City of Champions (5 page)

"Stop being so dramatic. It'll be fun, and that's what you need more than anything else. You've been too mopey lately. Besides the idea is already planted in my brain. You can't dig it out. Just let the magic happen."

Jenna frowned at her before turning back to the game. Aubrey screamed in delight at the sight of Denver's running back pushing his body into the end zone and winning the game.

A few moments later McCoy walked into the tunnel in defeat. His frustrated face filled the multiple TV screens in the box, as he stopped to sign a few autographs. Then he disappeared, his head hanging low. Jenna felt a peculiar sensation of sadness and disappointment on his behalf that she couldn't seem to shake.

"Griffen! What's up? Did you guys enjoy the box?" Griffen's friend, Tom Wilkins, the Assistant GM of the Pittsburgh Roughnecks, asked, his voice booming from the front of the luxury stadium suite and jarring Jenna back into the moment.

"It was great, Tom. Thanks so much for setting this up for us," Griffen answered cheerfully.

"I wish I could've also provided a win for you guys. That loss was brutal."

"So true. It seemed like McCoy spent more time on his butt than actually throwing the ball."

"Don't remind me. If you weren't a journalist I'd really loosen my lips on that."

"Oh, come on, I'm more of a writer than a journalist these days."

"Still too much of a reporter for my taste," Tom said, with a laugh.

"Guilty as charged. Well, thanks for the box either way," Griffen responded.

"No, thank
you
," Tom answered, with a smile. "The second I heard Nicky, I mean
Griffen
Tate, of all people, was back in Pittsburgh and settled down, I moved heaven and earth to get you in here."

"Yeah, I have so many people I need to catch up with, but you moved way up in priority with this spread, Tom," Griffen said, smacking his friend's shoulder with his open right hand in that ridiculous way that men do.

"Yes, thank you, it was so nice of you to let us use it," Tea added.

"Tom, this is Althea, my girlfriend, and her son, Johnny," Griffen said proudly, wrapping one arm around Tea and placing his other hand on Johnny's shoulder.

Jenna lurked back, watching the scene quietly.

"Eavesdrop much, Jenna?" Aubrey whispered in her ear, making her jump.

"It's not really eavesdropping if nobody minds you listening, Brey," Jenna answered.

"I guess that's true enough. It's still weird to hear Griffen call Tea his girlfriend, isn't it?"

"It will definitely take some getting used to, and soon he could be calling her his fiancée…"

They both peeked at the happy little almost family, watching as Griffen pulled Tea close to him. Ever since they took their relationship public, it seemed he always had to be touching her in some way as much as possible.

"If they weren't so deliriously happy and good for each other, it would probably all be pretty nauseating," Jenna mumbled, gasping a little when she realized she'd said it out loud.

Maybe Brey would let that slide? Right, fat chance,
she thought.

"Rawr, girl, you
are
in a foul mood. I love it," Aubrey teased, making little claw gestures that Jenna swatted away with more force than the situation likely demanded.

"I can't believe he's going to wait another couple of days until Light Up Night to propose. That ring is burning a hole in his pocket. Is that why you're listening in? To see if he proposes to her next to the bowl of chips over there?"

"No. You're so silly, Brey. I was just hoping for a chance to introduce myself to Tom." Tom was one of the members of the Roughnecks’ staff that she hadn't worked with before. He was the Assistant GM and that would certainly mean something to Richard.

"You'll have plenty of chances to talk to Tom on our way to meet Wyatt McCoy."

Jenna gave Aubrey a withering look. She followed Aubrey over to the rest of the group and plastered a great big smile on her face as they finished their conversation.

"I hope you had a nice time, too?" Tom asked Tea.

"I did. Thank you again, Tom," Tea answered, honestly looking happy and relaxed in her own skin in a way that filled Jenna's heart with joy.

"So this little man is your son?" Tom asked, crouching down to be eye to eye with Johnny.

Tea's son was wired for sound after the game and Jenna was shocked that he had been so obediently waiting through this boring adult conversation without interrupting.

"Yes," she answered.

"He's Tea's son with Jack Taylor," Griffen added, looking uneasy for a moment, but quickly returning to his usual confident air.

Tom stood and looked Tea in the eyes.

"Um, I wanted to say…I went to high school with Griffen and Jack back in the day. Jack was a hell of a guy. It is such a shame what happened to him."

"Thank you for saying that. He was," Tea choked out. The sadness flashing suddenly across her previously happy face sent a shot of pain through Jenna.

She couldn't help but reach out to touch Tea's arm when she heard the catch in her throat. Griffen's love and attention may have brought Tea back to life, but Jenna suspected the ghosts of Tea's grief and pain were still waiting in the wings.

Jenna understood the power of that constant pain all too well — from the rare times when she indulged herself to reflect on her own tragic memories.

"I didn't want to upset you. I'm sorry," Tom blurted out, quickly.

"Oh, no, I'm fine, Tom. Don't be silly," Tea took a deep breath and schooled her face into a smile, "let me introduce you to our friends, Aubrey and Jenna."

Griffen quickly spoke up, "Jenna's a resident with
UPMC's
department of orthopedic surgery. She's worked with some of your players. They know her as Dr. Sutherland."

"That's great! What a small world." Tom said with a smile, shaking her hand, then Aubrey's. Jenna made sure to look over at Griffen and mouth a silent thank you to him.

"It's a pleasure to meet you Tom," Jenna said, deliberately hiding her exhaustion from the day behind a professional smile. "This has been a great evening. Johnny especially loved it. He plays quarterback."

"Griffen mentioned it." Tom smiled and glanced at his watch, adding, "In that case, let's get going. I didn't realize so much time has passed. I figure Griffen told you already, that I lined it up so you all can meet a few of the players. They should already be waiting for us. We can use the private elevator over here."

"Come on Jenna," Aubrey whispered to her deviously, "I can't wait to get this tour started." Jenna could only roll her eyes and fall in line with the rest of them.

CHAPTER TWO

Pressing his large left hand against the cool shower tiles, Wyatt allowed his tired eyes to close and gently bent his head, leaning his warm forehead against the smooth porcelain.

Warm jets of water sprayed over his chestnut brown hair, down the contours of his face and along the ridges of the screaming muscles in his chest and arms, before finally traversing the length of his legs, only to disappear in a swirl down the drain near his aching feet.

Every part of his mind and body was suffused with anger and frustration, so intense they rivaled the tangible pain pulsating from his right shoulder. With each new rush of water, he tried to imagine that the last four hours of his life, with all the failures and brutal hits they had entailed, were hitching a ride with that cleansing liquid and leaving him forever.

Yet, he found no such relief.

Instead, every time he let his mind wander, it went right back to replaying each of the three bone-crushing sacks he'd taken during the game. No matter how much he wanted to think of the few plays that went his way, the hulking force of each mistake and delayed movement immediately eclipsed those successes, until Wyatt felt so furious he had to slap his resting hand hard against the wall.

There was no denying — at least not to himself — that his right shoulder was killing him. He'd taken time to ice it down with the trainers, but the pain was still there. In fact, the only thing hurting worse than his body was his pride.

He'd played this game since his hands were barely large enough to pick up a football. Recently he felt like he'd never set foot on a field before, never called a play, and certainly never been able to win a game. His mouth turned up in a sneer as he imagined all the media experts ripping him apart the next day.

Even though his team was still hovering around having as many wins as losses, lately it felt like the day after every game was the same. So much so, Wyatt believed he could write the headlines himself by now.

They would probably go something like:

Monday Night Football — the biggest stage you can have in the season before the play-offs — and Wyatt McCoy fell right off the edge.

A football prodigy, with the DNA to match, McCoy still can't seem to hit his stride in Pittsburgh, even after almost two seasons. By this time in his career, his father, the great Jim McCoy, already had two Super Bowl rings. This second coming of the McCoy line has no championships to show for himself, but he does come with a ton of red flags.

Then, of course, there'd be the commentary on
ESPN
.

SportsCenter
would probably try to be clever while they made every effort to tear apart his performance.

The same impulsive behavior and surly attitude that plagued Gunslinger McCoy in Dallas has followed him to the Steel City
.
This gunslinger looked less Wyatt Earp and a lot more Elmer Fudd. He's far from the success and adoration he enjoyed back in Texas — the site of his childhood home and college glory. After almost two years in a city used to winning — the City of Champions — he's starting to look a little lost.

Ironically, Wyatt's plan was to eventually become one of those annoying talking heads himself — not for the love of the game or of talking about it, but for the pursuit of his own obsessive need to provide security for him and his family. The career of an NFL quarterback, and the salary that came with it, was just a tiny speed bump in the long road of one’s lifetime. When his body was too broken and old to throw a ball or evade a tackle, Wyatt needed to be ready with a Plan B, maybe even a Plan C or D. Hopefully with his brain not too broken and battered after all the pounding years on the gridiron.

Because the sports commentary that scared him the most was the one that tormented him relentlessly in his own mind:

Where do I go from here? What security can I achieve if I can't stay on the field? Every plan I've ever had has relied on being out there playing the game…on being a starting quarterback for a lot longer than these measly nine seasons…on bringing a championship to a team at some point in my life.

With a sigh and admission to himself that he was unable to delay facing reality again for another moment, Wyatt rinsed off the last bit of soap from his body and turned off the water. Stepping out of the shower into the locker room, it seemed that every step he took hurt his aching body that much more.

The nearly empty locker room gave him a small moment of relief. He'd taken time with the trainers and an extra long shower in the hope that he could wait out the press and their annoying questions, and it looked like he'd succeeded.

As Wyatt sat on the wooden bench and awkwardly dried his hair with the towel in his left hand, he gingerly pulled his button-down shirt and slacks out of his locker with his other hand.

He was working on some modeling gigs. The guys ribbed him constantly about it, but the money was great, and the free clothes were even better. It meant he didn't get to bum around in sweats like some of the other players, but it was worth it — one more step in his plan to take care of his abuela, mother, and sister as long as he could.

Everyone loved his dad, Jim McCoy, or at least the image of him they'd been able to see. They didn't know that the man had blown it all and left his family with nothing. Wyatt would make no such mistake.

Even so, Wyatt was unable to shake the feeling that his whole career was turning into
an unforgiving mass of promised triumph. Now in his ninth professional season and on his second team, it was all starting to feel to him like he'd built his career around a whole lot of
"almost was"
and
"never will be."

The thought caused rage to bubble in Wyatt's stomach and he slammed shut his locker door in frustration. The fleeting emotional release it brought him was quickly replaced with another angry rush of pain shooting deeply across his right shoulder. It had already been killing him before the game, but being mauled on the field for a handful of hours didn't do it any favors — in fact, it had left his whole body hurting, and reignited his overwhelming sense of worry about his future.

"
Fuck
," he said angrily under his breath, waiting a moment for the rush of agony to subside before snatching up his bag with his still functioning left arm. Silently, Wyatt began to walk out.