Chapter Thirteen
Naked Bootleg
Today has been grueling for everyone on the team.
Dondre Griffin sprained his hamstring, then it started to rain, and then we got the new weather report that suggests thunderstorms might be coming this way.
The possibility of storms won't stop us.
We can always find a place to shelter until the severe weather moves on.
But that's football for you. Rain or shine or apocalypse, we push forward.
I glance across the field where Coach Hernandez is huddled with the training staff around Dondre.
His face is twisted in that certain way athletes have when they're struggling to convince everyone they're fine while simultaneously experiencing terrible pain.
Been there, done that, got the physical therapy bills to prove it.
"Do you think he'll be out long?" Jensen asks, coming up beside me in his silent-ninja way.
I shrug, watching dark clouds roll in over the practice facility. "Hamstrings are tricky. Could be a week, could be six. Depends how bad he pushed it."
The Devils would love nothing more than for one of our star receivers to get sidelined for our matchup next week.
The Devils-Bigfoots rivalry has been even more bitter since the league expansion back in the '80s.
Nothing gets Devils fans more excited than beating us on our home turf, and nothing makes our fans happier than watching the Devils slink back to Kentucky with their tails between their legs.
Jensen nods toward Hernandez. "Coach seems worried. That vein in his forehead is popping again."
I squint through the intensifying drizzle. "That's his 'I'm about to restructure the entire offensive line two days before a game' vein. We're screwed."
A crack of thunder in the distance makes half the team flinch. I've played through worse, but I keep glancing at the sky as if it's about to unleash Armageddon. The clouds have turned a sickly green-gray that screams tornado weather in this part of the country.
"All right, listen up!" Coach Hernandez shouts, his voice booms across the field, hands cupped around his mouth. "We're calling it! Everyone inside NOW! Storm's coming in faster than predicted!"
Everybody leaps into action. We hustle toward the facility entrance as the sky darkens even more. Fat raindrops begin pelting us, and I can feel the electricity---that weird, charged sensation right before a major storm hits.
"Hannigan!" Coach barks as I jog past. "Need you in my office once you're dried off."
Fantastic. Just what I need after a shit practice.
I give him a quick nod and continue inside where everyone is dripping puddles on the floor.
In the locker room, the mood is somber. Dondre sits with an ice pack strapped to his leg while our head trainer, Marcus, examines him.
My teammates peel their wet practice gear off and quietly discuss the storm, and Dondre's injury too.
I can already feel a tension headache forming behind my eyes.
If Dondre's out for our game against the Devils, we'll need to completely rework our passing routes.
I grab a towel and run it over my hair, watching as Jensen does the same at the locker next to mine.
"Twenty bucks says Coach is about to move you to Dondre's position," Jensen says.
"Emerson's been practicing those routes all season as backup."
"Yeah, but he doesn't have your hands."
Another crack of thunder vibrates through the building, louder this time. The lights flicker ominously, and Coach Sullivan pokes his head in to inform us that the weather service has issued a tornado warning for the county.
"Just stay put until further notice," he announces. "We're keeping an eye on the radar."
"That's reassuring," I mutter, pulling a dry shirt over my head. "Because being trapped in a locker room with thirty sweaty guys during a tornado is exactly how I planned to spend my Tuesday."
Jensen snorts. "Could be worse. Remember when we got snowed in at that motel in Buffalo? Stan's snoring nearly drove us to homicide."
"Don't remind me." I wince at the memory. "I'd rather face the tornado."
I finish changing quickly, knowing Coach Hernandez isn't the patient type. Outside the windows, the sky has turned an eerie shade of charcoal. Rain lashes against the glass in horizontal sheets, and the wind has picked up enough to bend the young trees near the parking lot at alarming angles.
"Mike!" Alonzo shouts from across the room. "Dondre wants a word with you."
I head over, wondering if Dondre's trying to get ahead of the inevitable roster shuffle. He's sprawled on the bench, looking miserable as Alonzo adjusts the ice pack.
"How bad is it?" I ask, dropping onto the bench across from him.
"Bad enough," Dondre says through gritted teeth. "Doc says I'm looking at three weeks minimum."
"Shit." I run a hand over my face. "Devils game?"
"No chance in hell."
The lights flicker again, and someone in the back lets out an exaggerated ghost noise that earns a few nervous laughs. Outside, the rain sounds like someone's throwing buckets of water at the building.
"Coach is gonna move you to my routes," Dondre tells me, confirming Jensen's prediction. "You've got the hands for it."
I force a laugh, trying to hide my panic. "You're giving me way too much credit. My hands are nowhere near yours."
"Bullshit. I've seen you in practice." Dondre winces as Alonzo adjusts the ice pack again. "Coach knows it too."
The lights flicker again, for longer this time, and for a second we're plunged into darkness before the emergency generators kick in. Awesome. Now I can have a career-altering conversation in mood lighting.
"Listen," I begin, lowering my voice, "I haven't run your routes in actual game situations. The Devils' secondary is no joke. They've got Blackwell reading patterns like he's psychic."
"Which is exactly why Coach wants you. You're unpredictable." Dondre tries to shift his position and grimaces. "Emerson's technically perfect, but he's predictable. Come on, man, we need you."
I can't say no to that. Dondre's an incredible player and an amazing friend. Of course I'll do this for him. "Okay, I'm in."
"Thanks, Mike."
"No problem." I wince. "Guys, I need to hit the head. Back in a few."
Emerson smirks at me. "Just don't touch anything metal. A fried QB is no good to us."
I roll my eyes and jog toward the restrooms. The moment I've done what I needed to do, my phone alerts me to a new text. It's from Regan.
Stuck at the stadium. Tornado warning. You OK?
I smile at my phone. Regan has become the check-in type lately, even when we're only doing...whatever we've been doing for a few weeks. I quickly type back: Safe and dry. Sort of. You?
The three dots appear immediately, then: At the rink with Bohdan. He's making me practice my camel spins despite the apocalypse outside. Says tornados can't stop figure skaters.
I chuckle under my breath. Classic Bohdan Fedorenko. The Ukrainian figure skating coach treats weather emergencies as minor inconveniences. Regan is at an indoor rink, but twisters don't give a damn about the weather. So, I type, Hide inside a bathroom or tornado shelter if there is one.
Her next message says: Don't be such an old lady, Hannigan. Skaters eat QBs for lunch.
You've got it backwards. I ate you, sunshine.
I'm just coming back from the head when my teammates start whistling and whooping. "What in the world is up with you guys? Sounds like you're praying for a tornado."
"No, we're looking at the radar," Jensen calls out. "This sucker missed us by country mile."
My brows lift. "Seriously? Guess our team is blessed."
"Coach wants you," Emerson reminds me, jerking his thumb toward the door.
Right. I'd almost forgotten about that summons with all the tornado drama.
I pocket my phone and jog toward Hernandez's office, passing the training room where Alonzo is now wrapping Dondre's leg with more serious-looking equipment than just an ice pack.
The hallway to the coaches' offices is eerily quiet compared to the locker-room chaos.
Through the windows, the sun begins to peek out.
I've played through my fair share of dangerous weather, but at least the worst missed us this time.
Coach Hernandez's door is ajar, and I can hear him on the phone, his voice tense as he barks something about "adjustments" and "contingency plans." I knock twice on the door frame. He waves me in without glancing up, still barking into the phone.
"Yeah, I know what Blackwell can do," Coach says into the phone, rubbing his forehead. "We'll adjust. I got my guy." He glances up at me. "Gotta go. We'll talk later."
Coach hangs up and fixes me with his laser-focused stare that makes rookies wet themselves.
"How's Dondre?" I ask.
"Three weeks at minimum. He's out for the Devils game."