Chapter Thirty-Three Atlanta
Piper lost the game in the first quarter.
He knew it before the scoreboard did. Somewhere around the third series, when a route he had run ten thousand times came open late and his arm didn’t move. His body was on the field. The rest of him was not.
His ribs, which he had failed to properly treat, were acting up. The pain was intense and came in consistent waves throughout the game.
Atlanta scored a touchdown on their third drive. Then their fourth. Then again on their fifth.
Tank found Piper on the sideline and just sat next to him. Tank knew. Tank couldn’t catch Piper’s throws today, they all came from someone who was not Piper.
Halftime came like a dagger to the heart. Score: Atlanta 21, L.A. 0.
***
Piper sat in the locker room and drank a Gatorade and didn’t listen to the coordinator.
The coordinator said they were going to open the second half with something unexpected. Piper nodded in place, completely failing to hear what the unexpected play even was. He was not there, Joan was not there. What remained was a numb abyss.
They opened the second half with the unexpected play that Piper failed to execute.
Atlanta ran the ball twelve times in the third quarter. Each one gained minimal yards, but kept Piper off the field.
By the time the fourth quarter started, the scoreboard said 28-0 and the Atlanta crowd had moved into the strange late-game politeness of a home crowd feeling sorry for the opposing team.
Piper took his final snap with six minutes left.
Short pass. Complete for three. The drive died two plays later when he threw a ball to a receiver who was not there, not a misread, a miscount; he had released to a spot where Tank was supposed to be, he thought, but Tank was on the opposite side of the field waving for Piper to throw him the fucking ball.
The backup quarterback came in for the last three minutes. Piper sat on the bench with his helmet on the ground beside him and watched Atlanta kneel it out. Final score: Atlanta 28, L.A. 0.
Piper sleep walked to the handshake line.
He was crossing midfield on autopilot, helmet in one hand, getting ready to be destroyed by the media, when a player from the other team broke off from his own line and came toward Piper directly instead of drifting past in the usual way. It was Jordan Matthews.
Piper knew him as a first-round tight end out of Georgia the previous year, six-five, all solid muscle, one of the three or four guys in the league whose tape Piper had pulled because the film was so interesting.
He had never talked to him, because they had never been on a field together before today.
Jordan had caught eight balls for a hundred in Atlanta’s win against L.A.
It was part of why the score was what it was. That and the ruin of Piper Ashton.
Piper figured he and Jordan won that game for Atlanta.
The eyes were the first thing anyone noticed on him, a startling beautiful green.
Jordan was smiling at Piper.
“Ashton.”
“Matthews.”
Jordan held his hand out as Piper approached to greet him.
“You looked off today,” Jordan said.
“I was off as fuck today, thanks for the confirmation.”
“I’ve watched you my whole career. That wasn’t you.”
“Well.” Piper pulled his hand back. “It was me today, possibly possessed by some demon who fucking sucks at football.”
Jordan laughed. “That’s funny, who knew you were funny?”
Players were moving past them on both sides, the line thinning, coaches starting to wave their guys toward the tunnel.
“Are you staying in town tonight?”
Piper looked at him.
“Team hotel.”
“Which one?”
“St. Regis.”
“You know...” Jordan was still smiling.
Joan is this dude fucking flirting with me? Piper’s hungover thoughts entered the field.
“I live twenty minutes from here. If your night goes sideways, I’ll send you the address. You seem like you need a couple drinks after that bagel.”
“This day can’t go anymore sideways.”
“Haha. All good Ashton. You still have that game in Seattle everyone is talking about. Also, nice underwear campaign by the way, looking good half naked.”
He held Piper’s eyes for a moment, the green was doing something different this time and Piper could not stop staring. He knew he had been looking for too long. Jordan knew it too. Jordan stepped aside.
“See ya, Ashton, hang in there, Babygirl.” Jordan smiled with a light, comforting laugh.
Babygirl? Joan, who is this guy talking about? Am I now the older, uptight mess needing a young corruptor?
Jordan jogged off toward his sideline without looking back. Piper stood at midfield with his helmet still in his hand.
I lost my boyfriend and the game in twenty-four hours. What else could I lose?
Tank was waiting for him.
“What did the green-eyed dude want?”
“It was a handshake, Tank.”
“Uh-huh.”
Tank had nothing to add. He waited until Piper was next to him and then walked beside him and they went down the tunnel together with the crowd essentially gone and the scoreboard still reading 28-0, and if Tank had opinions about the handshake, he kept them.
Piper showered at the facility. He did not do any postgame press. He would be fined, and he was okay with that.
He put on a plain black James Perse T-shirt and jeans and took a car from the facility to the hotel, and when he pulled up, Tank was waiting at the valet stand.
“My mom’s place. Six. I told her you were coming.”
“I don’t want to. Nobody wants to see me after that performance.”
“I know. Come anyway. They all love you today, you won that game for Atlanta.” Tank laughed.
“Shut the fuck up, Tank,” Piper shot back. “Haven’t I been through enough today?”
***
Tank’s parents lived in a house in the Atlanta suburb of Buckhead.
The front door was open when they arrived.
The smell of something slow-cooked and peppery came from the kitchen.
A television was on in the living room and he could hear his name coming out of a sports analyst’s mouth.
Tank’s aunt called from the kitchen, “Edgar, get over here, it's been forever.”
Piper realized that Edgar was Tank.
“Edgar?” he said.
“Shut up, she is the only one that calls me that. You did not hear that,” Tank said.
“Your aunt calls you Edgar.”
“My mother named me Edgar. Do not take this information outside of this house or I will fucking end your career.”
“Noted,” Piper replied.
Tank’s mother came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. She was smaller than Tank by several feet, and she hugged Piper, then she held him at arm’s length and looked at him.
“You look thin,” she said.
“I’m not thin.”
“You look thin. Come eat.”
She turned and walked back toward the kitchen. Tank tilted his head after her in the universal gesture that meant go and Piper went.
Dinner was on a long table in a dining room, cleared for the occasion.
The whole family was there. Tank and his mother.
Tank’s father said grace. A cousin Piper didn’t catch the name of who was visiting from Savannah.
Tank’s godson, who had been promised he could ask Piper any football question he wanted and was strategizing.
And, at the end of the table near the window, a young man in a gray sweatshirt who had come in late from upstairs and had slid into the last chair with a brief nod to Piper.
“You know Jamal,” Tank said. “My brother.”
“Nice to see you again.”
Jamal nodded again.
The table did not quite absorb him. Piper noticed it immediately, not because anyone was rude to Jamal, but because of the small adjustments that were being made around him.
Tank’s mother didn’t pass him the rolls without being asked.
The father looked past him when he spoke.
The aunt from Savannah had clearly been briefed on who she could and could not ask questions of, because she asked Tank about failure to catch a ball that day, she asked Piper about his failure to throw a ball that day, she asked the godson about school, and she did not ask Jamal about anything. Jamal just sat there and ate.
After a while, Tank’s mother asked Piper about his mother, Donna Ashton.
Piper gave the answer he gave everyone about Donna.
“Oh you know, she is traveling the world.” Tank’s mother turned to Tank’s aunt, and under her breath said.
“Girl, you know Donna Ashton from that reality show, right?” Tank’s aunt turned her eyes down to the table, “that messy bitch,” she whispered but Piper could clearly hear her.
He was used to these conversations about his mother and her history of antics, so this was no surprise.
The godson was allowed his question during dessert.
“When you throw a deep ball,” the godson said, “do you look at the receiver, or do you look at where the receiver is going to be?”
“Where he’s going to be.”
“How do you know where he’s going to be?”
“Because we practiced it a thousand times,” Piper replied.
“So you’re not guessing?”
“No. It looks like guessing. It isn’t guessing.”
“Cool,” the godson said.
Piper caught Jamal smiling, barely, at the end of the table. It was the first expression he had given the room. Piper smiled back, small, and Jamal looked down at his plate.
***
Tank walked Piper out to his rental car at nine.
Tank lit a Marlboro Red cigarette he was not supposed to be smoking during the season.
Piper looked at the cigarette. “Give me a fucking cigarette.”
Tank rolled his eyes, “When did you start smoking during the season?”
“After today’s crash out,” Piper said as Tank lit his cigarette.
Piper took a drag that hit hard through his lungs, and as he blew out the smoke said, “Your brother.”
“Yeah.”
“Something going on there?”
Tank took a long drag and blew the smoke up toward the porch light.
“Yeah.”
Tank didn’t say anything else for a while.
“When you’re ready to hear about it,” Tank said finally, “I’ll tell you about it.”
“Okay.”
“Not tonight.”
“Okay.”
Tank looked at him then. “Piper.”
“Ya?”
“It’s all gonna be good in the end,” Tank smiled as he gave Piper a hug goodbye.
***
On the way out of Buckhead, his phone buzzed. A number he didn’t recognize, 1007 Peachtree Crest Drive. Gate Code 6777. No pressure, babygirl. J.
Piper read it twice and then headed back to the St. Regis. He let the silence answer the text.
He went to his room. He lay on top of the covers in his clothes and looked at the ceiling until he fell asleep, his body had nothing left to give.