Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Four
It was our first game back in San Antonio since the “Jumbotron” incident. We were riding into town sporting a five-and-one record. The early season was going as we’d expected, the reigning Super Bowl champions dominating most opponents at almost every turn. The lone loss came during a game when we’d fumbled the ball, uncharacteristically, four times. Los Angeles had been able to convert three of those fumbles into points, so it was most appropriate to say that we had lost that game more than Los Angeles won. It didn’t matter, though, an L is an L. It was one of the two games Rakell had been at, and we had blown it. At least I’d been able to spend the night with her at her place in L.A., which she was sharing with Vee, her little vulture roommate. It felt like that girl was circling, just waiting for Rakell and me to blow up. I wanted to tell her that wasn’t going to happen—we were the real deal for life—and by the way, I’m not into the bottom-feeder types. I knew that was an asshole thing to think, but something about her didn’t sit right with me.
Rakell had told me a couple of days ago that her filming schedule was too intense to fly to San Antonio for the game. I tried to cloak the disappointment, burgeoning on ire when I responded. “I understand,” I’d said, adding, “but I need to see you soon.”
The media were like hawks at the games, searching for her because I refused to confirm or deny her presence during interviews. The sportscasters knew; they replayed the video showing me grinning like a six-year-old when I saw her in the stands in L.A., the cameras picking up the exact direction of my eyes, panning to her waving. The cacophony of chatter and questions about her missing so many games started dominating our post-game press conferences. The comments by the media pissed me off. “Probably better for Skyler if she stays away.” “He’s so easily distracted.” “This will run its course, and he’ll move on.”
Plus, I could hear some of the low rumblings from the guys. Coach Easton said I needed to make it clear that she had a career and couldn’t be expected to be in the stands for every game. The Condor fans, especially the women, had a thing or two to say about that on social media. I didn’t say shit, but I kind of agreed with them. We’d shouted out to the world that we were a couple, so the public was keen on what was going on in our relationship. I mean, her career was just in the beginning of taking off. I was already a Super Bowl champion, so it seemed like a no-brainer that my girl would be there, cheering me on. The irony is that the other women in my life, my sisters, Delilah and my mom, were all standing up for Rakell, and I just had to sit there and nod. Like, of course, her career was equally as important as mine. But was it? I had the capability of taking care of her and our future family in a way she might never attain in Hollywood, certainly not without giving up a lot, herself in some ways. That scared the hell out of me.
She’d already warned me that this movie she would be starring in was highly sexual. She’d given me a bit more detail about some of the scenes while riding my cock. It all played out in my head as a fantasy. I was definitely aroused by her saucy descriptions wrapped up in that honeyed Georgia accent. That made my cock leak precum after only a couple sentences had oozed from her lips, as she fluttered her lashes, hoisting herself on top of me. She’d ask if I would rehearse with her, if I would be her stand-in, just as she’d arch her ass back and slide her pussy down on my begging dick. Nothing mattered at that point. I had thought the role was a perfect fit until the desolate weeks lingered on and we were only connected by fragments of conversations, Rakell dozing off between greetings and rundowns of our days. My mind would reel back to some of her descriptions without the cushion of her body on mine, and my mental space darkened. Her engaging in sexual scenes on the big screen seemed to be on a continuous loop in my head. I needed to shove those thoughts into the back of my brain so I could do my job.
We won the toss and chose to receive it. As if to send a message, the first play from scrimmage had been designed for Dwayne. Lining up just inside the sideline, he ran ten yards, then quickly dashed midfield. I pump-faked the ball so the cornerback thought he had an easy read on the play, jumping ahead of Dwayne. As soon as the cornerback took a step forward, Dwayne reversed back toward the sidelines, blasting past the guy. It all happened in the blink of an eye. The cornerback reversed course, but it was too late. Dwayne was two full steps beyond him with momentum. I anticipated this as soon as the cornerback’s body belied him, tipping me off that he had bought the fake. Waiting just long enough for Dwayne to put a small distance between himself and the defender, I lofted a pass far enough that only Dwayne could get to. He caught it in stride, racing down the field for forty yards. Damn, that would have been a touchdown, except for the heads-up play of the safety, who cut Dwayne off, preventing our score.
The Lone Stars got smart in the next play and started double-teaming Dwayne. I read their strategy and answered with one they were not expecting. We’ve got more than one trick up our sleeves, boys! The following play was designed for Jaxton, who’d lined up just inside Dwayne and was running a crossing route. I hit him with a pass over the middle downfield for a gain of fifteen yards. Message sent. You can’t contain us. A few running plays later, we were facing a third and two. Everyone knew it was going to either Dwayne or Jaxton, so I found our tight end wide open in the end zone for a touchdown.
San Antonio wasn’t able to generate any offense on their first possession and was forced to punt after three plays. We traded punts with the Lone Stars for each of the next few possessions. Ten minutes into the quarter, with Dwayne locked down in double coverage, Jaxton repeated the same route he’d run on the game's second play. I faked the ball in what looked like the same play, so the defense would think they were prepared for what was coming, collapsing on the point where the ball had gone last time. As I lifted my arm in a pump fake, Jaxton took off faster, sprinting past his defender then landing himself in the open flat, where I could drop the ball on a dime—right into his hands. Jaxton scampered toward the sidelines in a footrace with the same safety who’d cut Dwayne off on the first play of the game. The safety chased Jaxton out of bounds for a thirty-yard gain. As Jaxton got to the sideline, obviously headed out of bounds, the safety gave him a barely legal shove. Jaxton turned to react, but our guys were there to congratulate him, defusing the situation before it could get out of hand. We were within field goal range, and after three running plays yielding only six yards, we settled for a field goal. The scoreboard read: Condors 10, Lone Stars 0.
The second quarter turned into a defensive grind, the Condors and the Lone Stars trading mostly three and outs. Both teams occasionally got a first down, but neither team was able to muster more than a single first down in any series of plays. The only offense that made any headway was generated when a Lone Stars’ defensive lineman forced a fumble from one of our running backs deep in our territory. The Lone Stars couldn’t eke out a first down but came away with a field goal. Going into halftime, we were leading 10-3.
The beginning of the third quarter started with San Antonio receiving the ball. We were able to shut them down, which resulted in another three and out for the Lone Stars. We were coming out of the half swinging. Dwayne lined up along the left sidelines with Jaxton ready, about six feet to his right. On the snap, both took off like a shot. At ten yards, Dwayne stutter-stepped, then took off again. Fuck, I could tell the Lone Stars’ cornerback was itching, determined not to be fooled again. He stayed on Dwayne, along with the safety. When Dwayne hitched, Jaxton stopped on a dime, pivoting around as he shuffled back two yards. Damn, the kid has good instincts . It was as if all his senses were on overdrive when he was on the field. It was like watching a lion in the wild, shifting at the slightest sound, sight, or movement…he was always on high alert.
The ball was in the air, right where Jaxton expected it to be. He secured it, turning on his heel up-field. Driven by momentum, the cornerback lunged, wrapping his arms around Jaxton’s waist. Reflexively, Jaxton swatted the Lone Stars cornerback's arms away, shrugged him to the ground, and took off. He gained fifteen more yards before being gang-tackled with some “extra” punching to knock away the ball lodged in Jaxton’s arms. A couple of those blows caught Jaxton square in the chest; he aggressively pushed the San Antonio guy off him. Even downfield, I could see Jaxton posturing when he sprung up. He was readying for a fight. By the time Jaxton got to his feet, shaking his head as he sought his prey, our teammates had huddled around him instinctively, ensuring there were no ‘extracurriculars’ while giving him a few “atta boy” pats on the helmet. Toxic energy thrummed from the Lone Stars, sensing they were getting under Jaxton’s skin. Not good kept popping in my head. Not good . I didn’t want them to exploit the vulnerability they had just witnessed. Not good .
Our passing game was clicking. I completed some tough passes on the following three plays to Dwayne, Jaxton, and Grady, the young tight end, respectively, for a collective forty yards. The Lone Stars clearly anticipated that our next play would be a pass, and the middle linebackers began dropping back on the snap. I read this, called an audible, improvised on the line, the guys nodding, readying the switch, so I called two running plays in a row that chewed up another twenty-five yards, leaving us inside the Lone Stars’ five-yard line. Dwayne and Jaxton lined up, the right side a mirror image of the left with Dwayne on the outside and Jaxton on the inside. On the snap, Dwayne beelined inside toward the goalpost while Jaxton headed outside toward the endzone pylon, crisscrossing each other on the field. I was fucking giddy watching the Lone Stars’ defense scramble around like fools. Yes, it worked! I threw a timed bullet to Jaxton just at the pylon for a touchdown. Condors 17, Lone Stars 3. We were back to trading punts for the duration of the quarter.
The Lone Stars had possession of the ball to start the last quarter. They took up where they had left off, not quite able to get their offense in sync, punting after three plays. I could almost taste the win, thinking ahead to the celebratory partying the team would be doing tonight in San Antonio . But hell, I was still tempted to get on a plane to Georgia so I could see her, even if it was only for one night. We took over at our own twenty-five. This time, Dwayne and Jaxton lined up near opposite sidelines. At the snap, Dwayne leapt into a “go” route, twisting and turning downfield, trying to outrun his defenders. My eyes were tracked on Dwayne while on the opposite side of the field, Jaxton halted after ten yards, shifting on his toes, readying himself for a catch. Jaxton’s defender eased back just enough, likely thinking the ball was aimed at Dwayne, so Jaxton took off downfield, sprinting past the defender and gaining three steps on him. Damn, my pass was a little underthrown, but Jaxton had sensed it, edging his momentum back slightly, allowing the defender to catch up, but it was too late. The ball was solidly in Jaxton's grasp for a forty-yard gain. The defender charged toward Jaxton, arms swinging as he pounced, taking Jaxton down—unneeded aggression during the tackle; asshole, get off Jaxton! When he and Jaxton stood, the defender fucking started jawing right in Jaxton’s face.
“Back away, Jaxton, come on buddy, back the hell away”; as I whispered that to myself, catching Dwayne out of the corner of my eye jogging toward the two, Jaxton took the bait, throwing a punch into the San Antonio defender’s chest, in full view of the referee. Damn it , he just got us a penalty for unnecessary roughness, a fifteen-yard penalty. The forty-yard gain became a twenty-five yard gain, damn it .
A penalty like that was deflating for our team. I could feel how it weighed on the guys. Dwayne huddled next to Jaxton, talking to him. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but Dwayne obviously wasn’t happy. Still, he didn’t seem to be chewing the kid out. Take him to task, Dwayne! We don’t do that shit. Furious, I shook my head but kept my mouth shut. I’d discuss it with Dwayne later. I moved on, calling the play Coach sent in, looking to hit our tight end with the ball about eight yards out to get us in good position for a second down. Shoot, it was like I’d telegraphed my intention through my anger, and instead of our tight end making the reception, their middle linebacker intercepted in a dead run, and there was no catching him. I watched his back as he put ever more distance between us and him, scrambling into the end zone. Shit, we were only up 17-10. Damn, we can’t afford to lose momentum now.
And just like that, the negative psychology manifested itself. We couldn’t get anything to kickstart on the next drive, and we went three and out. The Lone Stars were licking their lips; I could tell they tasted blood, marching the ball down the field during their next possession as if we weren’t even on there. The home team crowd was standing, stomping, screaming, and that shit got in my head. I knew better, I was better than this, but that fucking penalty set us back, and I wanted to strangle Jaxton… that piece of trash! We suddenly went from playing like the top team in the league to a junior high team—abysmal. I saw Coach Mark’s face turning beet red as he shifted back on his heels, his eyes darting over to me. I shook my head, shrugging my shoulders, pointing my chin at Jaxton. Fuck, I shouldn’t have done that. Coach Mark would be in my ear about the leader taking the fall. As I watched the Lone Stars march, I noticed Dwayne patiently—and for my taste, too gently—schooling Jaxton. Synapses were popping, my brain was short-circuiting, and my frontal lobe shut down. I wasn’t capable of rational thought. I stormed down the sidelines, straight toward the little twosome, chatting as if that kid hadn’t cost us the goddamn game! I launched into Jaxton, my mouth sputtering, spit spraying in this direction. Minutes later, I couldn’t remember exactly what I’d said, but it was something along the lines of, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Couldn’t you see they were trying to goad you? But you let them anyway?” I only bit out a few verbal jabs before Jaxton lumbered toward me, his fist balling up. I thought, just try it, kid, and that will be the last punch you throw in the NFL. Go back to the fucking trailer park that birthed your ass. Come on kid, one punch . It was as if the screen went blank, and the next scene appeared.
Dwayne positioned himself between me and Jaxton with all the fury of a bull, but not at Jaxton. He puffed up to me, eyes flaming as he signaled for me to back up. Then he lit into me. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? I’m handling this!” His eyes bore into me with a don’t you fucking dare say another word expression before I walked away, my rage still unabated. My head whipped around as I heard the roar radiating from the stands, the fans going mad. My eyes flew to the Jumbotron, and I saw that the Lone Stars had scored another touchdown. Fuck! Now we were tied at 17.
I felt gutted. My rational brain began splintering together what I had just done, the look on Jaxton’s face followed by Dwayne’s fury. I quickly realized that I’d fucked up with Dwayne. I had overstepped on his “territory.” Mentoring Jaxton was his gig, not mine. I owed Dwayne a big apology and a few beers, plus a couple of good single malts for this one.
In what seemed predestined at this point, our offense was about as potent as an eighty-year-old dick without Viagra. We went three and out for the next two possessions. At least our defense held during the Lone Stars’ next possession. On one of the Lone Stars' subsequent possessions, we were able to make it hard on them, make them work for every yard. They barely made their first down each time, but once they got those first downs, they kept on marching. Eventually, they snaked their way down to within field goal range. We held them from the next first down, so they kicked a field goal. And shit, Lone Stars 20, us 17.
On our next possession, we mustered a drive that got us down into Lone Stars’ territory but not field goal range. Since the game had less than three minutes left, we went for it on fourth and sixth. They expected a pass, so we tried a surprise run, but they adjusted fast enough to shut us down. We turned the ball over on downs. The Lone Stars played the “eat-the-clock” game and ran the ball on each successive play. Their running back got eight yards on the first run from scrimmage, so it seemed inevitable they would get the first down. Sure enough, on the next play, they picked up first down. We took a few time-outs during the next set of downs to stop the clock. We prevented the first down, so they had to punt back to us. Their punter kicked the ball inside our ten, and one of their cover guys was able to down it at our six. We had ninety-four yards to go with a minute thirty and one time out. We ran the predictable, safe play, gaining about ten yards per play, and then got out of bounds to stop the clock. They played “soft” to allow these small yardage plays. We needed much bigger chunks of yardage, so we shot down the middle of the field, got fifteen yards, but then had to burn our last timeout. We were at our own forty with forty-five seconds to go. Everything had to go right.
They tightened their coverage, allowing us even fewer “easy” yards. So now we were losing valuable time to gain two and three yards per play. We were facing a fourth and three with thirty seconds to go. We needed those three, or the game was over. We sent the wide receivers a bit farther downfield as a distraction and had the tight end run out four yards and then park himself there. He got to his spot, and I tossed him the ball with a lot of zip. Unfortunately, not enough zip because that same fucking inside linebacker who had intercepted my pass earlier read this play and got there with a big hit just as the ball arrived, preventing our guy from holding on to it. The San Antonio quarterback took a knee for the final play, running out the clock. Game over. The Lone Stars had beat us.
My first thought was, that rookie fucker just lost the game for us. Go back to bumfuck Louisiana, where you came from. Thoughts ping-ponged in my head as my attention went to the Jumbotron, replaying the heated exchange between me and Jaxton and Dwayne’s interference, rage emanating from his body. OH FUCK, I fucked it up with Dwayne, I thought, watching it . I looked like an asshole, and I’m sure the media was reveling in their speculations about my behavior. Screw them, I have to fix this with Dwayne. I jogged off the field, trying to exude the look of a professional, to convey that I’ve already shaken off this loss, we’re ready for the next game . Everyone knows it’s bullshit, but you’re supposed to exude it anyway.
In the locker room, I didn’t see Jaxton, and Dwayne wouldn’t freaking look at me or allow me any audience with him. “Come on,” I hushed, leaning toward him. He put his hand up, looking the other way. “Damn, okay, that’s not how we do stuff, Dee,” I whispered, but his eyes were focused downward. I was getting nothing from him, nothing.
My phone was blowing up when I yanked it out of the locker. A couple of calls had come in from Melissa, then a text from her telling me she was heading back to Austin with Mom and Dad. A few texts came in from Rakell…mostly sympathy. Yeah, you should have been here , I thought, throwing the phone back into the locker and trying to get to the showers before Coach Mark could find me for a lecture. I just needed a drink and for Dwayne to forgive me.