Blitzed(55)

"The Bahamas? I like the sound of that," Whitney says. We're quiet for a while before she speaks again. "By the way, Cory told me you asked him about a trust fund? I guess that was for Laurie?"

"Yep. Regardless of what you just told me, or if Laurie accepted me or not, I’m going to take care of my daughter. I won't spoil her. I know you want my help in fixing that, but she's going to have a nice sum when she turns twenty."

"Why twenty?" Whitney asks.

"Just a good, round number," I reply. “You know, I don’t want to rush it, but sometime, maybe in the off season," I add with a laugh, "I'm going to ask you guys to move in with me."

"I know," Whitney says. "And when you do, I will say yes. But until then, Mom loves having us, and Laurie loves her grandmother. Let's give it some time for her to develop that relationship with her father, too."

"Sounds like paradise to me."



"At least we're a little bit lucky," Coach Claxon, our linebackers coach, says as the six rostered and four practice squad members of the Hawks linebacker corps meets around a conference table for our Monday positional meetings before starting practice at four thirty. "It's the Sunday night TV game, which means that the sun will at least be partially down when we step on the field. Kickoff's at six local time."

"Don't they have a roof on that thing?" Shawn, one of outside linebackers, asks. "Seriously, it's f*cking Arizona."

"They do, and it's currently being repaired after an electrical problem with a rock concert last week blew out both of the motors that control the movement of the roof," Coach says, causing us all to groan. "So it's going to be hydro fans and electrolyte loading all game, gentlemen. If you pee your pants, just think of it as another way to cool off your legs. Hey, at least you aren't going to be the poor schmucks in the stands. The folks on the east side and catching the sun are going to roast before the second half starts."

"Now, moving on from that, Arizona's got a new look to their offense this year. You guys know they brought in a new offensive coordinator, and while we know what he liked to call at his old job, he's not revealed a lot to us so far in the pre-season. We're expecting that he's going to play a lot of spread—"

There's a knock at the door, and one of the coaching assistants—rookie coaches who are so far down the ladder in the coaching echelon that they don't even have job titles, just a lot of gofer and fill-in work—sticks his head in. "Coach Claxon? Sorry to interrupt, but there's someone here to see Troy Wood."

"If it's not Whitney or my daughter, tell them to wait or take a message," I answer before Coach can blow up at the poor assistant, who is obviously nervous. "Rules are rules, and we've got work to do."

"I understand that, but the facility staff is having a hard time with him."

"Then call the damn cops on him. Have security escort him out of the building!" Coach Claxon says. "Unless you want to tell Head Coach why my linebackers got out of our meeting late?"

The assistant is nearly stammering now, and I feel for the guy. He's just graduated college, and most of the players are older than he is. In fact, I'm the only player in the room that’s younger than he is, if only by a year or so. "Coach, I get that but . . . well, he says he is Troy's father."

My pen clatters on the table as it tumbles from my fingers, and I sit there, stunned. My father?

Coach Claxon looks over then considers it. "Troy, you’ve got ten minutes. Get him off the property before he gets arrested, okay? You know HC won't hesitate. We'll go over the nickel packages while you're out."

"Thanks, Coach. Sorry, guys," I say, getting up and following the assistant out of the room. Coach Claxon cut me some slack, but since I'm not slotted in any of the nickel packages unless both of the outside linebackers get hurt, it's not too bad. I follow the assistant, who’s noticeably relieved, and he leads me toward the practice field. "How long has he been here?"

"I was helping the kickers with their stretch work when he showed up," he says. "I'll be honest with you Troy. If he is your father, he looks like hell."

"I'm not surprised."

We don't say anything else until we reach the outer offices, where I see Dad surrounded by two security guards, one of them with his hand on his Taser.

"It's all right, guys, I'll walk him out," I say to the two guards. "Thanks for your patience."

"Whatever you say, Troy," one guard says, sticking to the protocol that they’re supposed to. Mr. Wood was the worthless bastard sitting in the chair, not me. "Coach is supposed to be here in five minutes though."

"We'll be out of here by then," I say. I look down at Dad, trying not to sneer. "Come on. We can talk on the way. That is what you wanted, isn't it?"

He gets to his feet, and I can see for the first time how different he looks. He's dropped at least twenty pounds, and his skin hangs in laps and wattles, with a rough, sandpapery texture that reveals a ton of exploded capillaries in a gnarly map of red lines. "What're you doing here, Dad? After getting out of jail, you didn't come back, and I figured you were out of my life."