Blitzed(39)

Some of what I yell is bullshit, meant to draw off the other team. The only part that matters are the words 'fire' and 'twelve,' which resets the linemen back from their zone stuff scheme to basic smash mouth football, and that I'm going in right behind them. We need to punch these guys in the mouth, get them on their heels before they can settle into a comfortable pattern, and grind down the newbies I'm surrounded by.

The ball snaps, and I blitz, ripping through the guard's grip before he can get pressure on me. The quarterback is mobile, but he called a straight drop back pass, and my helmet catches him in the middle of his back before he can do much more than roll and try and protect the football. We crunch to the ground, and the quarterback collapses underneath my weight, groaning in pain as he does. I roll off, walking back toward the huddle while our home crowd roars and the other guys look on. I look back and see that the quarterback is still down, holding his right wrist in pain.

My part of the game is over, and Coach pulls me out, looking at me in a bit of wonder before sending in my replacement. The game's in hand, and now it's time to try and unload before seeing Whitney.

After five years . . . Whitney.





Chapter 13





Whitney





"So what did you think of your first live football game, Lorenzo?"

Laurie's only five, but she talks like someone a lot older than you’d think. She still eats like a five-year-old. The remnants of her spaghetti and meatballs stain her face on both sides of her mouth, and I think that's a speck of Parmesan in her hair, although it's hard to tell.

"It was quite different from what I'd expected," Lorenzo replies, sipping at his wine. "The crowd was smaller than I thought there would be."

"Pre-season games are almost always light sellers," I explain, sitting back and watching my daughter finish her spaghetti before our desserts arrive. "The fans kind of know that for most of the game, the players won’t be trying their fullest, especially the starters. They're there to get live practice in, and since the game doesn't count for the standings, they relax. It's a long eighteen weeks of real games they've got ahead of them before the playoffs start, and they only get two weeks off during that time."

"I see. Still, it was entertaining. Too much pausing for my taste, but I expected that after you two made me sit through the videos."

“Troy kicked ass, Mama!"

"Laurie Nelson, who taught you to talk like that?" I ask in semi-outrage.

"It was in that movie we watched," Laurie says, giving me her most angelic smile. She's so like Troy that it's hard to deny her anything, especially after seeing him today, and she knows that she can use her good looks to her advantage, and not just with me. She's hard to control that way. "You know, the one with the aliens who sucked the people's faces?"

"Yeah . . . I thought we said we weren't going to copy what they said in that movie too?" I remind her, and I can't help but smile. My daughter's got a mind like a steel trap, and very few things escape the sponge than is her brain unless she wants to ignore them. "Remember, I said that it's not polite to talk that way?"

"Okay, Mama," Laurie half-pouts, but then brightens. “He was awesome! Why can't he do that every game?"

"Because there are a lot of big, mean men who are trying to stop me," a voice behind me says, and my head whips around. It's hard to breathe again as Troy comes up, his hair a little shorter than he wore it in high school, and his shoulders a little wider, his chest a little more muscular, but still . . . that smile, those intense blue eyes . . . it's hard to breathe. "I take it you enjoyed the game?"

"Uh-huh!" Laurie nods, yelling in her excitement. She doesn't know it, but it's the first time she's really met her father, and already, I can see she's entranced with him. It's easy to see why as Troy squats down next to her chair, pulling his left hand from behind his back, where he'd been holding a football. "What's that?"

"I remember that when I talked to you in the stands, I promised you something for you too, and not just your mama," Troy says, handing the football to her. "The team lets me keep footballs that I return for touchdowns, and I thought there's nobody I'd like to give it to more than the cute little girl who helped me on the field by cheering so loudly for me."

"Wow . . .” Laurie says, entranced as her tiny hands try to hold the pro-sized ball. "You wrote on it?"

"Uh-huh," Troy says, staying squatting. "It says 'To Laurie, thanks for the big help, Troy Wood.' Sorry if my handwriting is a bit messy. It's hard to write on leather with a pen."

"Can I play with it?" Laurie asks, and I have to hide my chuckle. A normal fan would probably have immediately socked the ball away as a keepsake, hoping to maybe sell it on EBay some day. Laurie's a five-year-old kid. She sees a new ball she can try and play with.

"If you want," Troy says with a laugh, "but it's a little big for you right now. Maybe start with a smaller one first, one that you can hold easier."

"Would you join us, Troy?" I ask, nodding at the fourth chair. "After all, when you give away things like that, the least we can do is offer you coffee."