Rushed: A Second Chance Sports Romance (19 page)

* * *

“
A
pril
, can I speak to you in the office?”

“Okay Mr. Larroquette, I'll be right there.” I close the lid on my laptop and go in. We're flying to Vancouver late tonight in fact, giving us a full day to adjust to West Coast time before playing BC in their stadium. I'm going to be glad when this is over, as we go on a two week home stand after that, before our next away game. Two weeks at home sounds heavenly.

I go into the GM's office, and see a grave expression on his face. “Have a seat, April.”

Oh, it must be bad, if he's using my first name. “Okay, sir. Have I done anything . . . wrong?”

“You? No, your work's been fine. I just received a phone call from Baltimore,” Mr. Larroquette says, rubbing at his temples. “Since you and Tyler are seeing each other, I figured I might as well let you both know at the same time. Just a moment.”

Tyler arrives a few seconds later, dressed for a light practice before everyone gets on the plane later this evening. “Hey Mr. L. Coach said you wanted to see me right away?”

“Yes. Have a seat please, Tyler. I was just telling April, about ten minutes ago, I got a phone call from Baltimore.”

“Baltimore? You've got some friends in the States?” Tyler asks, taking a seat. “A hockey friend or something?”

“No. Actually, it was a friend of a friend who called. Mr. Newton, the General Manager of the Baltimore Marauders. Have you been keeping up with League news from the States?”

“Just from Jacksonville. I've got a friend who's a rookie for them, Duncan Hart.”

“Ah, the Wildcats, good team. That's beside the point. Mr. Newton's in a pickle, Tyler. It seems in their most recent game against New York, the Marauders lost both their first and second string quarterbacks to possibly season ending injury. Their second stringer might be back in time for Christmas, but right now the only quarterback he has on his roster is a forty three year old vet who makes Vince look like a sprightly spring chicken. He called me because he wants someone who he can plug into his offense and have a prayer of actually winning some games.”

“What are you saying? He offered me a contract?”

“Scaled rookie minimum. The Americans are on week six of their season, so by their scale, for the rest of the year you'd be paid two hundred and fifty thousand for a rest of the year deal. If you can lead Baltimore to the playoffs, you get a bonus as well.”

That's a lot of money. “Why are you telling me this? We fly to Vancouver this evening, and I didn't expect that you'd be so willing to get rid of me after my charges were dropped.”

The GM sighs, and runs his hand through his hair again. Tyler's right, I think he's rubbing his own bald spot down. “Tyler, back in the eighties the League and Canada had a bit of a problem. You see, they wanted to expand north of the border, and we wanted to expand south. Then there was the whole jumping issue, which had quite a few players jump from Canadian teams to American teams, stiffing us in the process. Lawsuits flew on both sides of the border, and in the nineties, when we wanted to try again expanding south, a deal was struck. Clause Fifty-Four.”

“You and your clauses,” Tyler mumbles, and I have to agree with him. The standard contract is twelve pages long, who can memorize all that boilerplate? Well, who besides Mr. Larroquette? “What's clause fifty-four, and why do you say it like it's in capital letters?”

“Just the way I am. As for Clause Fifty-Four, what it states is that if an American League team is interested in a Canadian League player, they must contact that player's team, and offer a contract through them. In theory, this gives the team a chance to match or beat the offer, but since our entire team's budget is smaller than what even mid-level quarterbacks in the States make in a year, it's mostly a moot point. Also, while not in your contract, the agreement states that the Fighters would be compensated for giving you up as well. It's an additional incentive for teams that are struggling financially or not in playoff contention to push a player down south. The amount Baltimore is offering to compensate the Fighters is impressive.”

“I see,” Tyler says, thinking. “One year deal, you say?”

“Remainder of the season. You light it up down there as well as you've done for us, and you'll be offered a shot with Baltimore or another team for sure, and most likely at a lot more than League minimum.”

Tyler nods, but Mr. L. continues. “I know this may not affect your decision much, but I also have an offer for you. Five years, with the Fighters, with a scaled increase in salary each year. The current CBA with the Player's Association increases the salary cap by a hundred thousand a year, and you'd be given half of that. In three years, you'd be making over half a million a year, and at the end of the deal you'll be making six hundred.”

Mr. L. pulls a one page sheet out of his printer. “Here it is, in writing. It's a tender of offer, already electronically signed by me. It's not a full contract, but the numbers are there.”

“So security with the Fighters, or gamble with the Marauders,” Tyler says quietly, looking down before looking at me, his eyes haunted. I understand, we just talked about this last night, and now we're facing a choice we never expected. “How long do I have to make a decision?”

“Mr. Newton said that he'd like a decision by Sunday. The Marauders would fly you directly from Vancouver if you want, to give you the most time to integrate with their offense. He says they run a nearly identical system to what you played at Western, apparently their offensive coordinator used to work with Coach Bainridge.”

Tyler nods, then looks at me again. I can see what's whirling in his mind, and I swallow the fear in my throat. “It's your dream, Tyler. The League.”

“But I promised you . . .” Tyler says, shaking his head. “Excuse me, everyone, I need to think. Mr. L., if you don't mind, please tell Coach that I need to take a personal day . . . I'll be ready for the flight to Vancouver though.”

Tyler gets up and stops at the doorway. “April . . . I'm sorry. I just need to think.”

“I understand,” I reply, but when he leaves I'm still haunted by the look in his eyes. He's torn, and I understand why. I look at Mr. Larroquette, who looks back at me with compassion. “What do you think, sir?”

“I think that if he didn't love you deeply, he'd have signed the offer from Baltimore even before I got my tender out of my desk. But you need a personal day as well. I'll call the airline, you can catch a flight in the morning to Vancouver, still be there for the game if you like.”

“Thank you sir. I need to go talk to my parents.”

“Go, and drive safely. I'll let Tyler that you're going to London.”

I
sit in the stands
, watching as Vince runs the offense through the last walkthroughs before the team breaks for getting ready to go to Vancouver. The GM came by and told me that April was given the rest of the day off too, and I read her text that said she's going to London to talk with her folks. I'm not trying to be a dick to her, I understand that we just got a hand grenade thrown into our nice, neat little plans, but this is the sort of thing that comes around only once in a lifetime.

Sighing, I pull out my phone. While I don't have everyone's phone number from my old days programmed in, I do have some, and the first call I make is to Western University's Athletic Department, hoping that Coach Bainridge is available.

“Western University Bulldogs, Coach Thibedeau speaking.”

“Coach T? Hi, it's Tyler Paulson.”

“Tyler? Good to hear from you!” Coach T says brightly. “How's life in Canada?”

“Actually, that's what I'm calling about. Is Coach B around?”

“No, he's meeting with the University President. I don't know how much you've kept up, but we're hurting pretty bad this year offensively. Losing you and Duncan both . . . I'm not getting a lot of sleep this season.”

“You guys will adapt, you always do,” I reply. “Listen, do you know anything about Coach B talking to Baltimore?”

“Baltimore? No, but I wouldn't be surprised. Their OC and Coach B used to work together about three-four years before I joined the staff at Western. They still talk once in a while. Hey, you want me to have him give you a call when he can?”

“No . . . you've got your own issues to deal with. You guys going to be bowl eligible at least?”

“Yeah, we've got that, but who knows what else,” he replies. “Seriously Tyler, you okay?”

I like Coach Thibedeau, he's a nice guy, but he's not who I need to talk to right now. “Yeah, I'll be fine. Let me put in another call, I hate to let you go so quick Coach. Good luck Saturday.”

“You too. See you.”

I hang up and kick over to the one other guy I know can give me good advice in this situation. God I hope he's not in practice right now.

The phone rings, three times, then four, and just as I'm about to hang up, the line is picked up. “Yo, this is Duncan.”

“Duncan? Hey man, it's Tyler.”

“Tyler! Holy shit, when I saw a phone number with some strange area code, I didn't know who it was. You're lucky I picked up. I've been screening calls recently.”

“Well, I'm glad your ESP is still working. How're you doing?”

I hear something in Duncan's voice, a continuation of the maturity that I'd started to see last season together. He's become a man, and not just an adult. “I'm busy, but I wouldn't trade this for the world. I'll tell you, being a soon to be father's a great thing. How're you doing?”

“Ah . . . good, I guess. But, well, do you have a few minutes? I could use a sounding board.”

“Sure, I've got a few minutes. Carrie's at the doctors, and I'm just hanging out a little before we start afternoon practice. What's up?”

I take a deep breath and look down at the field, where the guys are running easily through formations and plays, and I wish it were that easy right now, where all I have to focus on is getting ready for Saturday's game against BC.

“I've got a contract offer from Baltimore,” I begin, trying to wrap my mind around it all at once. “League minimum, but that's still a lot of money, almost more than I'd make for the entire season up here.”

“That's great, man. Well, at least until week fourteen, when we play you guys. I'm gonna hate making you look bad then. But I'll be happy to buy you dinner afterward.”

I can't help it. I laugh. That's Duncan. Some things never change. “Yeah well, we knew that could happen. But there's more.”

Duncan's laugh stops, and he grows serious again. “What's up?”

“Well, the Fighters countered with an offer. There's some sort of agreement between the Leagues, they have the chance to at least offer me a counter if they want. Five-year contract, with a scaled pay raise that'd make me one of, if not the highest paid, player in Canada by the end. But more importantly, there's April.”

“How is it going between you two? Your email is short on details, but I figure you're not the kind to share details like that with me. Still, you keep mentioning her, you're forging new territory I think.”

I think back, then laugh. “That's the problem. April’s folks . . . they've got bad health issues. Dad's terminal. So she can’t just up and go with me.”

Duncan inhales sharply, then lets it out in a long shuddering whistle. “Shit, man. That is a tough one. You've got your girl up in Toronto, but then there's Baltimore. The League's been your dream for a long time. That's the thing that brought the two of us together as friends. You and I were always serious about playing pro ball. But this girl, April, you wouldn't be having doubts if it wasn't serious.”

“It's not just that, though. I mean, the Fighters like me. I've got other issues too, apparently I may have gotten two girls pregnant in a drunken blackout, but, yeah, I am having doubts. I mean, half a season with a team on an emergency quarterback situation versus a team that I've helped since the start of the season? And I'm having fun up here. The other night I promised April that I'd take cooking lessons with her during the off-season so that we don't have to do takeout so damn often.”

Duncan's silent for a few seconds, and I wonder if he's thinking or just distracted, but he comes back on, his voice light. “Sounds like Tyler Paulson's in love.”

“I think she’s the one. Hell, she might have always been, but that’s a story for another day.”

Duncan takes a deep breath. “All I can say is, football's not going to last. Even you being a QB, you've got what, ten good years, maybe a little more if you hold up well? All of us are going to be retired by the time we're forty. So it comes down to a really simple choice. April . . . or football. You love them both, but you know . . . football doesn't love us. It's going to use us, give us some money, and if we're lucky, we might get our names on a plaque somewhere, maybe a bronze statuette for the luckiest of us.”

“We knew this when we started looking at pro ball as a career option,” I counter. “Coach B used to lecture me on that all the time. You didn't listen all that well to him, but I guess someone's gotten into your head with that same stuff.”

I look down on the field, where the offense is wrapping up, and the defense is going through their last run-throughs. “Duncan . . . thanks.”

“You're welcome. Hey, in two weeks the Wildcats have a bye, you should give me a shout. Carrie would love to say ‘hi’ and I'll be honest, I'm interested in meeting this girl of yours.”

“All right man, kick some ass this Sunday. I'll admit, I've been a little focused on my own shit up here in Toronto, I haven't kept up with you guys as much as maybe I should.”

“No problem, we'll catch up in the bye week. I hope I was helpful.”

“You were. Thanks. Talk to you later.”

After my phone call with Duncan, I walk down to the locker room, which is mostly empty now that practice is over and most of the guys have headed back to their places to get packed up. We're all supposed to meet back here at the stadium at seven in order to catch a eight o'clock charter flight to Vancouver, where we'll ironically land at eight fifteen local time.

I see Vince in the trainer's office, a sad thing compared to what I had at Western with Coach Taylor, but it's at least got the basics. Vince is using one of them now, an ad-hoc hot bath the team's set up that he's soaking his right hand in. “How's the hand?”

Vince looks up from the tablet he's been reading from, he’s is a voracious reader, and I can usually find him in his down time reading something. Normally he prefers paperbacks, but I guess when you're soaking your hand, you go with the one-handed option. “I'll be fine. Hey, I heard the rumors. A League offer.”

I nod, and take a seat on the training table next to his chair. “Yeah. Big money, multi-million dollar training facilities, no more worrying about potentially playing special teams . . . it
could
be nice.”

“Could?” Vince asks, raising an eyebrow. “You're thinking of not taking the offer?”

I nod. “Yeah, I'm thinking of taking the Fighters' counteroffer instead.”

Vince nods, and stirs his hand in the warm water. “You know if you turn them down, you might not get another chance. There's always some hotshot coming out of uni who can generate buzz for a team.”

“I know,” I reply. “I mean, for every Moon or Flutie, there's ten guys like DeAndre or Hawk who never go back down.”

I sit for a little while longer, thinking. “You've played a long time here in Canada, Vince. Did you ever get a shot down in the States?”

Vince nods. “Had a few teams come sniffing around in my first three years, and one more time when I'd been playing ten years. Training camp invites, and that last one was like what you've got now, an emergency fill in, but they were willing to pay me the veteran minimum for the time I would play for them.”

“You never took the offer?”

Vince shakes his head. “Never. Not without a few regrets. The first few times, I was arrogant, thinking that I deserved a guaranteed contract at least, a no-cut clause or something, and turned them down that way. The last one though, I'd already set down roots here. My son was four, and I knew the contract wouldn't be renewed. It made financial sense to play out the rest of my contract up here.”

“Do you ever regret it?”

Vince goes quiet for a moment, then shrugs. “Yes and no. Sure, it'd have been nice to really measure myself against the best in the world. There's a part of me that would love to have played in the Super Bowl. But I have played in three North Cups, and won one as a backup. I have the ring back at home, it sits on my mantle. And I've had a good career up here, with a slot coaching next year. In fact, if you stick around, I'll be coaching you officially, Coach Blanchard already told me that I'm to be the next OC for the Fighters. He wants to focus on the overall team, and need to give some more time to the defense after the shit storm that they've been this season. But yes, Tyler, if you're asking . . . there are going to be nights like tonight at the hotel in Vancouver where I'm going to be playing the what-if game with myself. I know I can't any longer, but what if? Could I have hung in there with the guys? Even if just for half a season, could I have lit up the scoreboard the way you are up here? I don't know, but sometimes, on the cold nights or the away games, I wonder.”

I nod, stroking my chin. “All right. Thanks for the talk, Vince. Listen, I'm going to head back to my apartment, get my stuff together. I'll see you back here for the airport bus.”

“See you there, Tyler. Good luck with your decision.”