Rushed(35)

“Yes, I'd say a good start would be an understatement. Still, some say the Fighters have benefited by having three of your first four games be essentially home games, with the farthest you've had to travel being Ottawa in week three. However, starting after tomorrow's home game against Winnipeg, you're going to be on the road for the next month, except for a bye week.”

“I'll admit, playing in front of friendly home fans has been helpful,” I say before Trisha can get out a question. “But I'm confident in our team's ability to play well on the road too.”

“Even with a defense that's giving up nearly thirty-three points a game?” Trisha asks, and I could practically hear Mr. Larroquette groan in frustration. Yeah . . . our defense sucks. Unfortunately for the GM, his gamble of blowing the budget to get me signed meant that the young players on the defensive side of the ball haven't had the chance to learn from seasoned vets that command higher prices. They've taken some injuries too, and we've had to actually sign some guys on free agent contracts just to keep the squad filled up. Still, if we can keep the injury bug off them more than they have been, we'll have a tremendous defense come the last few games of the season.

“Well, I know the GM may not like me talking about our defense,” I say playfully, letting Trisha think that she's got me, “but I think that these guys are tremendously talented. I played against a lot of guys who are now playing pro ball, and I'd match the heart of those guys up against our defense any day. Someday soon, they're going to click, and I feel bad for the quarterback that has to play against our defense the day that happens. They're going to be in for a long, long day.”

Trisha smirks, and I know that while I disobeyed orders, I don't think even he could be upset with my answers. “And what about you, Tyler? There's still fourteen weeks left in the season, after all. Do you think you can keep up this record setting pace the whole year?”

“It's going to be a long season, of course. But I'm excited, I feel good, and I hope to keep making progress. We'll see.”

“Last question, if you don't mind. Are there any games that you're not looking forward to?”

I'd expected this one, and laugh. “Yeah . . . week eighteen at Edmonton. I'm a California boy, I've always hated cold weather games. Playing a team called the Inuits in November has me packing my extra sweater already.”

Trisha laughs. “Well, good luck tomorrow. Thanks for joining us.”

“Thanks for having me.”

She turns back to the camera, all professional. “When we come back football fans, Owen and Mick are going to break down all four of tomorrow's games, and I'll have our in-depth story on Jim Collins of the Calgary Sabercats, who's remarkable comeback from near career-ending injury is inspiring others around the country.”

“And we're out!” the producer says in a moment, and Trisha's professional smile turns to a predatory one as she looks back at me.

“Nice interview. You handled my defense question well.”

“I figured you'd be asking about it. A good QB prepares for the opposition.”

She gives me a half smile, cocking an eyebrow. “Is that what I am? The opposition?”

“The press and the players have always had a sort of semi-symbiotic, semi-confrontational relationship,” I reply, using words that I've not used since some of my college classes. Honestly, who in daily life uses the term symbiotic? “I need you to help my public image, you need me to make ratings. Not that we won't take advantage of each other any chance we can.”

“Taking advantage of me is just what I had in mind,” Trisha says, scribbling on a piece of paper. “Here. I'm staying in town for the weekend, we'll be hosting live coverage of the game tomorrow. Say . . . drinks, after the game?”

I take the paper and see that she's written her hotel and room number, along with a phone number that I assume is hers on it. “Sorry, but I'm taken. Flattered, for sure . . . but not available.”

“Well, you think about it,” Trisha says, giving me a saucy look as she gets up. “Think about it,” she repeats

The producers are getting ready to bring the show back for the two guys who are getting ready for their game by game breakdown. I adjust my tie and get up, going off the set to where I see Mr. L standing, his lips pursed but he's nodding. “Not a canned answer.”

“Still a good one,” I reply, looking at the piece of paper in my hands. “Hey, you're a smoker, right?”

“Yeah,” Mr. Larroquette says, “as much as my wife gets on my ass about quitting, I can't help it on game days, I've gotta have my stogies. Why?”

“You got a lighter or some matches on you?”

He reaches into his coat pocket and comes out with an ornate Zippo, lots of scrollwork etched into the steel sides. He offers it, and I go over to the snack table, where there's an empty bowl that someone left behind. Flicking the spark wheel, I get a flame, and set the piece of paper on fire, dropping it in the bowl once it's fully ignited. “Why'd you do that?”

“Some things are more important than freaky sportscasters,” I explain, only to be interrupted by a cough behind us. I turn and see April standing there, her arms crossed and her leg cocked to the side. “Hi. When did you get back?”