Quarterback Read online

  Kris’s jaw dropped open, his mind formulating a handful of follow-up questions. One at a time they forced their way forward, each time to be shoved aside by something more pressing. After a full minute of mental roulette he gave up, convinced he didn’t want to know.

  “And you all call men pigs.”

  “You telling me that long pause there wasn’t you trying to think of some young actress you’d name as The One?”

  “No,” Kris said, shoving out a chuckle with the response. “Not even close.”

  Kirby raised her head from his shoulder and turned to face him, a quizzical look on her face. “Really?”

  “Really,” Kris said, raising a hand in a fake oath for effect. “Besides, I already know it would be Maggie Grace.”

  A wide smile spread across Kirby’s face, her even white teeth flashing in the semi-darkness of the room. “Pig.”

  She dropped her head back down to his shoulder, the scent of plumeria again wafting up around him.

  “Mhmm,” Kris muttered. “Let me guess...Clooney?”

  “No,” Kirby said, returning her attention back to their hands. “But a reasonable guess. As you can see, I do like older men.”

  “Ouch,” Kris said, pulling his hand back and giving hers a playful slap.

  Kirby pressed back into it a moment before sliding her fingers down into his palm, the pad of her index finger tracing a thin white scar at the base of his thumb.

  “What happened here? I don’t remember seeing any hand injuries in the file.”

  “Wikipedia and my medical history?” Kris asked. “That effectively means you know more about me than any person alive.”

  Kirby kept her finger on the scar, tracing the length of it. “Should I be feeling pride or pity right now?”

  Kris ignored the question, his gaze drifting to the plain white ceiling above. His eyes glazed over a bit as he stared upwards, remembering the incident from years before.

  “Hay baling accident when I was kid,” he said, his voice low, his thoughts far away.

  “Oof,” Kirby replied.

  “There was this old retired doc that lived down the street from us,” Kris continued. “Pop got him to stitch it up, paid him cash for the job.”

  “Ah,” Kirby said. “That’s why it didn’t make the file.”

  The words barely registered with Kris as he stared at the ceiling, recalling the incident.

  “After it happened, Pop made us both take showers and put on clean clothes before we went to get it taken care of,” Kris said, an easy smile stretching across his face. “Never show up anywhere without being presentable. That was always his style.”

  A matching smile spread across Kirby’s face. “Sounds like a real throwback.”

  “Oh, he was. Loved being that way too, took pride in it. Thank God he’s not around to see all the new technology out there these days. He’d be going crazy.”

  The smile faded a bit from Kirby’s features. “Is that who you point to after touchdown passes?”

  “It is.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Don’t be,” Kris said, wrapping his fingers down around the outside of Kirby’s hand and giving it a soft squeeze. “We had a good long run together. Man taught me more than every other coach I’ve ever had combined.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Kris pulled up in front of the two-bedroom house outside of Hillsboro, the brakes giving a slight squeal as he came to a stop. It was the first time in several weeks that he’d driven the SUV, a solid black Eddie Bauer edition Explorer. He’d made it as far as the door with the keys to the Porsche in his hand before turning back and swapping them out.

  Along the way he’d tried to convince himself the reason for doing was because the elevated angle would make it easier on his eyes, that the SUV would be quieter, even that it was getting too cold for the Porsche.

  The truth was that he knew where he was going, the reception would be chilly at best. Showing up in the Porsche would only make it worse.

  Climbing from the SUV, Kris crossed onto the sidewalk and approached the front door, a hint of nervousness passing through him. Twice he nearly stopped and turned around before forcing himself onward, climbing the three steps to the front door and knocking before he had a chance to turn back.

  Shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat, Kris turned to look back at the SUV, checking the neighborhood around him. Most of the homes were single story brick affairs, much like the one he was standing in front of. All of the lawns were uniformly mowed, the trees cut back overhead.

  The sound of the door opening jerked Kris around to face forward, the red wooden plank pulling back to reveal his son. In his early teens, he had a mop of curly hair and rounded features, somewhere on the upward slope of adolescence. The look on his face went from curious to disgusted in less than a second as he saw Kris standing before him, his body retreating back a half step.

  All in all, it was better than Kris had expected.

  “Hey, Kyle,” Kris said, keeping his hands shoved in his pockets.

  “Mom, it’s for you,” he said, turning and disappearing without responding to Kris.

  Off to the side Kris could hear Emily ask, “Who is it?” a moment before she appeared in the doorway.

  Her expression passed through a similar gauntlet as her son’s, starting with questioning and ending with complete surprise. She stood with one hand on the edge of the door and the other on the frame, staring out.

  “Hi,” Kris said, nodding a tiny bit.

  “Kris, wow,” Emily replied, her eyes open wide. “What a surprise.”

  “Yeah, I’m sorry to drop by unannounced. I was just out driving around and thought I’d say hello,” Kris said, fighting to keep his voice even and light.

  “You were just out driving around Hillsboro?” Emily said, a look of complete disbelief on her face.

  The combination of her look and the words found their mark. Kris nodded in understanding and inched back a bit. “I mean, if it’s a bad time...”

  “No, no,” Emily said, shaking her head. “Come on in, please. Sorry.” She stepped to the side as she spoke, motioning for Kris to enter.

  He hesitated a moment before glancing back over his shoulder at the SUV and stepping through. A puff of warm air passed over him as he crossed into the house, his feet sinking into plush carpeting.

  “Should I?” he asked, pointing down at his shoes.

  “Oh, no,” Emily said, closing the door behind him. “Sorry the place is such a mess.”

  A knowing smile drew up the corner of Kris’s mouth as he glanced around. The house was exactly as he remembered it, the embodiment of everything he’d always known about Emily. An overstuffed couch sat along the back wall, matching recliners on either side. In front of them was an entertainment center, a large flat screen television in the middle console.

  The entire place was outfitted in a menagerie of dark red, gold, and forest green. Every piece of furniture was done with extra padding and soft exteriors, the place almost begging to be lived in. The smell of cinnamon hung in the air.

  Not one thing was out of place.

  “Place looks great,” Kris said, his gaze settling on an eight by ten photo sitting on the entertainment center. He took a step forward and focused in on it, Emily and Kyle seated behind a restaurant table. In front of them was a pizza the size of a manhole cover, the entire thing loaded with various meats.

  “That was his birthday last year,” Emily said, circling behind Kris towards the couch. “Kid loves the Carnivore pies from Gino’s.”

  “Never had one,” Kris said, turning back from the picture. “Looks good though.”

  “Yeah,” Emily said, more disbelief in her voice. She motioned to the bevy of chairs around her and said, “Sit?”

  “Sure,” Kris said, crossing over to a recliner and lowering himself into it. The enormous padding of it seemed to swallow him whole as he sat back, the entire chair rocking under his weight.
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br />   Across from him Emily took up a spot on the couch, pulling her bare feet up beneath her. Blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, a little shorter than the last time Kris had seen her. She was dressed in jeans and a long sleeve t-shirt, looking much closer to the twenty year old girl that Kris first met than the thirty-six year old woman he knew her to be.

  “So, no more Porsche?” Emily asked.

  “I like the SUV better,” Kris lied. “Quieter.”

  “Ah,” Emily replied, rocking her head back in faux understanding. “So, just out for a Saturday drive?”

  Kris nodded twice, the movement causing his entire chair to rock back and forth with him. “Yeah, been getting a little stir crazy. Not sure what to do with all this free time these days.”

  Kris noticed as several different thoughts crossed over Emily’s face, though she refrained from sharing. Just as fast she put on a look of sympathy and asked, “How’s that going? Feeling better?”

  “As my doctor likes to say, better, but not well,” Kris replied. “Thanks for calling to check on me the other day, by the way. I’ve been meaning to call you back.”

  The look grew into open concern as Emily looked at him, cocking her head to the side. “Kris, you did call. We spoke a few days ago.”

  For a brief moment Kris let his face go flat, the realization that he had no recollection of doing so settling in. Just as fast he rallied, shaking his head with a smile. “Oh, right. Sorry.”

  “Are you sure you’re getting better?” Emily asked, extending a questioning look his way.

  A feeling somewhere between embarrassment and longing passed through Kris’s stomach as he looked at the woman that was at one time such an integral part of his life. Even if there was no actual love between them anymore, the fact that she still cared enough to feign concern meant there was no way he could lie to her.

  Instead, he ignored the question, turning his attention towards the hall.

  “Kyle keeps getting bigger every time I see him.”

  Emily paused a moment, making sure Kris was really moving on without acknowledging her, before shaking her head. “They tend to do that around this age. Especially when you only see them a few times a year.”

  The quip drew Kris’s attention back from the hall, the sting of the shot passing through him.

  It was no doubt in response to his blowing off her earlier question. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to answer it truthfully.

  “Yeah,” Kris said, nodding, “I’ve been thinking. I’d kind of like to work on that.”

  He watched close for her response, seeing as she rolled her eyes. He could just make out the slightest bit of muttering beneath her breath, masked by a hand passing over her face.

  “What?” Kris asked, feigning he didn’t hear her.

  “Your therapist tell you to say that?” Emily asked, turning to face him full.

  A momentary flash of fire lit behind Kris’s eyes as he stared at her, angry for the insinuation that he had, or would even need, a therapist. Just as fast it dissipated, made so by the realization that her insinuation wasn’t entirely wrong.

  “No,” Kris said. “Actually, I’ve been thinking about Pop lately.”

  “Ah,” Emily said, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, Bruce was a good man. A good father.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “Watch the Mike! Watch the Mike!”

  Kris bellowed the command as if he was at the line making play calls. Poised on the balls of his feet he stood in the living room of his home, football palmed in one hand, fingers outstretched and pointing on the other. The bottom hem of his mesh shorts drug against his knees as he stood in place, the back of his Warriors t-shirt stuck to his sweaty skin.

  Despite Kris’s admonishments, onscreen Walsh ignored the middle linebacker, keeping his attention downfield. The Rattlers ran a delayed stunt, letting their defensive linemen twist and opening a clear lane into the backfield.

  With his focus on the deep receivers, Walsh never saw Hank Millett of Albuquerque until his facemask was buried into the front of his jersey.

  “And Walsh takes another hard sack at the thirty-two,” the announcer called, his voice a mixture of arrogance and condescension that had long since worn thin on Kris’s nerves.

  “The clock continues to tick down,” the color man added, “as the Warriors rush to get back up to the line.”

  On screen the Warriors, dressed in their white away jerseys, scrambled around in a haphazard tangle. Receivers held their arms out to their sides, trying to get the play call, as linemen turned and stared at their quarterback.

  “Don’t try to call a play!” Kris barked. “Just stop the damn clock!”

  In the corner of the screen the clock ticked steadily backward from eleven, punctuating the score at 21-13 Albuquerque.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” Kris rattled off, swinging his finger in a circle, willing them to hurry up.

  Before him Walsh drew the team into formation, grabbing the snap and slamming the ball down into the turf.

  “Walsh gets them set and spikes the ball,” the announcer intoned, “stopping the clock with just six ticks remaining.”

  “Boy, the Warriors really wasted a lot of time there Harold,” the color man added. “With no timeouts left, you have to think this is the last play of the game.”

  “Yeah, no shit,” Kris muttered, slapping the football in front of him. He leaned forward and balanced himself as if he were about to take the snap, his weight even as he rocked back and forth.

  Onscreen the Warriors came out in a bunch right formation, four receivers staggered in pairs. Already Kris knew what was coming, a sinking feeling telling him it wasn’t going to end well.

  “Walsh in the shotgun,” the announcer said. “He takes the snap and rolls right, the Rattlers rushing just three.”

  Kris’s breath caught in his chest as he watched the play unfold, the Rattlers offering token pressure up front. Walsh rolled out to his right, walled off by his offensive line. He waited as the game clock struck zero, allowing his receivers to get downfield, before taking three shuffle steps and heaving the football as far as he could.

  “Walsh lets it fly,” the announcer called.

  “That’s going to be well short,” the color man added.

  The dread Kris was feeling a moment before reached a deeper level as the ball hit its apex and began to descend, the players grouped up around the ten yard line.

  “And here it comes,” the announcer said, “Adler and Mills both in the area, along with a host of Rattlers.”

  Kris watched as the ball fell two yards short of the ten, the only person laying a hand on it being the Albuquerque strong safety that batted it to the ground.

  “Feldman knocks it to the ground,” the announcer said. “And that’s how it will end here in the desert tonight, the Albuquerque Rattlers knocking off the visiting Portland Warriors 21-13 and keep their once fading playoff hopes alive.”

  Kris watched as the two sidelines flooded into the middle of the screen, shaking hands. A pair of Albuquerque defenders that had played with Walsh in college converged on either side, slapping him on the back. Dumari reached midfield and exchanged a quick shake with the Rattlers coach, both men heading in opposite directions as fast as they could.

  “As for the Warriors,” the announcer continued, “they fall to 1-1 without quarterback Kris Hopkins, their playoff positioning taking a hit with just two weeks left in the regular season.”

  “Right you are,” the color man added. “Let’s take it down to Carrie Winkel, on the field with losing coach Marc Dumari. Carrie?”

  The screen cut away to a girl in her late twenties with porcelain skin and a stub nose, her carrot-orange hair blowing behind her. Dressed in some sort of fur Kris had never seen before she clutched the microphone in her hands, looking like she might freeze solid at any moment.

  Beside her stood Dumari, a matching set of heavy bags under each eye giving him the appearance of a bloodhound. In th
e background players and various field employees milled about, many of them trying to get on television without being too obvious about it.

  “Thanks, guys,” Carrie said, shifting her shoulders a bit towards Dumari. “I’m here on the field with Warriors Coach Marc Dumari. Coach, can you tell us what happened out there today?”

  “We got beat,” Dumari said, his voice little more than a grumble, “straight up. The Rattlers are a good football team and they outplayed us today.”

  Carrie jerked the microphone back to herself and said, “This is the second week in a row your offense has failed to gain much traction without quarterback Kris Hopkins.”

  “Atta girl,” Kris muttered, watching as Dumari rolled his eyes.

  “Can you tell us about his status for the last two games of the season?” Carrie finished.

  “Given his age and his injury history,” Dumari said, “right now we’re operating under the assumption that he won’t be available.”

  “My what?” Kris sputtered, his eyes narrowed with incomprehension.

  “In the meantime,” Dumari continued, “we’re breaking in a new quarterback and that takes some patience. You’re seeing him take a few lumps right now, but he’s going to be fine. We brought him here because we believe he can succeed at this level.”

  Once again he took off towards the locker room without finishing an interview, jogging on a diagonal away from Carrie. Her eyes widened a moment in surprise as he departed, before turning back to the camera.

  “And there you have it from Coach Marc Dumari,” she said. “We’ll see how Walsh and the Warriors doing next week at home against Boise. Back up to you in the booth.”

  Kris flipped the football back onto the couch behind him and laced his fingers atop his head. He watched with detachment as the broadcast cut away to the studio show, a panel of talking heads set to run through the scores and highlights of a full day of games.

  “Dick,” he muttered, turning the game off and heading to the kitchen for water.

  Chapter Thirty-Three