have a model to base yourself on, you have to base it off what you
don't
want to be. So, I looked at my father. Did you know he used to be an athlete?"

"Not really, no. Was he a football player too?"

Duncan shakes his head. "Nope, or else, I never would have gone near the game. He was a basketball player, actually. From what I heard from my grandfather before he died, he was a pretty good shooting guard. Not pro-caliber, but when you add that to Mom, you get me. She was a near-Olympic level heptathlete. I double-checked recently. Anyway, I looked to Dad. And what I said to myself was, what would Winston Hart do?"

"And what would he do?"

Duncan pulls me closer. "He'd take the easy way out. He'd take the surgery, cruise past the pro combine or the school's pro day, and then cruise into a rookie contract if someone offered it to him. You see, for all his venture capitalist act, he's always cut and run when the going gets tough. So skipping the Sunshine Bowl—that's something he would do."

I nod, not liking Duncan's thinking, but at least understanding it. The game is as much about personal development as it is the team, and there's nothing wrong with thinking that way. After all, being a team player doesn't mean you need to be a masochist. Just partly so. "Then can I ask you a favor?"

"What's that?"

I raise my head, whispering into Duncan's ear. "Can I help out?"

The bus stops, and Duncan and I get off, walking the half-block up to the Vista Apartments before taking the elevator up. Duncan's thinking the entire time, and when we get inside, he closes the door behind us and goes into the living room. "Carrie, it's not that I'm not happy that you offer, but you know with the Honor case still pending against you, that you're technically under suspension. If some jealous bitch like Chelsea Brown catches you working any sort of rehab with me, you're putting your future of getting back into the intern program at stake."

I nod. "I know that. But I know something else, something you haven't thought of yet."

"What's that?"

"
Us.
What you’re doing could be dangerous, and I want to do whatever I can for you. Besides, after I’m cleared, I really doubt they’d ever do anything to me. It’s a risk
I’m
willing to take. Actually, I'd like to go one better."

“What do you mean?” Duncan asks, and I point to the bedroom. "I think I'm a little banged up for that."

"No, you horndog," I say with a laugh. "Look."

Duncan goes into the bedroom, where I've fully made the bed and cleaned, something that he, despite being neater than most men, didn't do a great job of before. I set a bag next to the dresser, where it sits face up. "Two sets of pillows. Nice, and I appreciate the cleaning job, but what are you saying?"

“What I'm saying is . . . maybe you'd like a live-in rehab specialist?"

Duncan turns to me and shakes his head. "No . . . but I'd love to have a girlfriend who wants to live with me for as long as she wants. How about that?"

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod, blinking away the tears that are forming in my eyes. "You have no idea. Actually, there’s one more thing, if you don't mind me being positively domestic."

“Huh?”

I laugh again. "Actually, I was thinking . . . after we talk, would you like to meet my parents? Skype, of course . . . at least for now.”

Duncan nods, then his face clouds. "I get the feeling from what you’ve said, though, that your parents don't like me."

I nod. "Dad doesn't. Mom's just . . . Mom."

"Why?"

I sit down on the bed, and Duncan takes a seat next to me. He undoes the strap on his sling and slowly lays back, resting his arm on the bed while he begins to slowly curl and relax the arm. He's gritting his teeth. It has to be hurting him, but I know he's trying to keep his joint mobile, not stiffening up on him.

"Dad's a long-haul trucker," I tell him as I shift sideways, sitting cross-legged next to his arm. "But he used to be an athlete too. Baseball player, actually. I guess I take after him that way. At his high school, at least my grandmother told me, baseball was a very distant second to football, and the players at his school were, in general, assholes."

"Hmm, asshole football players. Never met one," Duncan jokes, and I teasingly slap him on his chest. "Ouch. Now, you have to be fully moved in before you can do whips and handcuffs, but spanking is okay already, got it?"

I laugh and pat him on the chest again. "Careful. I may have a side to me you haven't seen yet. But, as to Dad . . . long story short, one of the football jocks stole his girlfriend. Of course, he has a grudge against
all
football players. Perfect logic.”

"Ooh, ouch," Duncan hisses. “Sounds about right.”

"Well, that's half the reason he doesn't trust you. The other half has to do with his trucking."

Duncan sits up some, confused. “What do I have to do with trucking?”

“He’s an independent long hauler, doing cross-country runs about two to three times a month. This keeps him on the road a lot, but it wasn't always that way. When I was a little girl, he was part-owner of his own trucking company, Longstar Consolidated."

"What happened?" Duncan asks, and I shrug.

“He got bought out. Some bigshot came in when Dad was looking to expand the fleet and pushed him out the door. Now, it wasn't your Dad directly, but he was supposedly one of the investors."

Duncan thinks about it, then nods. “Well, this is going to be fun. Tell you what. How about I finish up these arm flexes I'm doing, and in the kitchen, there are two buckets under the sink. We can get some contrast baths going to help out . . . and then when I'm done with that, let's call them."

"Really?" I ask. I'm surprised. I didn't think he would want to jump into the fire that quickly.

Duncan nods. "Really. If we are going to be
us
, then I guess we need to get it over with sometime or another. As for my father, I don't give a damn if he ever meets you. For now, he's done with my life until he reaches out to me."

* * *

A
fter the call
, which had none of the rancor that I thought it would, Duncan sits back and smiles. "See, not so bad?"

I nod and give him a kiss. "Nope, I think the most difficult part of moving in with you is going to be the next part."

"Which is?"

"Stopping kissing you long enough to actually get some studying done. We've both got class tomorrow, remember?"

The next day, I go to the student union during lunch, where I meet up with Coach Taylor. "Hey, Carrie. It's good to see you."

"Thanks, Coach. Thanks for meeting with me on such short notice. I know you're busy."

He shakes his head and cracks open a can of coffee flavored pre-mixed protein shake, a disgusting concoction that only a guy like Coach could love. "No problem, Carrie. You're looking good. You keeping up with your work?"

I nod. "The regular gym sucks compared to what the weight room is like, but I can still get something done there. Like you say, if it has a barbell and a squat rack, you can get work done. I'll be truthful, though. I can't wait to get back down in the basement with everyone."

"Yeah, a lot of folks are telling me the same thing. Alicia is about ready to go to the Honor Board and beg them to hurry up. Since you've been suspended, she's rolled her ankles twice."

I sit back and shake my head, chuckling. "You and I both know that it's more due to bad luck than anything. Who was taping her up?"

"Freddie Maxwell. He knows what he's doing. In fact, I'm giving him a letter of recommendation when he graduates. But yeah, Alicia's about ready to kill him." Coach Taylor takes a long drink of his protein shake and grows serious. "By the way, Chelsea quit the program. Bunch of rumors swirling about that one."

"I bet. I can't say I'm upset about that, though. You know, since she lied about what I did . . . let's not go there though. I sent you an email because I'd like your advice."

"Advice is always free for you," Coach says. "At least, monetarily. What's up?"

"Well, let's say, hypothetically, of course, that someone wanted to do some home-based rehabilitation on an injured elbow."

Coach sees right through me. "Like, say, a biceps tendon that is seventy-five percent torn and a nearly fully-torn anterior band?"

"Something like that. Not quite a Tommy John surgery candidate, but certainly someone who needs to go under the knife."

"But who refuses to for another three weeks or so. Well tell me, Carrie. You're pretty smart. What would you have this person do?"

"Mostly range of motion work, lots of contrast treatment, and in their sport, limited contact along with a limited range of motion brace. Once the swelling goes down in the elbow, light work, mostly to retain as much of the overall body muscle as possible without stressing the injured joint."

Coach Taylor nods and sits back. "My prognosis exactly. Now, if you had access to an ultrasound machine, I'd add that in, but most
houses
don't have that. Even ones in the Vista."

I nod somberly. "Think we can keep this under our hats?"

"Unless someone makes a direct request, sure. What you do with your boyfriend in his apartment is none of my business."

"
Our
apartment now. I'm moving my stuff this week."

Coach Taylor nods and gives me a smile. "Congrats. I know I warned you about him way back when, but I'm happy to have been wrong in this case. And don’t worry, Duncan will get the best treatment Western can provide."

F
or most of the guys
, being away from home for Christmas week is hell. Some of them have always gone home for Christmas, and until this year, Western's been lucky, getting December 31st or January 1st games, giving everyone at least a chance to eat dinner and open presents with the family. So for a lot of the team, it's strange being in Tampa for a football game. Then again, we're getting a longer Christmas break because of it since our vacation isn't being interrupted by football practice. We just start later than most students.

Personally, though, I don't really mind. Christmas for most of my life has been just another day, perhaps with some presents thrown in, but no real feeling behind them. But when you can buy pretty much anything you want, except the attention of your father, Christmas and those presents are mostly meaningless.

This Christmas is different, however, in that I have Carrie. She went home to spend the holiday itself with her parents, and while I miss her, we can't spend the nights together the way we want anyway. We're in a team hotel, after all.

"Merry Christmas, Duncan!"

"Merry Christmas, beautiful," I say into my computer. I made sure to bring my laptop along with me, and the hotel has a good enough Wi-Fi connection. "How are things?"

"Dad's relaxed some," Carrie says, pointing toward her right, "especially after that back massager you got him for a present."

"Oh, did I put the wrong tag on that? That was supposed to be a, ahem, 'massager' for your mom."

"Duncan Hart!" I hear off-screen, and Carrie leans back, laughing. I join in as Vince sticks his head in the screen. "Tell me you did not just say that!"

"Sorry, Mr. Mittel," I apologize, still laughing. "I couldn't help it. Carrie's laughter was too worth it to worry about you being upset."

"Well, okay then. By the way, we saw you on TV today. Nice interview."

"Thanks. I felt like an idiot the whole time." I did, too. It’s something I've been surprised with, as I've gone through finding the
new
me. I've gone from being a glory hound camera hog to being a bit shy in interviews. I guess when you can't hide behind talking shit, it's a lot more difficult. "So did I look okay?"

"You looked amazingly handsome," Carrie says, smiling. "I'm looking forward to seeing you play tomorrow. How's the arm?"

"As good as it could be," I answer, flexing it for her approval. "The team docs shot me up with a cortisone injection two hours ago, so it hurts like hell right now, but it'll feel much better tomorrow. At least until the pounding starts."

Carrie nods, and Vince sticks his head in again, taking a seat. "Duncan, are you really sure about this? I mean, Carrie explained to me why you're doing it, but it still seems awfully risky."

"It might be, but it’s what I want to do."

Vince strokes his chin and nods. “Well, I guess it’s your choice. Still, be careful out there. I'd prefer if my daughter's boyfriend spends as little time in the hospital as possible, okay? She's already talked my ear off for three days about all her ideas for your rehab after your surgery."

I laugh, and my stomach rumbles. "Deal. Hey, my stomach is kicking me for missing the team lunch—because of the interview, in fact—so I'm going to have to take off soon to find some grub."

Carrie smiles and nods. "We're going to be sitting down in a couple of hours ourselves. How about we catch up after the game?"

“Sounds like a plan,” I say, and Vince looks at his daughter before giving her a kiss on the cheek.

"Okay, I see you two want to share your goodbyes, and you don't need some old man getting in the way. We'll be watching tomorrow, Duncan. Good night."

Vince leaves the camera, and Carrie and I just look at each other for a little bit. "I've missed you," she finally says, smiling.

"My arms have felt pretty empty too. Have they asked you about it?"

"Mom refuses to acknowledge it. She just asks if my bedroom at the apartment is comfortable or not. Dad . . . he's totally avoided it. You know how it is. There's a part of them that knows, but it's like Schrödinger’s Cat. As long as the question isn't answered, their daughter both is and isn't sleeping with her boyfriend."

"We were raised totally different. Maybe just because I'm a guy. I don't know, but I can guess. Carrie . . . I love you."

"I love you too. And thank you for the present. I was actually a good girl and waited until Christmas day to open it, too. It's beautiful."

"Are you wearing it now?" I ask, and Carrie nods. "Show me?"

She reaches into her shirt and pulls out the white gold necklace with a gleaming emerald chip in the center. The chain is a simple link chain, and the emerald is small. I didn't want to overwhelm her with a huge stone, and besides, it fits Carrie's personality. "I wear it next to my skin always. All right, I’ll let you go grab something to eat, Duncan. I love you."

“Goodnight, Carrie. Love you.”

She hangs up, and I close my computer and go downstairs. It only took us saying the L word once, and after we did, neither of us can stop. The restaurant for the hotel is open until midnight, and while I'm not looking for anything heavy, a good Caesar salad or something might do the trick until tomorrow's team breakfast.

When I get downstairs, I'm crossing the lobby when I hear someone call my name. "Duncan! Wait up, son!"

I stop, shocked. Turning, I see Dad walking quickly across the lobby, a huge smile on his face. "Duncan! Good to see you!"

"Dad? What are you doing here?" I ask, confused. "Aren't you supposed to be back in Cali?"

"I realized that this is going to be your last game in college, and well, I also realized that I couldn't get another chance to see you play college ball, so I made the trip down. I know it's a bit of a surprise, but I was kind of hoping . . . well, I was kind of hoping you'd be willing to have dinner with me."

“Um, sure . . . I guess. I was just going to get a salad here in the restaurant."

We go to the restaurant, where the wait staff seats us immediately. I'm wearing my Western track suit, which gives us pretty much carte blanche in service, and as we sit down, I notice that Dad's looking at my arm. He's looking thinner than before, showing his middle age for the first time. "How's the elbow? I read about your injury."

"I'll make it. I've already scheduled the surgery for December 30th. That'll give me just over eight weeks to rehab for the Combine, but I'll probably pass on that for a Pro Day at school in March, if I can."

Dad hums and looks over the menu. The waitress comes by, and I order a chicken Caesar while he orders the pork chops with hummus. After the waitress leaves, I take a sip of my water. "So when did you get into town?"

"Just a few hours ago," he replies, giving me a shrug. He sounds different too, it seems. Nervous, or just stressed. I wonder if Tawny's left him. I mean, I didn't even get a chance to meet her yet. "I just closed a deal, but I wanted to make sure that I got here in time. Duncan, I know I haven't been the most attentive father, but I do care about how you're doing. It hurt that you didn't at least give me a call when you got injured. I only found out because of cable sports."

"No offense, but you haven't exactly given a damn about my playing for about the past six years or so. I was talking about it with Carrie the other week, and I realized the last game of mine you ever saw was my freshman year in high school. You didn't even go to the Shrine Game."

Dad nods, then sighs. "I know. It's been tough, that's all. It's why I need your help."

"My help? What the hell type of help could I give you?"

Dad looks around, and leans in closer. "Duncan, I haven't exactly been honest about my finances. After the Cupertino Mafia started really going lawsuit happy, I got hammered in a lot of deals. To finance this most recent one, I had to take out some loans."

"Okay, big deal. You've done that before."

He shakes his head and sighs. "These weren't with a bank, Duncan. The banks won't extend me any more credit. Between maintaining Tawny's lifestyle, my own image, and everything else, I'm tapped to the gills. And this deal, it might not pay off for six months or more. So I went to some men I know in San Francisco. They loaned me the money, on a few conditions."

"What conditions?" I ask, a sense of dread washing over me. If he’s broke, what the hell have I been paying for my lifestyle with for the past year or more? Credit cards that aren't getting paid? Wishes and rainbows? Unicorn piss? What?

"These men, they made a deal with me. They put a very large sum of money on the Sunshine Bowl, and if their bet pays off, then my markers are wiped clean. If not, they collect. Everything."

I sigh, shaking my head. "You're fucking kidding me."

Dad shakes his head now, his eyes intense. "Duncan, I mean it. Everything. The house, the cars, everything that isn't paid in full already. The banks are screaming for my neck, and the San Francisco men are only going to give me the money to get them off my ass if they collect on their bets. So I need you to help me out. Western needs to lose."

"You want me to throw the game?" I ask, horrified. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"Son, I'm not saying you need to really throw it . . . just, don't do as well as you might," he says. "You already have a banged up elbow, so just don't go as hard as you might normally. Think about it. An injured performance won't hurt your pro prospects, and you can take it easy, reduce your chance of injury."

I don't know what to say. Seven years of ignoring my football, and now he wants me to throw a game? Never mind that if I do, and it's discovered, I get banned from the game forever. I shake my head, trying to comprehend how I ever called this man my father. "Excuse me. I need to go."

The waitress is approaching the table, so I stop her and ask for my salad to be sent to my room. Dad starts to get up, then stops when I point at him, gesturing down with my finger. I leave the restaurant and go out into the lobby, leaving the hotel and sitting out by the pool. I need someone to talk to. There are so many thoughts whirling in my head. Thankfully, my phone is in my pocket, and I pull it out, dialing from memory.

"Hello? Duncan?"

Carrie's voice is a balm to my mind, and I let out a shuddering breath. "Yeah, it's me. Sorry, I know we just got off, but I had to call."

"Aww, how sweet," Carrie purrs. "What's up? You sound troubled."

"I just ran into Dad," I say, finding a chaise lounge chair and sitting down. The pool is lit right now, the water swirling in patterns of light in the night, casting weird little swirling beams all around. "He says he came to watch the game."

"That's a good thing, isn't it?" Carrie asks. "So why don't you sound happy?"

“He wants me to throw the game. Apparently, he owes a lot of money to some men in San Francisco . . . and not exactly the sort of men who wait to collect their debts."

Carrie hums, then clucks her tongue. "Let me ask you—in your entire life, what has remained pure, unsullied?"

"You," I immediately reply, and Carrie's warm hum helps me relax a little.

"Thank you, but I'm hardly pure, and in the grand scheme of things, you haven’t really known me that long. What else?"

"Football," I answer, seeing what she's trying to say. "It's always been pure."

"Then keep it that way. Duncan, you're a man now that you weren't even six months ago. You're a man that I'm proud to love. Be that man. You know what to do."

I do. I know exactly what to do. "Thank you, Carrie. I . . . I think I should go do that now, and go get some sleep. Thank you."

"Sleep well. I love you."

"I love you too. Good night."

I go upstairs, to the fifth floor of the hotel. There are ten rooms per floor in the hotel, and this one is just for the coaches and university staff. I go to room 503, Coach Bainridge's room, and raise my hand, knocking. "Yes?"

"Coach? It's Duncan Hart. I have to talk to you about something."

* * *

M
y elbow's killing me
. I swear, every drive, I'm getting hit in the arm at least once. The defensive ends are even using the elbow against me when I try to block them, pushing my left elbow across my body to torque it, putting more pressure on it. It's not a dirty move. It's the same move I use to get a linebacker or defensive back off me to run routes, but it still hurts all the time.

If there's any saving grace, it's that my biceps tendon isn't getting strained. Most of playing tight end is pushing, not pulling, and my triceps and chest are more important than my biceps for that. Still, the biceps is used when I catch, if anything, to pull the catch in and to cradle it against my body.

"How's it feeling?" Tyler asks, sweat dripping off his face. Two minutes left in the second quarter, and it's still a tight game. We're playing Georgia A&M, and they're a tough bunch of Southern boys. To our disadvantage, they are also used to this heat and humidity, and we're not. December, and it's still eighty-two degrees and nearly ninety percent humidity. What the hell? At least it's not trying to play them in August.