Chapter 28 Luca
Luca
WE’RE MINUTES AWAY from the end of the first quarter in our preseason game against the Raptors, and my defensive coordinator still hasn’t put me in.
I knew Moriarty would get some reps right out of the gate, but I certainly didn’t expect him to play for an entire quarter.
I’m going crazy. Surely, they’ll put me in at the first opportunity during the second quarter.
If they don’t—if they put in the other guy still vying for the same spot as me—I’ll lose my damned mind.
Unfortunately for me, the sloppiness Moriarty exhibited when he first showed up at training camp isn’t apparent now.
On the contrary, Moriarty looks pretty damned close to locked in out there, thanks in part to Chelsea, and he’ll undoubtedly tighten up even more by next week’s regular season opener. Fuck my life.
On the field, Moriarty stuffs the Raptors’ running back, and everyone in the stands roars their approval.
The fans’ volume and intensity tonight doesn’t compare to what they’ll bring next week when they’re cheering for their team in a game that actually counts for something.
But still, they’re obviously pumped for the season to start soon and for their team’s only hero to be wearing black and blue once again.
It’s third down for the Raptors now, thanks to that beastly tackle by Moriarty.
The bad guys need to advance eight yards, or else they’ll have to give up possession of the ball to the good guys yet again.
Everyone on the field lines up, and I’m instantly tipped off by a certain kind of energy and posturing in Moriarty’s stance: He’s read something in the QB’s eyes, I’m betting, and he’s poised and ready to use the intel to his maximum advantage.
I lean forward and find Chelsea standing among the coaches, hoping to exchange a look with her. But she’s staring intently at the action on the field, not at the guy on the bubble standing thirty yards down the sideline.
I return to the game just in time to watch the ball being snapped.
The Raptors’ quarterback steps back into the pocket to set up for a pass.
And that’s when, in a blaze of glory, Moriarty rips past a Raptors offensive lineman and crashes the QB to the ground with a thud before the guy can get rid of the ball.
It’s a monstrous sack by Moriarty, a bone-crusher that results in a huge loss of yards for our opponents.
And, of course, everyone in the stadium who’s rooting for the Mastodons explodes in response.
After getting back slaps and high fives from his teammates, Moriarty jogs off the field as every player involved in the Raptors’ upcoming punt comes on.
As one does after a monstrous triumph like that, Moriarty heads first to his head coach on the sideline for a quick attaboy and helmet pat.
But from there, he heads not to his DC or position coach.
Not to the pack of players vying to congratulate him.
But to Chelsea. And even worse, he heads to her with a beaming smile on his lips.
When Moriarty reaches my girl, he picks her up and swings her around ebulliently in celebration, the same way her brother Nate did before the game earlier. Except that there’s something heated and sexual in the way Jacob’s holding her, if you ask me. Something way too familiar and suggestive.
Murder.
That’s what my body feels urgently called to commit in this moment—a brutal, merciless, gruesome homicide that’s preceded by maximum pain.
But I force myself to stand motionless with my thoughts, stoically pretending murderous rage isn’t throttling me.
Use this as fuel when they finally send you in, Luca, I tell myself, even though I’m now totally stressed they’ll never send me in.
One of our rookie QBs still in the hunt goes in with his offensive teammates, but on his first pass of the drive, the ball is tipped and a Raptor—Jeremy Calhoun!
—grabs the lame-duck ball to secure a chance for the bad guys to try to score once again.
It’s a bad thing for our team as a whole.
But a great thing for Jeremy and his chances of securing a spot on his team’s active roster next week.
“Ninety-Five!” our defensive coordinator shouts as our offensive unit comes off the field. “You’re up, Maguire.”
Thank God. Apparently, that interception by my former college teammate was a great thing for me, too. Except I can’t focus on that right now because all I’m thinking about is the way Moriarty swung Chelsea around like he’s got some kind of ownership over her body.
Breathing hard, I glance toward Chelsea down the sideline so I can lock eyes with her to let her know I’m not happy about the way Moriarty touched her.
Or maybe I’m just looking for some much-needed encouragement or coaching.
A hand signal, perhaps, if I’m lucky. But nope.
Chelsea’s talking to Moriarty about something on her iPad and not paying me any mind.
Trembling with barely contained rage, I strap my helmet on and jog with purpose onto the field with my unit, determined to put the jealousy coursing through me to good use. But as I line up, I feel off. My hands are twitching and my mouth feels dry. My helmet feels weirdly snug.
Come on, Luca. Get your head in the game. Focus.
The ball is snapped by the Raptors’ center, and I get a pretty decent jump off the line.
Charging hard, I punch the tackle’s outside shoulder and keep coming in hot.
And when I see their quarterback reverse out, I turn my shoulder and chase …
only to realize, as the bad guys’ tight end slips past me, I’ve been faked out.
Juked like a goddamned rookie. The result?
A humiliating, twenty-yard gain down the middle for the opposing team, thanks to me. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
It’s the worst mistake of my entire preseason. Actually, I didn’t even do something that stupid in any scrimmage, either. And worst of all, I did it at the worst possible time, when everything’s on the line for not only me but Chelsea, too.
The hometown crowd boos me mercilessly as I line up for the next snap.
It’s a pass play, but I don’t get anywhere near their quarterback, since I get hung up by a block and their QB gets the ball off in jiffy.
One more snap, and I’m chasing after their running back again.
But ultimately, he breaks my tackle, and then two more in the secondary before he hurtles himself into the end zone.
Touch down, Raptors. Mostly thanks to me.
I jog back to the sideline with my helmet unstrapped and my soul on fire, wishing I could turn invisible. Coach Martinez yells something encouraging to me, but I can’t make it out above the loud cacophony of boos from the stands.
“Shake it off,” Coach Martinez says, so I march behind the players and personnel lined up on the sideline to an open space behind them and in front of the fans—a spot where I can pace back and forth while trying to calm myself down.
“De-feeeeec-tive!” a fan in the front row yells at me, a guy in a Raptors jersey, which inspires his buddies sitting next to him down the line to immediately join in and make it a chant.
Assholes. I’d like to see them get out here and try to do better.
One snap and they’d all get killed. Literally.
I flip my trolls the bird with both hands, even though I know it’s a terrible idea, and might even catch me a league fine.
And, unfortunately, the stunt only goads my trolls on to curse me out and chant even more loudly.
“Bye-bye, Defective Maguire!” one of them shouts, so I turn on my cleat and quickly march away.
Defective Maguire.
That’s what people have called me for years now.
Ever since I went in the sixth round of the draft while Levi went in the first, the same way Roman and Marco had before him.
Ever since I didn’t live up to my potential at my first team and immediately got traded in favor of a veteran at my position who’d just gotten released from another team.
I’ve stoically dealt my whole professional career with fans, sportswriters, and talking heads comparing me unfavorably to Roman—and now, Levi, too—for years, so why am I letting those nobodies in the front row get to me now?
“Hey, Ninety-Five.” It’s Moriarty, appearing out of nowhere to block my forward progress.
We haven’t been friendly, obviously, but I’m thinking he’s here as the leader of the team to uncharacteristically encourage me to keep my head up.
That’s the only reason I stop when he appears before me—because, stupidly, I’m thinking he’s going to say something helpful to me.
But, man, am I wrong. With a wicked smile on his sweaty face, Jacob Moriarty looks me straight in the eyes and says, “You’re all everyone talked to me about while I was holding out.
Maguire, Maguire, Maguire. ‘He’s breathing down your neck, Jacob.
Just like in college.’” He grins in menacing fashion.
“And now, the guy who was supposedly gunning for my spot just showed me and the whole world why everyone calls him the Defective Maguire.”
Every cell in my body wants to clock him, but since that’s exactly what he wants me to do, I fist my hands and gnash my teeth and somehow manage to cling to the last shredded fibers of my self-control. “Step aside, Moriarty.”
On the contrary, he takes a step forward, causing his chest pads to bump mine.
“When you’re tossing and turning tonight in an empty bed about that embarrassing rookie mistake you just made, I want you to imagine me fucking Chelsea till she can’t walk tomorrow, because that’s exactly what I’m going to be doing tonight to celebrate my sack and your fuckup. ”
My brain glitches and my vision blurs. As rageful stars fill my eyes, I launch forward and shove Moriarty’s chest with all my might, with the fury and force of a hurricane, and Moriarty stumbles backward a few steps in response.
When he quickly recovers his balance, however, it’s clear he’s now in beast mode.
With a roar, he launches himself at me with fury in his dark eyes, and I meet and exceed his energy by grabbing his face mask to keep his head in place and then punishing him with no-holds-barred punches to the side of his helmet.
Surely my punches are causing more pain to my fist than Moriarty’s head, given that he’s fully protected by hard polycarbonate and foam padding.
But I’m not thinking clearly right now. In fact, I’m out of my head, unleashing weeks of stress, anxiety, and white-hot jealousy, here and now, all at once, onto Jacob Moriarty’s helmet.
In record speed, a gaggle of whistles are blown. Yellow penalty flags go flying. And the next thing I know, my nemesis and I are surrounded by a flurry of black-and-white-striped refs, Mastodon coaches, and players, some of them shouting at me to stop and others physically yanking me back and away.
A ref makes the standard hand signal for unsportsmanlike conduct while shouting my number and crime into his mic for the entire stadium—and everyone watching at home, too—to hear.
“Ninety-Five is disqualified!” he adds with authority, and the entire stadium erupts with cheers at my ejection and boos about my behavior.
Apparently, the Mastodon faithful who’ve come here tonight hoping this season will be different aren’t going to put up with anyone, least of all a linebacker scrub who’s never lived up to his famous last name, attacking their star player.
Of course, there’s no penalty called on Mr. Superstar, even though he’s the one who started it by coming over to taunt me.
The one who bumped my chest and said whatever it took to make me lose control in front of the world.
Nope, Mr. Golden Boy gets to jog back to the sidelines, unbothered, and spend the rest of the game watching the other guy vying for the backup spot taking every remaining rep.
What have I done? I’ve never gotten myself booted out of a fucking game. Not once. And certainly not during fucking preseason. It’s an even worse mistake than all the ones that preceded it.
Flushed and embarrassed underneath my helmet, I stalk angrily toward the tunnel, desperate to get the fuck out of sight. Defective Maguire. Moriarty was right about one thing, anyway: I’ve proved my haters right tonight in front of the entire world.
The thought provokes one last surge of rage inside me, one that compels me to roar, rip off my helmet, and throw it onto the ground just before I step off the field and into the tunnel.
It’s yet another stupid mistake, even more proof that I’m totally out of control.
But who cares about that now, when I’m already done for?
If the point is proving my haters right tonight, I might as well not leave a single shadow of a doubt.
“What the fuck was that, Luca?!” Coach Martinez screams at me. He’s suddenly striding alongside me through the tunnel.
I don’t answer him. There’s no excuse or explanation for anything I’ve done tonight, so there’s nothing to say.
Out of nowhere, Chelsea’s voice comes at me from my other side.
“Luca, what happened?” she yells. “Have you lost your goddamned mind?”
I can’t look at her without breaking down, so I gruffly swing open the door that leads to the locker room and ignore her question.
How could I possibly look into Chelsea’s ocean-blue eyes and attempt an explanation or apology, when there are no words to change what I’ve done? Not only to myself, but to her, too.
When I enter the corridor that leads to the locker room, nobody follows me, thankfully. Which means I’m all by myself when I punch a locker and scream at top of my lungs as the pain in my knuckles reverberates all the way up my arm.
I’ve grown accustomed to me screwing things up for myself. Proving the haters right. Like Chelsea once said to me, self-sabotage is my favorite crutch. Although admittedly I’ve never relied on it quite this spectacularly before.
This time, I’ve taken the sport of self-sabotage to a whole new level, though.
I’ve torpedoed not only my own hopes and dreams, but those of Chelsea, too.
The only woman I’ve ever truly loved. The woman who makes me feel worthy of my goddamned name.
I swear to God, I’ll never fucking forgive myself for it.