Quarterback Read online

  Other works by Dustin Stevens:

  Be My Eyes

  Scars and Stars

  Catastrophic

  21 Hours

  Ohana

  Twelve

  Liberation Day

  Just a Game

  Ink

  Number Four

  The Zoo Crew Novels:

  Tracer

  Dead Peasants

  The Zoo Crew

  QUARTERBACK

  By

  Dustin Stevens

  Quarterback

  Copyright © 2014, Dustin Stevens

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden, without the written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.

  For 8, the best quarterback I ever played with…

  Often there are players who have only football as a way of expressing themselves and … when they no longer play football, they no longer do anything; they no longer exist, or rather they have the sensation of no longer existing.

  --Eric Cantona

  Kris Hopkins was fifty-four minutes old the first time he ever touched a football. It was a story his father told him many times over the years, more than any other.

  The day was September 2nd, 1977, just one more in what had been a string of hellishly hot days in West Tennessee. At exactly five o’clock Bruce Hopkins punched his time card at the Peterbilt auto plant outside of Nashville and climbed into his ancient AMC Hornet. There was no air conditioning in the car, the late summer sun beating down on the faded black paint as Bruce wound his way towards home. Every few seconds he would wipe away a handful of sweat and fling the droplets out the window, the breeze catching them and pulling them away the moment they left his hand.

  The Eagles’ Desperado blared through the one working speaker as Bruce drove towards home, the sound distorted by the static threatening to overtake the sound at any moment.

  Why that point was important Kris had never known, but it was one his father was always sure to include, as if the song was foreboding of what was to come.

  Bruce made it home at half past five, his clothes plastered to his shoulders and the backs of his thighs with sweat. Giving a heavy groan he climbed out of his car, leaving the windows down, knowing there was no chance of rain on the horizon.

  On his mind were two things. A cold shower and an even colder beer.

  Neither one came to pass.

  Bruce made it halfway to the door before his young wife Tilly burst out to meet him, a hand on her hip as she leaned back and tried to balance the fully realized fetus aching to exit protruding before her. Thick blonde hair was plastered to the sides of her face with perspiration, her cherubic-like features contorted in pain.

  “Is it time?” Bruce asked, already knowing the answer, a look of shock splayed across his face. His body froze where he stood, trying to determine if he should help his wife or run to start the car.

  “You see that dripping down on the sidewalk?” Tilly asked, her voice little more than a wheeze. “I ain’t peeing.”

  Bruce’s bottom jaw dropped as he leaned back and peered around her, noticing the uneven trail of water spots trailing behind his wife like a snake along the sun baked concrete.

  “You’re not peeing,” Bruce muttered, his mind wrapping around the words and their meaning. “That’s not pee. She’s not peeing!”

  “You don’t have to announce it to the neighborhood, just get me to the hospital,” Tilly moaned, walking forward and grabbing Bruce by the hand.

  The physical contact was what he needed to snap into action.

  Bruce helped his wife into the Hornet and headed for the hospital, covering the three miles between them in just five minutes. Behind him he left a litany of angry drivers and blown stop signs, his entire focus on the passenger seat.

  A simple sign, yellow letters on a green background, welcomed all visitors to the hospital. An arrow pointed guests to the left and deliveries to the right, half-full parking lots stretched out in either direction.

  Bruce ignored both directives, aiming for the front door and sliding to a stop just four feet from it. A thick line of fresh rubber smudged the sidewalk behind them, its stench engulfing the car.

  “Honey, I don’t think we can park here,” Tilly said, her breath coming in ragged pants. One hand she kept under her stomach, almost willing the child to stay in a little longer. The other she used to paw at the passenger side door, trying to extricate herself from the car.

  Her fingers never found their target. Instead it was Bruce, ignoring her comment, already out and around the front hood, that wrenched the door open and helped his wife to her feet.

  “I’m sorry, sir, you cannot park here,” a deep baritone snapped.

  “Try and stop me,” Bruce replied, one hand holding Tilly’s, the other on the small of her back. Together they turned towards the front door, seeing the owner of the voice standing before them.

  The man was an inch or two above six feet tall, his short brown hair styled into a flat top. A too-small security uniform strained across his shoulders and midsection. His hands rested on his hips as he peered down at them, their reflection visible in his mirrored sunglasses.

  “Sir, I’m sorry, but you have to move your vehicle. Now.”

  “Listen here, Captain America,” Bruce replied. “My wife is going into labor. I will move the car once I know she’s taken care of and not one minute before.”

  The guard opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by a diminutive woman in blue scrubs pushing a wheelchair.

  “Jesus Christ, Donnie, can’t you see the woman’s in labor?” she asked, glaring at him as she circled his backside and brought the chair to a stop alongside Tilly. “Please, Miss, sit.”

  “Thank you,” Tilly pushed out, the words just audible amidst a heavy gasp.

  Bruce kept her hand in his, walking beside his wife, bent at the waist by her side. “We made it, Dear. We’re at the hospital. You’re both going to be alright.”

  A polished black boot sidestepped into his path as he went, cutting of his route to the door.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but you have to move-“

  “I got it!” Bruce said, rising to glare at the rent-a-cop. “Moving the damn car.”

  Once more he bent at the waist, leaning low and clutching his wife’s hands in his. “I’ll be right behind you. I’m going to be right outside the room the entire time.”

  “You’re sure?” Tilly asked, fear flooding into her features. “Bruce, I can’t do this without you.”

  “You’re not going to, Honey,” Bruce replied. “I’m no more than a minute behind you. I’ll be the first person you see when you wake up.”

  “Sir, we really need to get her inside,” the nurse said, already rolling Tilly forward.

  Bruce leaned in and kissed his wife on the forehead, squeezing her shoulder in assurance as she passed through the double doors into the hospital. “I love you!”

  The doors swung closed before Tilly had a chance to respond.

  It was the last time Bruce would ever see his wife alive.

  The nurse that came out into the hallway after the delivery was supposed to be smiling. She was supposed to see him pacing the hallway, an orange stuffed football in his hand, and shake her head at the nervous young father. She was supposed to pull her mask down and tell him he was the new parent of a healthy baby boy. That the child and mother were both doing w
ell.

  She was not supposed to be crying, her surgical mask stuck to her cheeks by fresh tears. She was not supposed to shake her head and explain that Tilly was hemorrhaging internally when she arrived, that the blood loss was too great.

  She was supposed to congratulate him, not offer condolences.

  He was not supposed to become a father and a widow in the same moment.

  It took almost an hour for Bruce to pull himself together enough to see his son. By the time he got there his face was puffy, his hair a disheveled heap atop his head.

  The same nurse that wheeled Tilly into the hospital was there waiting for him when he finally emerged from an empty exam room, ready to meet the only connection he still had to his wife. She nodded her sympathies to him and led him to the nursery, taking him to the crib set alone to the side.

  The sight of him laying there, his pink flesh scrubbed clean, tufts of hair already starting to peak out from his scalp, brought fresh tears to Bruce’s eyes.

  “Would you like to hold your son?” the nurse asked, her voice low and even.

  Bruce’s head rotated from side to side, his gaze never leaving his son. “Not yet,” he whispered. “I don’t trust myself to have the strength right now.”

  The nurse nodded as Bruce looked down at the football still clutched in his hand and took a step forward. Using his index finger, he lifted his son’s arm and slid the ball beneath it. The young boy curled his body around the soft cotton, never once rousing from his slumber.

  “He’s going to be a football player, huh?” the nurse asked as Bruce retreated back a step and looked down at his son, the ball almost as large as he was.

  “Definitely,” Bruce replied, his voice relaying a confidence he didn’t really have.

  “What are you going to call him?”

  “Kris, with a K,” Bruce replied. “His mother picked it. She always liked the way it looked written out.”

  The nurse pressed her lips tight together, her face downcast with the sorrow of the moment. “Kris with a K is a good name for a football player.”

  “A quarterback,” Bruce replied.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Bruce said, nodding for emphasis. “Every time Tilly would feel him thrashing around inside her, she would shake her head and smile. She’d always tell me any baby could kick, but ours was special. He was in there throwing.”

  Some people might find the tale depressing, maybe even a bit macabre, the kind of thing a father shouldn’t tell his son. Kris never felt that way though, knew his father didn’t either.

  The point of telling the story was never actually about the passing of his mother. The point was so that everybody else knew exactly what they both had from hour one.

  Kris Hopkins was a quarterback. He was born that way, and he would probably die that way.

  Chapter One

  “Green 11!”

  Kris Hopkins stood two yards back off the line of scrimmage, surveying the defense. In front of him the offensive line was already set, five behemoths coiled into their stances, ready to explode forward at his command.

  Opposite them the Salt Lake City Cougars shifted into a 4-3 defensive set, waiting until he finished his audible call to show their true formation.

  It was all Kris could do to keep from smirking. Exactly the same move they’d been making for the past fifteen years, always thinking they could disguise their fronts enough to confuse him.

  Not once could he remember it ever working.

  Dressed in all white uniforms with blue letters, the overhead lights of Portland Warriors Stadium reflected off of the Cougars. Kris watched as they finished their pre-snap adjustments, a trio of linebackers peering into the backfield. He paused an extra moment to make sure they were set before stepping up behind the center, slapping him on the hip to let him know he was there.

  “Green 11!”

  Twisting his head to the right, Kris waited as the split end Marvin Adler went into motion. He watched the red and black number eighty-four get closer to him for several steps and slow to a jog before shifting his focus back to the front.

  “Hut! Hut!”

  The ball found its way into Kris’s hands, the smooth leather slapping against his palm. A cacophony of pads smacking into each other filled his ears, punctuated by the grunts of the two sides surging forward.

  Starting with his right foot he retreated backwards from the line, his left foot crossing over in front, carrying him five yards away from the fray. Around him the line bowed into a protective pocket, clear sight lines opening up to either side.

  Ignoring the oncoming rush, Kris started on the right, checking his tight end running a drag. Next in his progression was the tailback on a flare, a linebacker doing all he could to keep up beside him.

  Either one Kris could have hit in stride for a first down, but that didn’t interest him. It was Sunday night, the national Game of the Week, the start of a playoff run.

  It was time to make a statement.

  Without even checking downfield Kris knew where he was going with the ball, looking at every other option as long as possible to draw the safety closer to the line. Behind him he felt the left tackle push the defensive end off the edge, taking a step forward to buy an extra second.

  In that second he knew Adler was breaking free, using the space Kris had given him by looking at his other options.

  Kris could feel the stadium realize it the moment he shifted his attention downfield, their anticipation rising around him. Years of repetition told him where Adler was going to be, a black and red blur streaking towards the left upright of the goalpost.

  Patting the ball with his off-hand one last time, Kris stepped forward and shifted his weight onto his left foot before letting it fly. He felt it roll off his fingertips as it ascended into the night sky, the white stripes encircling the top half of it blurring into a perfect circle as it spiraled towards its target.

  For one fleeting moment it hung in the air, the entire stadium holding a collective breath as Kris watched the ball hit the apex of its trajectory and begin to descend.

  Kris knew it before anybody else did. He didn’t have to wait for the ball to fall into Adler’s outstretched fingertips. He didn’t need to see the catch to know it was going to happen.

  There was no way it wouldn’t.

  Less than a second later the crowd confirmed his assumption. It exploded around him in a thunderous ovation, the sound reverberating off the concave walls of the stadium. It pounded its way into Kris’s helmet, almost shaking the ground, a sea of red and black swaying in ecstasy.

  Around him linemen picked themselves up off the ground and raced towards the end zone to celebrate. Vanquished Cougar defenders muttered obscenities and walked towards the opposite sideline.

  Kris stood in the middle of the field and thumped his chest with his right fist. He raised one finger towards the sky and wagged it at the stars overhead before dropping his gaze back to field level and sprinting towards the end zone to join his teammates.

  Chapter Two

  A bevy of microphones extended up from the table, arranged in an odd tangle that resembled the sad remains of a bouquet gone awry. Every major network was represented, ranging from national sports providers to local news coverage. Each one was angled upward at the pair of men seated behind the wooden platform just over four feet in width.

  On the right was Warriors head coach Marc Dumari, dressed in a red Warriors windbreaker with a black and white spear emblazoned on the chest. No more than a year or two into his fifth decade, he could easily pass for a decade older, the lines around his face deep set. A pair of hound dog eyes and a long nose gave him a perpetual dour expression that fit his personality to the letter.

  Beside him was Kris, less than fifteen minutes removed from the field. Still dressed in football pants and game socks, the only things he had switched out of since the final whistle were his cleats and shoulder pads, trading them for a pair of open toed sandals and a Warriors hooded sweatsh
irt. Eye black was still smeared across both his cheeks.

  At thirty-seven years of age, there was still no hint of grey in his thick brown hair.

  Opposite them sat the reporters representing each of the microphones on the table, all of them seated in plastic chairs clustered tight. Every last one of them sat perched on the end of their seat leaning forward, many with handheld recorders extended.

  “Kris, can you walk us through that last touchdown pass?” a middle-aged man in a plaid shirt and brown corduroy jacket asked from the third row.

  Kris took a long swig from the cup of lemon-lime Gatorade on the table in front of him and ran the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “Sure. They’d been leaving the deep middle open all night in that 4-3, so when we came to the line and they shifted into it, I knew right where I was going with the ball.”

  The reporter nodded, recorder held in his left hand while he scribbled notes with his right.

  “Yeah, it looked like you made the throw without even seeing where Adler was.”

  A small chuckle slid out of Kris as he rocked back in his seat, trying to play it coy. He hadn’t seen Adler before releasing the ball, but he wasn’t about to tell that to a room full of reporters.

  Especially not with Dumari perched by his side.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Kris said, “but I probably could have. Marvin and I have run that play a thousand times together in practice and I knew he’d been able to get the jump on Rivera all night.

  “The line did a great job giving us the time we needed. All I had to do was lay it out there and I knew he’d make me look good.”

  The man nodded, obvious pleasure in the answer on his face. “Coach Dumari, knowing your players have that kind of rapport together has to make your job easier.”

  Dumari glowered at the man a moment before shifting his gaze over to Kris. “Yeah, that is one of the advantages that comes with having a fifteen year veteran under center.”

  The words no more than left his mouth before more hands shot in the air, the other reporters desperate to get a question answered before returning back home to their respective networks. Kris stared out at them jockeying for position, pretending not to have caught the pointed barb thrown his way by Dumari.