Isolation Play (Dev and Lee) (38 page)

Later, I’ll see the game film. The QB looks my way once, then looks away again and heaves a pass downfield. It’s a perfect spiral and lands softly right in the arms of the fox at our five-yard line. It would be a storybook ending for Gateway, except that the fox who falls to the turf clutching the ball to his chest is Vonni, in his Firebirds red and gold. The furious cheetah in red and black, the intended receiver, throws him down and then punches his teammate in frustration, refusing to go to the sidelines until he’s dragged there. I know how that feels.

But all I know in this moment is that the game’s over. The fireworks and the giant phoenix screaming across the scoreboard shrieking “FIREBIRDS WIN” is becoming familiar, but today it’s especially sweet. The stadium shakes with cheers. I stand out on the field for a moment before we walk over and congratulate the Tornadoes.

Mostly the post-game milling around on the field is a chance for guys who know each other to exchange quick hugs or pats without the tension of the impending game. Occasionally it’s a chance for us to congratulate someone on an outstanding performance, and that’s why me and a bunch of the rest of the defense head for Bixon and his blockers.

The Dall sheep are pretty nice guys, panting almost as hard as we are. They both give me a look when our little group comes up to them, but nothing more than that. They clap Pike on the back, and call me “Twinkles” with punches on the arm. I take ’em with a grin, though they jar my ribs. The nickname’s gained respect in just the last thirty minutes.

Bixon catches my eye as he’s walking, talking to two reporters. I tap Gerrard, and the two of us jog over to meet him.

“
Give us a minute,” he tells the reporters, and they hang back, both eyeing me now, too, disappointment in their flattened ears and slumped shoulders. Bixon wraps one arm around me and says, next to my arm, “Keep practicin’, you’ll make the ballet someday.”

“
Fuck you,” I say, but he’s laughing, so I add, “you goddamn bulldozer.”

He gives Gerrard a one-armed hug, too, and grins at us. “Ain’t nobody held me under a hundred yards before today. Ain’t gonna happen again.”

“
Thanks for the schooling,” Gerrard says, grinning his coyote best. “We’ll hold you under fifty in the playoffs.”

“
Ah,” Bixon waves off the compliment. “We ain’t gonna sniff the playoffs ’til next year. Give Shanky time to grow a bit.” He glances back at the reporters. “Just wanted to say it was fun runnin’ over yas.”

My ribs pulse. “Wish I could say the same.”

He laughs and points at me. “And good on you, Miski. Ain’t just knockin’ people over makes a guy tough.” And then—I swear—he winks.

I don’t know what to say except, “Thanks,” as he waves and heads back to the reporters.

“
Good game,” Gerrard says to me. Carson joins us as we walk back. “Some things to work on still, but overall good.”

“
Gonna see that play a few times,” Carson says.

“
Yeah, well.” I look over my shoulder at their sideline, where I see their kicker disappearing into their locker room. “I’ll take it.”

“
Hell yeah you will,” Gerrard says with unexpected passion, and a fierce smile. “You’re a football player.”

Those words keep me even warmer than Coach’s post-game speech. Ty gets the game ball, but Vonni, Gerrard, and I get mentions too. “He might need to learn a few things about tackling,” Coach says, looking at me, “but he showed he’s willing to do whatever this team needs.”

“
Wouldn’ta thought you’d have trouble wrapping up a guy,” Charm says, elbowing me in the back.

“
You should be glad you got me on
your
team,” I snort. “You’d never get one of them pansy kicks past me.”

“
My
team?” Charm says. “I thought you were playin’ for the
other
team!”

“
Come on,” Gerrard says, bare-chested, holding his shirt over one arm. His wrist is taped up. “Charm, Dev, get showered and get out there to talk to the reporters.”

“
Reporters? Me?” They must have noticed I went out for the extra point. I wouldn’t have thought they would care.

He shrugs. “Coach said to send you out.”

“
Seriously?” I start pulling my uniform off, ignoring the jabs of pain from my ribs. “What the hell?”

I hurry into the shower, where there are still a bunch of guys. Nobody really takes notice of me except Colin, whose eyes widen. I turn away before I can see his expression twist into a scowl. When I turn around with two paws full of fur shampoo, though, he’s still there. Back turned to me, but still there. I don’t have time to think about it; I just scrub myself, rinse off, and grab a towel to run back out.

While I’m dressing, though, Zillo comes up to me in his street clothes. His ears are flat, his tail down, and he’s having trouble looking right at me. He doesn’t say anything, so as I’m pulling a shirt on, I say, “Hey.”

“
Hey.” He leans against the locker beside mine. “That Bixon...fuck. He’s a fuckin’...”

“
Bulldozer?”

“
Yeah.” Now he looks at me, a little bit of a smile at the corners of his muzzle. “Can’t imagine getting flattened by him.”

“
I don’t have to.”

“
Yeah.” He looks off to his right. I don’t need to check to know that that’s where Colin is. “Hey, what you did, with the kick...that was cool.”

I yank the shirt on, tuck it in, and smile at him. “Cool?”

He nods. “Yeah.”

“
All right. Thanks.” I stick out my paw.

He looks at it, then shakes it. I clap him on the shoulder with my other paw. “Appreciate it. Now I gotta go deal with the media.” His ears come up, and hell, so do mine. He’s not so bad a guy after all.

I make it out before Charm and slide in beside coach. My tail’s all twitching about my special teams thing, so the first time I get called on, I sit up straight and give my brightest smile.

It’s a skunk from TSN. She says, “Did the Gateway players say anything particularly aimed at you?”

I frown. “Like what?”

“
Homophobic slurs.”

“
Oh.” I pause. “No. Nothing. Everyone’s very respectful.”

The next one asks if I felt threatened. Then there’s another one for Coach, and by that time, Charm’s out and they ask him about keeping his cool after the other kicker missed the point. There aren’t any more questions for me until a beige-colored swift fox raises a paw casually and says, “Coach. Why’d you send Miski out with the special teams unit?”

“
It was his idea,” Coach says, turning to me. “You wanna tell ’em?” So I talk about how I felt responsible for the touchdown, and how I’d covered kicks on special teams with the Dragons, and I just wanted to try to psych out the kicker.

“
Sounds like it worked,” says the local Chevali guy, and the room murmurs appreciation. At least, that’s what I feel like they’re murmuring. And there’s no more talk about fucking stupid homophobia.

They don’t keep us too long after that. I walk back to my locker with Coach, who punches my shoulder and says, “Hey, if Charm gets hurt, can you kick, too?”

I wish people would stop punching my fucking shoulder. I laugh and say, “Nobody can kick like Charm.”

He eyes me. “How’s the ribs?”

“
Fine.”

“
Go see doc.”

“
But—” I choke back the rest of the protest as he growls. My ears flatten. “Yes, sir.”

So instead of getting my things, I go to the training room and see our team doctor. His webbed paws probe my sore ribs and he clucks at me. “Cracked, for sure,” he says, and hands me a brace and an unmarked bottle. “Here, for the pain. Take your day off and rest them, and they’ll heal by Sunday.”

‘
Heal’ is football-doctor-talk for ‘will be good enough to play on.’ I take the bottle. “Need bandages or anything?”

He shrugs. “Keep the brace on until Tuesday, so they don’t move too much. If it gets worse, we’ll give you padding, but you don’t want that. Restricts your movement. Just don’t get run over by any wolverines this week.”

I snort. “Thanks.”

So it’s a good hour after the end of the game before I finally flick my phone on. There are several texts from Lee, but I skip right to the last one, which reads,
It’s so hot down here in Chevali. I had to take all my clothes off.

I grin, picturing him. My sheath gets nice and warm. I take a moment to savor that, then give Gerrard a quick call to let him know I won’t be going out for drinks with the defense. He says he and Carson are getting together tomorrow on our day off to practice. Lee’s leaving around four, so I ask if we can do it at four-thirty, and he says that works.

I have a voicemail, too. On my way out to the car, I listen to it, hoping that holding the phone to my ear will dissuade Argonne or any other groupies who might be out there. But maybe because of all the delays, the parking lot is mostly empty. So there’s nobody to see me stop in shock when I hear the message.

“
Devlin, it’s your father. I’m in town and would like to see you after the game. Please call me and tell me where we can meet for dinner.”

The phone sits in my paw long after the message has cut off. I stare at my reflection in the window of my truck, orange fur highlighted by the setting sun. I look young to myself, bright and unreal. Where the hell am I going to take my father for dinner? And what am I going to do with Lee?

I call Lee from the truck. He purrs a hello, and I hate myself for having to answer with, “My father called. He’s in town.”

He gets it immediately. “Are you coming back here?”

“
Not yet. I’m going to meet him for dinner.”

“
There’s a hotel half a mile away. Weather’s nice. I’ll walk down there and check in.”

My heart melts. “Thanks, fox.”

“
Go get ’im,” he says.

I call my father and, with no other place coming to mind, direct him to the Sonoran restaurant where we ate with Fisher and Gena. Was it only three weeks ago? I ask him why he came down, and he says we’ll talk over dinner.

But he’s not at the restaurant when I get there. I walk up to the chinchilla at the host’s stand and ask for a table for two. He asks if I want to sit down or wait, and I just stare, unable to decide. “Why don’t you wait for your other party?” he says kindly.

Dad walks in ten minutes later, filling the doorway and looming over the small chinchilla before he spots me getting up to meet him. We stand a foot apart, awkwardly. “Devlin,” he says, and looks around at the green, red, and white flags, the fake adobe walls, the shiny red brick floor. “Nice place.”

“
They make great margaritas here.” I realize I’ve never seen Dad drink anything but beer at a restaurant. He doesn’t respond, just nods and follows the chinchilla to our table, a small two-seater by one of the windows. It’s a nice view, overlooking a field of cactus just barely lit by the dusk, but I don’t take in more than that before sitting down across from Dad.

He’s got on a nice shirt, dressed up like for church. When he sits, he rests his elbows on the table and his paws in front of him, and his tail curls around the chair leg. To avoid meeting his eyes, I grab the menu and read off some of the choices. “They don’t have burritos. The enchiladas are good. I don’t know about the chicken, but the carne—the steak was good and tender. The salsa’s pretty spicy, so you might wanna watch out.”

I realize I’m babbling, and stop. He stays silent as the waiter comes over, a small weasel. “Good evening,” he says, and then smiles. “Mister Miski?”

My father and I both look up at the same time. The waiter’s looking at me, and I recognize the weasel who served us when we were here with Fisher and Gena. “Oh, yes,” I say, trying to force a nice smile. “How’ve you been?”

“
So nice to see you back. Another margarita?”

“
Um.” My eyes flick to Dad. His expression hasn’t changed. “Sure.”

“
And is this your father?” The weasel executes a funny little mini-bow. “So pleased to meet you, sir. Welcome to Casa Nuestra. Can I offer you one of our margaritas?”

“
Bud.” Dad looks down at the food menu.

“
You sure?” The waiter gives us a nice smile. “It’s on the house.”

“
I want a Bud,” Dad says.

“
Great, okay, I’ll be right back with those.” He scurries off. I have the brief image of a more stable Ogleby, and then of a whole team of them tending the bar.

”
So,” I say, “thanks for coming down. Did you go to the game?”

He shakes his head. “Watched it in a bar.”

“
Which bar?”

“
Something near the airport. Extra Point, I think. Sounded like a sports bar.”

“
I could’ve gotten you tickets.”

His fingers turn the pages of the menu, slowly. “I didn’t decide to come down until this morning.”

“
Still, you could’ve called...”

“
I did not want to disrupt your practice.” I notice his claws are out, scratching along the plastic of the menu as he closes it.

The waiter comes back with our drinks and then takes out a pad. “Taco salad,” Dad says, holding up his menu.

The weasel coughs politely. “Sir, do you mean the...” He trails off.