Isolation Play (Dev and Lee) (55 page)

Aston finally calms down in the third. Coach must’ve said something right, because he comes out of the gate firing, mixing up passes and runs, and before the Unicorns know it, there’s Ty dancing in the end zone with his second score of the year. New Kestle adjusts after that, but the Firebirds’ D keeps clamping down on them. All they get is a long field goal.

Midway through the fourth, leading 14-3, they give Dev a rest and Corey goes in for a series. He jumps up and dances like an idiot after a standard tackle, which pisses me off. I go to the kitchen to fix a snack, and then I hear the commentators yell. I rush back into the living room.

They’re just starting the replay: Corey leaping as the stag turns the corner around the line. Corey’s a step slow, and the stag sees daylight, at least twenty more yards. But Corey grabs the guy by the antlers—which is legal—and spins him around out of bounds—which is also legal—and then throws his weight onto the stag’s chest and crushes him to the ground. Which is not. And the stag’s not getting up.

Corey walks away pumping his arms as the crowd showers him with boos. When he turns back and sees the stag still lying there, he falters, but doesn’t lose his smug posture.

They cut back to live action. A whole crowd of Unicorns surrounds the stag, who still hasn’t moved. A coyote and a lion in training gear are working with him. The commentators sound scandalized.

“
...vicious hit by Mitchell and it looks like the leg is definitely broken.”

“
You hate to see that, and they’re not just going to be penalized on this drive. Mitchell’s in an altercation with two Unicorns players, and he’s outta here.”

“
More penalties coming from the league on this, I’m sure.”

Kinnel calls right then, and doesn’t even waste time saying hello. “Watching the game?”

“
Yeah.” I turn the sound down.

“
Looks like your boy’s job is safe for a while.”

“
I wasn’t worried, but shit.” I watch Dev trot back onto the field, adjusting his helmet. They cut back to the stag. Kinnel and I yell at the same time. “Christ!” I say, and Kinnel says something even more blasphemous. The leg is twisted, bent between the knee and ankle. A shard of white shows against the torn gold of the uniform. “It’s like the Rich Luna injury.”

Kinnel knows, of course, about the quarterback who famously had his leg shattered, ending his career. The injury leads any collection of Football’s Hardest Hits. “Shit,” Kinnel says. “Ain’t quite that bad, but still. He’s out for the season.”

“
No, not that bad,” I say. “Just looks bad. But I dunno, it’s usually six weeks for a broken leg. He could be back for the playoffs.”

“
I mean Mitchell. Deliberate late hit out of bounds? That picture’s gonna be all over the highlights.”

“
The league won’t suspend him.”

“
No, but as long as your boyfriend doesn’t bite through someone’s neck, he’s not gonna lose playing time. Look at Samuelson lay into Mitchell.”

Coach is yelling, berating Corey, who tries to walk away. Coach grabs him and holds him in place while he watches New Kestle run a play with the fifteen-yard penalty they got, then he yells at Corey some more.

“
And nobody on the team went to support him.”

I remember how they all backed up Dev a few weeks ago. My tail wags. “Gerrard tried to break up the fight.”

“
He has to do that.” We’re quiet, watching the stag carted off the field, and then Kinnel goes on. “Don’t think your boy’s job was in danger anyway. He’s looking good. Ribs all better?”

I feel a swell of pride. “He’s been workin’ hard.”

“
Shows,” Kinnel says. “Any chance you could hook me up with some quotes tonight, give me an inside scoop on how the team reacts to Mitchell, how that all went down?”

I snort. “I’ll do what I can,” I say.

“
I’m not losing interest in you,” he says. I can picture his grin.

“
Really? I thought you were straight.”

“
Whichever way the wind blows,” he says. “Nah, I still want your story, but I’m patient.” He pauses. “Anyway, I’m still deciding where I want to publish. Got a buddy at the Crystal City Herald. Could be a touching social-interest piece there. Those things soak up prizes like paper towels in a commercial.”

“
Your plans have gotten bigger.” The Unicorns are playing hard. Dev’s back out, but his intelligence isn’t coming into play. It’s all tackling and execution, hard runs charging into the Firebirds’ line, quick passes like bullets hitting receivers. The Firebirds are only reacting, not anticipating, and the Unicorns capitalize on it. The stadium keeps showing the injured stag on the Jumbotron to fire up the team. It seems to be working.

“
Listen: ‘Nobody approves of what he’s doing. Few people even know about it. But Wiley Farrel has never been one to care what other people think of him. Except one person.’ How do you like that?”

I curl my tail around into my lap, watching the game. “Touchdown.”

“
Glad you like it. Oh.”

“
I like that, too. Just feels weird hearing about myself in the third person.” Do I really not care what people think of me?

The Unicorns kick the extra point. Dev doesn’t need to run out and do his tricks. It’s 14-10 Firebirds, four minutes to go. “Get used to it,” Kinnel says.

“
Hope they can hold on here,” I say.

“
Six and three is good enough to tie for top of the division,” Kinnel says. “And Hellentown’s padded their record against crappy teams. If Chevali beats ’em next week...”

“
Don’t jinx ’em.” Aston hands off to Jaws. The Unicorns use all their timeouts, but after Jaws punches through them for another first down, they can’t stop the clock any longer. At midfield, they toughen, just before the two-minute warning. They know their backs are against the wall. Aston tries a short pass on third and eight, and they gain six. The Firebirds punt.

New Kestle gets the ball back with 1:54 to go. They’ve got that last-minute desperation; added to that, they’re playing mean, probably using the stag’s injury as motivation. Their QB is inspired, whipping the ball to his receivers, completing four of his first five passes, driving down to the 30. From there, he takes a shot at the end zone; it sails long, above the outstretched paws of the nearest receiver. Vonni plays great defense on the next one, and the receiver loses precious seconds arguing for a penalty. The Jumbotron shows the stag watching from the training room, firing up the crowd.

The QB finally gets the receiver back to the line, but there’s confusion. They don’t get the play off in time, and have to walk back five yards on the delay of game penalty. On third, they try for a short play to the slot, hoping to take advantage of the stretched-out defense. I see Dev anticipate, move, intercept—but he doesn’t hold on, just swats the ball to the ground. The Unicorns have to go for it on fourth.

“
No way they make this,” Kinnel says.

“
Don’t jinx ’em,” I repeat.

He laughs, just as the Unicorns send everyone deep. The quarterback has all kinds of time to look downfield, and then he launches a pass. I hold my breath. It arcs perfectly and comes down in the arms of one of their receivers, a lanky fox. Norton’s got him wrapped up immediately, dropping him on the three-yard line.

“
Well, shit,” Kinnel says.

“
I told you. Watch the clock. Watch the clock!” It’s ticking down from five, to four, to three. The QB wants to spike the ball, to give them one more play. He takes the snap, slams the ball to the turf. Two seconds left—but the wideout and tight end were both getting into position when the center snapped the ball.

“
They weren’t set!” I yell, and at the same time, the referee throws a yellow flag.

“
Nope,” Kinnel says. “That’s the ballgame.”

We listen to the official. “Flag on the play. Too many players in motion, on the offense. By rule, ten seconds will be run off the game clock. The game is over.”

“
Six and three,” Kinnel says. “Playoff-bound.”

I give an exaggerated sigh. “If they beat Hellentown.”

“
Get back to me with that story.”

“
I will.”

“
And tell your guy he looks good.” He pauses until I’m about to say something, which I don’t, because I know he’s waiting for me to. “On the field.”

“
Ha ha.”

I leave Dev a congratulatory text for when he turns his phone back on:
6-3!
Then I sit back and watch the post-game shows. They do a short segment on the Firebirds and their playoff hopes. The sports anchor, a lively ferret, says, “What’s those rumors I hear about the Firebirds? In position for the playoffs?” Then they cut to Dev saying, “Completely true,” from his coming-out press conference.

It makes me laugh. I wish I’d recorded it. They go on to talk about the Firebirds’ remaining schedule, focusing on the game in Hellentown next week. Both teams are 6-3, but if you ask me—and the sports anchors—the Firebirds are the better team. They credit Dev with a lot of the turnaround, even though Gerrard’s leadership is what’s really helping them out. And you can’t discount Samuelson’s influence on the team, either. Not to take anything away from Dev. He’s been terrific, and he’s getting better. But I think it’s Samuelson’s and Gerrard’s support that are allowing him to shine.

The sportscasters try to get various Firebirds to guarantee a win, but nobody will bite. Samuelson is really good about keeping a lid on the team that way, limiting media access as much as he’s allowed. I watch a little more of the segment, entering data from the weekend into my computer. Nothing exciting comes up on e-mail, either mine or Dev’s.

He calls, later, more excited than I’ve heard him since this whole family affair got started. I tell him how good he looked, and he tells me how good he felt, and he asks if I can come down to Hellentown. That’s way south of my region, though it is at least on the east coast, closer than New Kestle. So I don’t want to commit, especially since I’ll be able to see him in Port City the following weekend. But he’s charmingly insistent, even trying to convince me he feels lonely.

I tell him I’ll decide during the week. It’s good to hear him in somewhat better humor. I guess winning can cure a lot of things beyond the locker room. It helps there, too; he says the team’s all joking, out for drinks. I tell him to get back to them.

He calls me back sometime that night, but I was letting the phone charge as I ran out to dinner, and I missed it. I don’t notice ’til about two hours later, and by then, I’m guessing he’s asleep. All he said on the voicemail was, “Nothing important, I’ll tell you tomorrow. Love you.” He didn’t have to say that last part; his voice oozed it, soft and warm. So I don’t worry about it.

Maybe if the Dragons win a game, I won’t feel the same heavy weight looming over me as I go in to work. They lost again on Sunday, this time to Aventira in an embarrassing rout. I already hate Aventira as a rival, and for what their crowds did to Dev a few weeks ago. Now I get to come in with a renewed sense of hatred for them for a 38-6 loss.

“
Fuckin’ Chimaeras,” I say amiably as Alex comes in.

He hangs up his coat and shakes his long ears, rubbing the cold out of one, then the other. “Yeah. Of course, we’d do the same to them.”

“
Wish we could. Did you go?”

He shakes his head. “Watched at a bar. You?”

“
Caught the last half. Took an early flight.”

He sits on the edge of his desk. “How were your games?”

I lean back, linking my paws behind my head. “Not bad. Better than a few weeks ago. Yours?”

“
About the same.”

We chat while he boots up. I write up some more notes on my games, remembering details as I talk to Alex. He’s doing the same, telling me about his games in order to jog his memory. We do this until it’s time for a coffee break, around ten-thirty, and when we get back from the local coffee house, there’s an urgent e-mail waiting for me from Morty.

It just says, “Please meet me in my office as soon as you’re back.”

My fur prickles. This can’t be a good meeting. I give him a quick call on the intercom to let him know I’m on my way, all the while shuffling through things I’ve done that might be meriting a reprimand. The remote working days? Probably not, because he already talked to me, but what if Paul complained? My coming out? I don’t think they can really do much about that, unless some other employee’s lodged a complaint.

Walking down the hall, I wish I’d done a more thorough job of checking the news. What if Dev’s father had made good on his threat? It wouldn’t be front-page material. Would anyone else I know have seen it and called me? I try to figure out where it would have shown up that Morty would have seen it and I wouldn’t have. And why would he need to talk to me, anyway?

Maybe it was nothing like that. Maybe he just wanted to talk about one of my prospects. This one cheetah at Dexter, Markissian, he’d had a great game and I’d recommended we jump him in our rankings. Maybe Morty wanted to question that. But then he’d wait for the team meeting, wouldn’t he?

I pause outside his open doorway to put on a bright smile. I make sure my fur is smoothed down and any defiance is gone from the arch of my tail, and then I walk in.

The words, “Hi, boss,” die in my throat. Sitting in front of Morty’s desk, paws resting in his lap, is the general manager of the Hilltown Dragons, a tall, lanky rat. “Wiley,” Morty says, “you know Mister Campbell.”