Out of Position (28 page)

Going to training camp almost makes me forget that. I haven’t been on a field with a whole team in months. The offense and defense wear different colors, offense in our home reds with gold numbers, defense in gold with red numbers. A small pack of wolves, the quarterbacks, stand apart from everyone else, and Aston, the starter, lounges on the bench nearby, watching them like an alpha watches his pups. The two hulking groups are the two lines, a couple elephants in with the bears and horses in the red jerseys; beefy tigers, another bear, and a couple bulked-up wolves in gold. Near the quarterbacks are the wolverines and smaller horses in red, running backs under the eye of Jaws, the wolverine sitting next to Aston on the bench. And around the periphery of the red group, always in motion, the wide receivers: a cluster of foxes, a couple cheetahs pushing and joshing, and three deer. The lighter-built gold players are stretching and joking: cougars and coyotes, more foxes — including the new kid, Colin, who can’t seem to stand still, his tail waving like a flag as he jumps back and forth — and me.

And all this red and gold is against the backdrop of the green grass, the blue sky, and the bright red seats of the stands. Last time I was in camp it was in Hilltown, where the temperature was about the same, but it was three or four times as humid, and everyone’s fur was all puffed out. Here, it’s dry as a bone, but I don’t mind the scratchiness in my fur. I’ve got my gold uniform on, number 57, and I’m part of the Chevali Firebirds. I take a moment to stop and soak it all in.

The other cornerbacks and safeties greet me, guys I never got to know all that well in half a season, guys who are more assured of staying with the team, especially with this new rookie coming in ready to light it up. We talk about our summers, about the coyote who got released and is now practicing with Freestone, about the fox who retired, about the new kid again, about who he’s gonna push off the roster. Nobody comes out and says it’s gonna be me, but two of the guys mention that they heard that Highbourne is short on corners and they look at me when they say it. We’re all pretty good at dividing our teammates into the ones who are worried, the thirty hopefuls who won’t make the cut, and the ones who aren’t, the ones like Jaws, Aston, Charm, and Colin. Stars, established role players, and high-priced rookies. What I can’t do is situate myself on one side or the other of the divide. So eventually, I go talk to Fisher.

More accurately, Fisher comes looking for me. Even though we spend a lot of time with different units, he notices something’s bothering me. Unfortunately, he finally approaches me on Saturday, when Lee’s come down to visit and is watching us practice.

I got a bit of a shock the first time I saw him: For the first time in a year or so, instead of the casual oxford shirt and slacks he was wearing last night, he’s in drag, with a cornflower-blue dress and something else blue behind his ear, I can’t quite see what. Either that or he’s skipped practice and some random vixen has shown up to watch us play, but that seems unlikely.

And then I got a second shock: someone else making his way over to Lee. He turned to see the spotted skunk, in t-shirt and shorts, and his ears went back and his posture stiffened. I wanted to watch what happened, but I got called back onto the field for the next set of sprints. By the time I remember to look up a little while later, Lee’s sitting by himself again.

At the break, I go over to the stands to talk to him. That’s when Fisher decides to jog over to join me. I can’t really tell him to go away, so I stop short of the stands to intercept him. To my surprise, he keeps going. “Come on,” he says.

That’s when I notice the tigress leaning on the railing a little ways down from Lee. She’s his height, pretty, but older. She looks more like a mom than a groupie, dressed in a plain shirt and jeans, and then I realize where Fisher’s going. I follow him, but now I try to wave Lee away. He, of course, ignores me.

“Dev, this is Gena,” Fisher says as we get closer. He smiles and rubs his nose to hers, their ears perking forward to each other.

“Even prettier than he said,” I say, extending a paw. She has a soft, firm grip and a smile that goes all the way up to her ears.

“Thank you,” she says, “and thank you for the anniversary flowers last month.”

I shoot Fisher a look. He’s got his ears back and is studying the helmet he’s holding in his paws intently. “I, uh…”

She laughs. “I know, Fisher was supposed to take credit for them, but he didn’t know what color they were.”

“Fish,” I say. “I e-mailed you the picture.”

He scuffs the ground and doesn’t say anything. Gena rubs his shoulder. “It’s okay,” she says. “It was a sweet thing to do anyway.”

The comment makes me strangely uncomfortable, as if she can see that I’m gay. Football players aren’t supposed to be sweet. I say, “I set a reminder on my calendar after you mentioned it, that’s all. No big deal.”

“You see?” she says to Fisher. “One phone conversation and he remembers the day and everything. You were there…”

“Yeah, yeah,” he growls, and looks over my shoulder. “Who’s this?”

“Lee,” my fox says, puttin’ on the femme, one paw daintily outstretched. I half-turn to include him in the circle. Gena eyes him while Fisher steps forward.

“So you’re the one’s been keepin’ Dev honest.” Fisher chuckles. “Oh,” Lee says with a coy glance at me, “I’m only one fox.”

“Actually,” I say to Fisher, “would you excuse us for a moment?”

“Now, Dev, let’s not be rude,” Lee says. “It’s a pleasure to meet your teammate and his charming wife.”

Gena looks faintly disapproving. I guess the mixed-species thing doesn’t really work for her. I hope that’s it, anyway. “How long have you two been together?”

We exchange looks. “Two and a half years,” I say, getting some satisfaction from Lee’s confirming nod.

This thaws Gena a little bit. “College sweethearts?”

“Absolutely,” Lee says.

Fisher’s whiskers twitch, brushing Gena’s. “See?” he says. “Not all guys turn into complete skirthounds when they get to the pros.”

“You did,” she says, and licks his nose affectionately.

“Well,” he says, “I didn’t have a college sweetheart as sweet as you. Or Miss… ?”

“Farrel,” Lee says, making me wince at him using his real name. “Well, aren’t you a gentleman.”

“Yes,” Gena says, giving Fisher a warning look. “Isn’t he.”

I mock-growl. “You keep yer smooth talk over on that side of the fence. Maybe we should go back out on the field, huh?”

“Hey, hey,” he says, looking from me to Gena and taking a step back.

Lee puts a paw on my arm. “Now, Dev,” he says, “You did say Mister Kingston has been terribly helpful.”

“My mother used to say, some people will help you right into an early grave.”

Fisher looks injured. “Now, ain’t I kept you around through the off-season?”

“I dunno what you had to do with it,” I say. “Less you got some photos of the owner he wouldn’t want in the papers.”

“Thanks for that image,” Fisher says. “Actually, believe it or not, I been thinkin’ a lot about your problem.”

“Oh,” Lee says, “you told him? I thought that was just between us.”

I could strangle him. Gena politely looks away. Fisher’s too much of a jock not to laugh at me for it. “His other problem,” he says. “Colin Smith.”

“Yes, he is a problem,” Lee says. “What’s your solution?” The way he says it makes it sound like he’s got a solution already, but if he has, we haven’t discussed it.

Fisher looks at Lee with some interest now. “We’re thin at the Will,” he says. “I think Devlin could fit in there.”

“Hm.” Lee considers this, looking me up and down. “You know, you may just have something there, Mister Kingston.”

“What’s the Will’?” Gena asks.

“Weak-side linebacker,” I say.

“Weak side is my side,” Fisher tells her. “The side opposite the tight end.”

“It’d be some blitzing and run-stuffing, but mostly short coverage,” Lee says. “Dev’s great at coverage. He just can’t get down the field with the league’s top receivers. He’ll never start at corner, even here.”

“Hey,” I say, couching it as a protest at his words, but trying to make it a warning, too. He’s starting to lose the femme a bit.

Fisher gives him a curious glance. “That’s right,” he says slowly. “He could play safety, but we’re stocked there. He might not start at linebacker, but he could be a good number two. We’ve got Corey Mitchell and not much after that.”

“The head case?” Lee asks.

Gena smiles. “I guess they talk work a lot more than we do.” She turns to Lee. “When he gets home, the last thing I want to hear about is more football.”

“That’s too bad,” my fox replies. “I just can’t get enough.”

“Hey,” I say. “Isn’t that Steez over there? Why don’t we go talk to him right now?”

“Steez?” Gena looks at Fisher.

“Linebackers coach. Yeah, sure.” He gives Lee another look before we walk off. I want to see Lee walk away, but he stays to talk to Gena. I force myself to look back to the field, to where Steez is talking to, what a coincidence, Corey Mitchell.

Fisher tells me a couple things about how to get in good with Steez as we move to intercept them. The key, he says, is to win over Gerrard Marvel, the coyote who plays middle linebacker and has been almost Steez’s assistant coach since the end of last year. But first, of course, I have to get Steez and Coach to let me switch positions. He hangs back and gives me a thumbs-up as we get within hearing range.

Steez is a cougar, kind of short, but hard to catch up to because he’s always moving. Right now he looks like Corey is holding him back. His tail twitches and he keeps pacing from side to side.

“Let me ask something, Corey. We are not having worked together before, so I must know this to be able to coach you.” Corey nods, apparently oblivious to the glare in Steez’s eyes and the tone of his voice. The shorter cougar jabs a finger at the playbook Corey’s holding. “Did you read this? Or are you just sticking it under your pillow each night and hoping the tooth fairy magically give you understanding?”

“I read it,” Corey says. “Don’t flip out. It just takes a while.”

“I see.” Steez folds his arms. “Tell me, how long is ‘a while’? Is it one week? One month? Perhaps on the last game of the year, when we are once again missing the playoffs, you will finally understand our plays?”

“Call me ‘Killer’,” Corey says.

Steez looks as though Corey’d just dropped his pants and mooned him. “What? What? What?” is all he manages.

“Killer’s my nick,” Corey says. “I gotta be called that or I can’t be it.”

The shorter cougar’s eyes narrow again. His accent overwhelms his next words so that I almost can’t understand them. “I call you Killer when you kill something! Get out, go! Waste no more time here when you could be ignoring playbook!”

Corey gives him a bewildered look. As he stalks past me, he shakes his head and gives me one of those comradely what-the-fuck-is-his-problem shrugs. I ignore him. Steez is already walking back to the bench shaking his head, looking down at his clipboard.

I look back at Fisher, urging me on, then past him at the stands. Lee and Gena are still standing together, watching me. I take a breath, steady myself, and run after the coach.

“Coach Mikilios,” I call, waving a paw.

He stops, turns, sizes me up. “Miski,” he says. “Cornerback, out of position. What?”

“Out of position?”

“Yes, yes. Not a good fit at corner. What?”

His “what?” is becoming increasingly sharp. “You’re right, I’m out of position. Fisher thought I’d be good at weakside linebacker.”

He nods as though he’d already thought of the idea. “Possible, yes. Can you study a playbook?”

“Yes, sir.”

He leans closer to me. “Do you want to play this position?”

“Yes, sir,” I say. “Anything I have to do to make the team.”

He studies me. “Do you have stupid nickname?”

I shake my head. “The other rookies call me ‘Gramps’, that’s all.”

“Hah.” This amuses him. “Tell me about weakside linebacker. Come, walk.”

We walk for a while. He’s looking at his clipboard, so I can’t tell whether he’s actually paying attention to me or not. But when I stop, he says, “Yes? Yes?” So I guess he is. I tell him everything I can scrounge up from my studies and conversations with Lee about football. I talk about my experience in coverage and why I think it would be a good fit for me. I talk about having studied offensive formations so I can recognize what the other team is doing, and at that he looks up from the clipboard. “You study offense?

I nod. “Sure.” He looks so intent that I say, “Doesn’t everyone?” I know that everyone doesn’t, of course. That remark is the kind of thing I’ve learned from Lee.

“Not everyone.” He rubs his whiskers thoughtfully. We’ve arrived at the bench, where Gerrard Marvel is sucking down some water. The coyote looks up as Steez taps me on the arm. “I talk to coach. Decide tomorrow or next day. At least maybe some competition get ‘Killer’ to read playbook, hah?”

Gerrard is looking at me curiously. I grin at both of them. “He’ll have plenty of time to read the playbook on the bench.”

“Hah.” He grins, turns away, and starts talking to Gerrard. I leave them and jog back to Fisher. Beyond him, Lee and Gena are waiting, but our break’s almost up, so thankfully we don’t have time to give them much more than a quick overview of the hopeful news before saying good-bye. The tigers kiss, and Lee wants to kiss me, but I dodge that. Gena invites him out for a drink, but with a glance at me, he declines, saying he’s busy.

It’s only when I’m watching him leave that I notice the spotted skunk, high up in the stands, following him out.

 
I bring it up with Lee that night over dinner at a nice steak house, after the waiter has taken our plates away and we’re trying to digest the meal. I’m trying not to fall asleep after the huge steak and the exhausting day. “That was Brian in the stands today, wasn’t it?”

He takes a drink, finishing off his wine. Chardonnay. I think I’ve finally learned that. “Yeah.”

“What’d he want?”

Lee puts the glass down. He shrugs. “Just to say hi.”