Blitzed(60)

I was shocked and elated the night before when, getting home from the stadium, I found Whitney and Laurie both waiting outside. "Daddy!"

"Baby girl, what are you doing here?" I ask, surprised. "I mean, I'm happy, but . . . Whitney?"

"Laurie asked, and I agreed that if you were okay with it, maybe the two of us could have a sleepover at her daddy's house," Whitney said, and so we did. Whitney even joined me in bed, although she knew that I was too sore and exhausted to do much more than curl up, hold her in her pale mint silk pajamas, and go to sleep. Now, lying on the couch, I’m slowly trying to recover enough to get up and do something.

"Wood's play on any other team would be considered inspirational, and certainly leadership material," the talking head on the TV rattles on, Laurie eating up the replays of the highlights of the game. "I mean, nine tackles, a sack and enough punishing hits to any receiver who entered his zone that the only time the Bolts threw over the middle was when he was out of the game. Frankly, if it wasn't for the fact that Troy Wood only played about half of the defensive downs for the Hawks, he would’ve reached Madden-like numbers. So let me ask you, if Troy Wood keeps this up, are we looking at a potential defensive player of the year?"

Even I raise my head at that, blinking in surprise. I know I'm having a great start to my season, but player of the year? "It's hard to tell. We’ve been around the League for a long time. I mean, I was retired before Troy was even born. We both know it’s a little early to be talking about that, but he’s certainly well on his way if he keeps it up.”

"True. And of course, if the offense can start to string together some series and keep the defense off the field, it'll give them the ability to not spend nearly forty minutes on the field on a weekly basis."

Forty minutes, nearly two-thirds of the game. Jesus, no wonder I feel like I've been in a series of car accidents. "Laurie, I know you like the replays, but can you turn it down, baby girl? It makes me embarrassed to listen to these guys make me sound so awesome."

"But you are awesome, Daddy," Laurie says, still turning down the television and watching every second of it as if she knows everything they’re saying. "Mama says so too."

I hear the shower in the back turn off, and I smile, knowing that if it weren’t for the pain in my body, I'd be back there with Whitney if only to look at her. Still, the idea of her luscious body under the warm spray of my shower sends a little twitch down below, and I find the energy to at least push myself up to a sitting position on the couch. "That may be, but do you know what having a big head means?"

“It means you need a bigger helmet?"

I can't help it. Her innocence makes me smile. The point of view when you are five. "Not quite. No, having a big head means when you start thinking you’re more awesome than you really are. You start to forget there are always things you can do better.”

"What's—" Laurie starts, but before she can finish her next question— she seems to have a million of them every time we're together, and I find that I'm more patient with them than I thought I'd be—there's a knock at the door, and she pops to her feet, already running to the door. "I got it!"

I get up while Laurie opens the door, stopping halfway up when I hear Laurie's voice. "Wood residence, can I—"

"So you're the little parasite," a slurry, drunken voice says, and suddenly, Laurie is running back to me, her eyes wide with fright, and she leaps into my arms, yelling in fear. In the back of the house, I hear Whitney drop her comb and her bare feet running on the carpet, emerging from the back still only half-dressed, stopping when my father staggers his way down the hall. "Hey, sugar tits."

"What—who?"

I cross the living room, putting myself between Dad and Whitney, and hand Laurie to her. "Go to the bedroom and call the cops. It's my father.”

I'm surprisingly calm saying this, and Whitney nods, her eyes full of concern and fright, but holding our daughter, she finds the courage and strength to retreat at least semi-calmly while Laurie cries on her shoulder. I turn around, not saying anything until the door closes. "What the f*ck are you doing here?"

"I came for some more help," Dad slurs, and at this distance, I can smell it. He reeks, and his clothes are filthy, encrusted with what looks like puke and maybe some blood. "For my medicine."

"You need to get the hell out of here before the cops show up,” I say, trying to maintain my calm. "Get out, and don't you ever come back.”

"This is my f*cking house, and you are my f*cking son, you worthless piece of shit!" Dad yells, trying to bully me. Maybe it worked when I was in high school, but this is now, and I have a woman and a daughter whom I have to protect. "You bring them in, give them the good life because she gives you some anchor baby, and leave me in the cold? Fuck you, you worthless piece of shit!” Now that he’s back drunk again, he’s back to his favorite line—you worthless piece of shit.

"Randall. Leave. Now," I say again, my voice going hard. "You and me? We're done. You may have contributed some DNA and a last name to me, but you aren't my father. You never have been. I should have known better. Now get out."

Dad swings drunkenly, and I catch his arm, twisting it behind him in a little self-defense move I remember from a freshman PE class I took at Clement, and grab him by the scruff of the neck and the wrist. Lifting him up to his tiptoes, I escort him to the door, which is still standing open. Reaching the front lawn, I literally throw him out of the house, where he lands in a heap on the lawn.