Raiders Night (2 page)

The softball game had started by the time they got to the town field. The lights were on. From the parking lot, Matt could hear his father barking, “Let's get a hit, get a hit, no pitcher, no pitcher.” Brody flipped Matt the football as they walked but didn't say anything. Brody's dad was a piece of work, too. They didn't need to talk about it. Matt rubbed the football between his palms before he flipped it back. The pebbly skin reminded him he was a football player, even here on Dad's turf. Brody had started carrying the ball everywhere two summers ago, after he went to a quarterback camp where an NFL coach told them that the great ones even slept with the ball. It was all about making the ball an extension of their bodies. The Back Pack joked about Brody shagging pigskin, but they understood. Wherever you were, the ball brought you back to who you were.

They took their time strolling to the stands, tossing the ball, letting the crowd catch sight of them. People waved. A few little boys ran up just to follow them like puppies. The boldest one tugged at their baggy shorts and held out his hands for the ball. Matt asked him, “What inning?”

“Second. No score, Matt.” The kid sounded proud to say his name.

Matt felt good. Warm and hard and big. He avoided looking at his father, coaching at third base.

“Matt, Mattie, Matt, over here.” His brother, Junie, large and loud, was bouncing on the grandstand, waving him over. Matt waved back and signaled him to sit down, be quiet. Too late. Dad had spotted Matt. He felt the where-you-been glare before he saw it. Dad wanted the whole family at his games. Mom would be up in the stands somewhere with her friends.

Brody asked, “You going to Lexie's?”

“You?”

Brody shrugged. “Might as well. Last party before hell.”

“Pick me up after the game?”

“I'm driving?”

“Your turn,” said Matt.

“What about Pete?”

“Who knows? Might have to paint Lisa's toenails tonight.”

Brody laughed. “Okay.”

“See you after. Gotta go sit with Junie.”

“Gotta conduct a chassis inspection.” Brody pointed the football toward a bursting red tank top. “Catch you later.”

It took Matt a few minutes to work his way into the stands. Men wanted to say hello, ask about the coming season. Old ladies clucked over his sleeveless Baybodies T-shirt. He'd picked it up on a recruiting trip to Michigan State when he'd gotten wasted at a strip club with some of the college players. Dad hated the shirt, which was why he was wearing it.

He knew only a few girls in the stands, mostly the younger sisters of friends and the twenty-something girlfriends of players on Dad's softball team. Most of the better senior girls were still off on vacation or in college prep camps or getting ready for tonight's party. Mandy wouldn't be home from cheerleader camp until after he left for training camp. She'd been gone for almost two weeks. He rarely thought about her when she wasn't around. He'd started leaving his cell off when he thought she might call. Time enough to figure all that out after camp.

“Matt?” A short, bug-eyed kid he dimly recognized from school was hopping alongside. Looked like a frog. “Matt, I write for the
Nearmont Eye
, and…”

“The school paper?”

“No, we're the alternate, online, totally independent.”
He puffed up, just like a frog. “I'd like to interview you about the coming season, not the usual stuff, but the real—”

“After we're back from camp, okay? I got to see my brother now.” He didn't wait for a response.

Junie wrapped an arm around his neck when he sat down. “What's up, CyberPup?”

It was a line from Junie's favorite cartoon show. Matt groaned. “I'm in your power.” Junie's arm was big but flabby. Got to get him into a fitness routine. Dad said he would but never did. Can't blame him for that—he's working all the time.

“Where you hiding the microchips?” said Junie.

“Right here with the potato chips.” Matt grabbed a handful of Junie's belly through his blue Rydek Gourmet Catering T-shirt. Junie giggled and released his grip.

“Where you been, Matty?”

“At the gym.” No need to tell him we stopped for burgers.

“Dad's been looking for you.”

“Here I am.” He tried to keep the annoyance out of his voice. Only make Junie nervous. “Let's watch the game.”

Dad was stomping around the third-base coaching box, hands on hips, chest out, spitting sunflower seeds. Freddy Heinz, Brody's older brother, dug into the batter's box. Freddy had held all of Nearmont High's passing
records until Brody started breaking them. Freddy had torn up his shoulder in a bar fight his sophomore year at Iowa State and switched to defensive back, then lost his scholarship and come home. He did landscaping now and drove a truck for Rydek Gourmet Catering. Dad had built a powerhouse softball team out of old Nearmont jocks who'd come back home and needed jobs after busting in college or pro ball, like he did.

“Let's do it, Freddy.” Dad was clapping and shouting. “Go yard, go yard.”

“What's
goyar
?” asked Junie.

“Go yard,” said Matt. “Means go deep, hit a homer.”

“Oh.” Junie hated to feel dumb.

Matt squeezed the back of his neck. “Some TV guy made it up. I didn't know it, either.”

“You didn't?” Junie perked up. “Go yard, Freddy.”

Two on, two out, and Freddy grounded to short to end the inning. Dad shook his head and gave him the why-can't-you-do-what-I-tell-you-to-do glare. Know that one, too, thought Matt. The softball team had a shot at the league title this year, and Dad had been calling extra practices. Brody said his brother was complaining, but when you worked for the guy, you had to show up.

I work for the guy and I have to show up for my football games and his softball games, Matt thought. That's my work. Matt made a mental note to send Dad an e-mail invoice for catering work he hadn't done. Dad would put
more money on Matt's debit card so he could pay Monty. They never talked about the steroids, although Matt knew that Dad talked to Monty. The Vicodin was easier because the orthopedic surgeon who treated Matt for back pain was pretty free with prescriptions and Dad paid the drugstore bill directly. Dad and the doctor both had to know how much Matt was taking, and they didn't care as long as he scored touchdowns. He swallowed down the anger that bubbled up in his throat. Chill, Matt, tomorrow you're out of here.

Rydek Catering took the field and Dad swaggered out to the mound. He was Monty's age and still pitching. They'd gone to Nearmont High together, both got football scholarships, but Dad skipped college to sign with the Mets for a small bonus. He spent two seasons in the minors but never got the chance to find out if he was good enough to make it to the Show. When he was twenty, his dad died of a heart attack and he had to come home and take over the family's small catering business, which he hated. He was married by then, and Junie was born. Years and years of doctor's bills there. He'd built up the business over time, but he was still pissed off at missing his chance.

“Mom wants you.” Junie poked him and pointed to the top of the stands.

When Matt found Mom, she was mouthing the word, “Dinner?”

Matt shook his head and mouthed, “Party.”

She rolled her eyes and turned to say something to Brody's mom, who smiled and waved at Matt. In the right clothes, from a distance, Brody's mom could pass for a high school girl. The guys agreed she was the hottest mom. He felt a warm splash run down from his chest. Feeling horny with Mandy away. The juice does it, too.

Dad's barking voice brought him back to the game. Chest first, he was marching toward the plate umpire, who had just called a fourth ball.

“Dad's really mad,” said Junie. He sounded upset. He'd never gotten used to Dad's screaming.

“He's not so mad,” said Matt. “It's just part of the game. He'll pretend he's angry so he gets his way.” When Junie kept staring at him, he said, “He'll get over it before he comes home. Dad yells at the umpire so next time the umpire will be afraid to call a ball and he'll call a strike instead.”

It took Junie a moment to digest it, then he smiled. “You know everything, Matt.”

“Right about that, Ace.” He punched his brother lightly, glad to make him smile, sad that Junie was seven years older.

The game dragged on. The score was tied. Swarms of bugs attracted by the lights dive-bombed spectators and players. Only Dad refused to slap them away, to acknowledge they even existed. Tough guy. Matt felt the old mix
of admiration and anger. Dad teaching him to box by trading punches with him, always hitting back a little harder than Matt hit him. How many times had he heard Dad say, “Don't cry,” and later, “Don't rub,” and always, “Don't ever let them know you're hurting.” Dad never showed pain, even when Matt started landing hard shots. Be good to get out of the house for five days.

In the seventh, Dad clubbed a looping fly into left-center and lumbered to first. Anybody else on the team would have gotten to second, maybe even third, but Dad stood proudly on the base, grinning for a moment before he finally signaled for a pinch runner. He really did want to win this game, thought Matt.

Back in the coaching box, he started screaming at the pitcher, trying to crack his concentration. But the pitcher was an older guy who ignored him. Wish I could do that, thought Matt.

Two outs, then Freddy Heinz was up again, working the count. He checked his swing on a pitch that Matt thought nicked the inside corner for a third strike to end the game, but the umpire called it a ball. The pitcher lost his cool and started yelling. The ump turned his back. Dad grinned at the crowd. Maybe he had intimidated him after all. It had worked before.

Freddy lined the next pitch deep into right field. The pinch runner scored to win the game. Junie was jumping and shouting, “We won, we won.” He knew the old man
would be in a good mood. Ice cream tonight.

Matt and Junie went out on the field. Mom joined them for a group hug. Dad swaggered over, grinning, kissing Mom, ruffling Junie's hair. Matt stuck out his hand to Dad, who grabbed it and pulled him into a half hug, squeezing him. He whispered in his ear, “Got to rattle those pussy umps, what I tell you?”

“You told me.” Easy way out, and it left a sour taste in his mouth. He always felt smaller around Dad, even now that he was taller than him.

Just want to get through this year and out of town, and away from him. Matt's chest and shoulders were aching from the workout. Some beer and Vicodin would fix that. Then the last party before hell.

He was looking forward to hell. It was out of town.

Matt floated into the party a step behind Brody, who opened holes in the crowd with his smile. Brody reached out for guys to tap fists and girls to feel up. Ever since he was in PeeWee, All-Brody had acted like he was walking on a red carpet, but nobody ever seemed to mind. He could say anything to anybody. Guys trusted him in the huddle and girls couldn't keep their hands off him. He had left the football in the car. He was looking to score tonight.

The beer and Vic buzz carried Matt over the upturned faces. “Yo, Matt…Lookin' good, my man…. Where's Amanda?…Ready for hell, hoss?” He felt the words more than heard them, like hundreds of fingers plucking at him. Good thing Brody's driving tonight. Matt grinned back at people, winked, tapped a few fists, squeezed a few soft arms that came out of the crowd to
encircle him like snakes and then fell away, brushing the length of his body. He smelled perfume and armpits. He waved back at Pete, in a corner with Lisa. They talked about everything. Pathetic, Matt thought, then wondered what it would be like to have someone you could really talk to.

“Start the party,” Ramp bellowed. “Captains are here.” His shoulders cleared a path and he was suddenly beside Matt, throwing a heavy arm around his neck, thrusting a can of beer in his hand. In this kind of crowd, Ramp always acted like they were buds. Otherwise, he made wiseass remarks and kept his distance. Been like that since PeeWee, teammates but never friends.

“Wassup?” Can't just blow Ramp off with everybody watching.

“Hear about the transfer from Bergen Central?” said Ramp.

Bergen Central was in another conference. He didn't know any of their players. “What about?”

“Sophomore tight end. Thinks he's just gonna show up and play.” Ramp sounded angry. Ramp was a great linebacker, but only a so-so tight end. He didn't want any competition.

“He'll back you up,” said Matt.

“We'll see what he's got.” Ramp tightened his arm around Matt's neck. Matt thought of Dad squeezing him. “Where's Mandy?”

“Cheerleader camp.” He considered ramming an elbow into Ramp's gut to loosen the grip. He was a little soft there. But it would take more energy than Matt had right now.

Ramp put his face close to Matt's ear. “Dog's night out? Find some strange meat, huh, woof, woof.”

“Hey, is this like a same-sex thing?” Lexie glided up and made a big show of trying to separate them with her long bare arms. Matt could see most of her new breasts under her loose top.

“It's a three-way,” said Ramp. He let go of Matt and made a grab for her but came up empty. She was quick. “Don't you want a test feel?”

She ignored him. “When's Amanda back?”

Matt's mind dragged, like a computer hard drive about to freeze. “Tomorrow?”

“Two of you come by?”

“Training camp.”

Lexie tossed her blond hair. “So you boys can really get it on?” She cackled and danced away.

“Bitch needs more than new tits,” said Ramp. “Who's she doing?”

Matt shrugged. He didn't keep up with that. Mandy's department.

“She needs a taste of the Ramp.” He started after her. “Be a good dog.”

Try to avoid him tonight, Matt thought, be enough of
him in camp. Ramp was a good captain for keeping the troops in line, but he couldn't leave his mean streak on the field. He scared girls, hardly ever scored if they weren't drunk. Matt wondered if it was just the beer fogging his windshield, or if the pain pills were kicking, too.

He settled into the fog, let it wrap him in a soft bumper. With Ramp gone, more guys came up to shake his hand, girls to rub against him. He didn't have to say much, just smile, nod. Hard to hear anyway, the music was amped so high. Mandy loved these parties. She was the queen. Have to be cool. Her spies were everywhere.

He spotted Lexie coming toward him, trying to shake off Ramp. Better run a route. He sidestepped around a couch and into another room. A guy who resembled him stared at him blankly. It took a beat to realize he was looking in a mirror. Someone offered the guy in the mirror a beer. He held up the one he had.

He followed a whiff of pot toward the back of the house, then out onto a deck. Tyrell was preaching to the stoners.

“Cap'n Matt?” Tyrell held out his blunt.

All I need, thought Matt, on top of the beer and pain pills. But he didn't want to wimp.

While Matt toked, Tyrell said, “Tyrell calls this man the Fre-quent Fly-er because he is the franchise, the stud. Matt Rydek could catch a hummingbird in a hurricane. His hands are softer than a baby's bee-hind.”

A girl said, “You are a poet, Tyrell.”

“Not Tyrell's only gift, juicy lady.” He took the blunt from Matt and moved toward her.

A voice behind Matt, almost in his ear, said, “Your hands are softer than a baby's bee-hind?”

Matt turned, almost bumping a tall girl, short dark hair, full lips, big breasts. He dimly remembered her from last year.

“So, what do you use to keep your hands so soft?” She had a low voice.

“It's a football expression.”

“Shut up.” She had a tinkly laugh. Nice.

“Really.” He wanted to explain that it just meant he could catch anything he could get his hands on, that footballs didn't bounce out of his grasp. But the words were stuck deep in his hard drive.

“You okay?” It sounded like a real question.

“Headache,” he said. That was true.

“I've got something in my car that—”

“Thanks, I've had enough—”

“Ibuprofen.” She laughed again and put a warm hand on his. “I'm maxed, too.”

He angled for a better view of her. She had big eyes, nice teeth.

His cell vibrated. Be Mandy, he thought, checking up on me. Better answer. Get it over with quick. He mumbled something and turned his back on the girl. He
flipped open the phone. “Eighty.” It was his jersey number, a code with Mandy.

“This sucks.” It was Brody.

“I'll stay for a while.”

“Need a ride?”

“Got one.” And some ibuprofen, too.

“Tomorrow.” Brody hung up.

When he turned back, she was gone.

He tried to remember her name. Had he ever known it? He tried to bring up her face, but all he got were lips and eyes. Now I need a ride. He punched #1 on his speed dial but got Brody's voice mail. Maybe he's still here. He started toward the door. He felt as though he were walking in waist-high warm water, dense and salty. Ocean. Man, I am hammered. But the headache was okay, cottony, blotting out any other thoughts.

Lexie was in the middle of the living room, crying. Girls fluttered around her, cooing, patting her. One of them turned to glare at him. Terri. The one Mandy replaced. Get over it already. Like Coach says, Get past the past.

“Score yet?” Ramp dropped a meat hook on his shoulder.

Lexie was wailing now.

“What's her problem?” It was the kicker, Patel.

“Drama queen,” said Ramp. “She bought new boobs to get attention and now she got it.”

“Needs a pounding,” said Patel. He was okay, but he was the only Indian on the team and tried too hard to sound like the other guys.

“I need a beer,” said Ramp.

Patel scurried off. I need to get away from all this, thought Matt. Get out of the house, walk home if I have to. He shrugged off Ramp's arm and made his way across the room. But he had lost the sense of where he was. Lexie's dad was a contractor and the house was huge, a maze. Matt passed kids making out and then thought he passed them again.

Patel popped up and pressed a cold can into his hand. “Got you one, too, Matt.”

“Thanks.” It felt good rolled across his forehead.

It took forever to find the door. It was cooler outside. Did he really want to walk? Try Brody again.

“Ready?” The tall girl with the full lips came out of the shadows.

“Thought you left.”

“I was waiting for you.” Her hand on his arm guided him across the lawn.

Her car was on the road, a gray Jetta. She opened the passenger door for him. He strained to see her face. What was her name?

She started the engine, then reached across him to open the glove compartment. Her body was warm and soft on his lap. She rattled a little plastic bottle. “Take
two.” She put the pills in his hand. When he hesitated, she said, “Ibuprofen, remember?”

He washed them down with a gulp of warm beer. His forehead had cooked the can. He turned to thank her but her lips were in the way.

“I have soft hands, too,” she said.