Blitzed(38)

Five years old. Laurie's five years old. Which means . . . she's half Italian.

At least I understand now why the little girl was so familiar when I first saw her. She's got the same shape to her face as Whitney, that perfect little heart shape, and a twinkle in her eye that I still remember from when Whitney was up to precocious tricks, ones that I usually enjoyed when we were together.

Couldn't she have waited even a few months? Were all her words to me, saying she loved me . . . were they just lies? How long did it take for her, after she left Silver Lake Falls, to hook up with that guy?

I'm trembling in rage now, and as the team goes out to start the game, I'm seeing red. We end up kicking off, which is just what I need as I'm about to explode. In the huddle, I look around at the defense, a mix of first and second team players who are getting their work in before the borderline players start the second half.

"Storm Rip Slant," I call, taking over the huddle leader duties. Richard, the leader of the backfield, calls the coverage, and I line up. I've adapted to the rigors of pro football, adding a lot of muscle from my high school days, and I now tip the scales at an even two hundred and thirty-two pounds. Every pound of it is trembling, and as the wide receiver on the other side goes into motion, I snap into a steely focus.

"Slide, slide! Cowboy!" I holler, adjusting the play. It's on my shoulders now, and I call off the slant, instead adjusting to a slide to the other side, knowing what's coming. The ball snaps, and the quarterback rolls out toward my side. Our outside linebacker fades out, covering the tight end that's going out into the flat, while I read the QB's eyes. They flick left, then right, and I know where he's going. I pounce on the read, and I step in front, just in time as the ball is released. It smacks hard into my gloves, but I've still got the soft hands that let me throw a pretty good ball myself back in high school, and I intercept the pass, barely breaking stride as I streak toward the end zone, the offense chasing me. The other team's got no chance, and I go in standing up for a touchdown.

During halftime, some of my teammates look at me in a bit of awe. The starting linebackers, especially Tim, who I'm slotted behind, look a bit worried, and I understand. One half, against at least partially another team's starting offense, and I have seven tackles, a sack, one forced fumble and the interception returned for a touchdown. It's the sort of performance that turns heads and gets attention.

"Don't blow your load in the pre-season," someone jokes as I stare at the carpet of the locker room, still trembling. I haven't stopped trembling since Whitney walked up the steps in the stadium, and I can't get my mind off her. "You know, premature ejaculation ain't good for anyone."

I ignore the taunt, my mind still locked in battle mode, and it takes our linebackers coach two tries to get my attention. "Wood. Wood! Coach wants to see you."

I nod and go into Coach's office, taking deep breaths to calm down. Our head coach doesn't like players angry. He wants us calm. I'm trying. "Yeah, Coach?"

"What the heck was that out there?" Coach asks, smiling. "Damn, Troy, you were a solid rookie last year, and in camp, I thought you'd made strides, but that? The league's going to piss test the hell outta you after that one. Only thing that could have stopped you was kryptonite."

I shrug, taking another deep breath. "Just . . . I had content."

"What?" Coach asks, confused, and it's my turn to smile.

"I had emotional content." Ever since Cory and I talked about it, it's been my guiding philosophy. Play with emotional content.

Coach nods, not quite getting the reference, I can tell, but understanding enough of what I'm saying. "Whatever it was that you used to get that content, I want you ready to rock in the second half too. I'm putting you in for the first series before putting in the other players. You keep playing like that, and you're going to have a strong case for a starting slot."

"Still have one more series to go, Coach. Let's see what happens."

We get the ball to start the second half, so I'm chilling on the sidelines and waiting for our chance. Our defensive coordinator is going over some pictures and stuff on his tablet with the guys who will be taking my place after this series, nobody talking to me. I'm so locked in the zone.

We need emotional content. Not anger.

That's true, but anger is part of emotion, and right now, I'm running on high octane anger and rage. Five years, and not a word, then suddenly, I find out why. Five years ago, Whitney tore my heart out and left nothing but a black hole that still hasn't filled.

"Defense!"

I look up, and realize we punted, going three and out. I run out on the field and form the huddle. "Hawk Triple Blast," I call, looking around at the circle of faces that are mostly totally different from the guys I was playing with in the first half. These are the scrubs, the guys who are praying for a slot on the team and hoping a good performance might get them a roster slot, or at least a spot on the practice squad. "Let's run this shit."

We break, and I roll my jaw, making sure my mouthpiece is in. The other team sent out their starting offense to start the second half, wanting to put up something that looks good for their fans back home, and I can see they're licking their chops, knowing that other than me, it should be easy pickings.

"Fire, fire!" I scream, adjusting. "Blast twelve papa! Blast twelve papa!"