Rushed(36)

“About five minutes ago, enough time to see her hit on you, and you burn that note,” she says, trying not to grin. “I got your chorizo.”

“I thought you told me you sent her to get goose sausage?” Larroquette asks with a smirk. He's not that dumb. “Either way, get some sleep, you'll need it. You’re going up against a great defense.”

He leaves, and I look at April, who's broken out in a smile as soon as he’s gone. Coming over, she puts her arms around my neck and gives me a kiss. “That, if you don't know, was the sexiest, most romantic thing I think any man has ever done for me. Not too many girls can say that their hunk of a boyfriend actually burned Trisha James' phone number. Especially when she had those huge boobs in your face.”

“She tried,” I tease, patting her butt, “How's your folks?”

“Dad's doing better, he's back in the home, and Mom had a good day today. She thought I was still in high school, but at least she recognized me. How're you feeling for tomorrow?”

“Good. I was just going to head home, will you join me?”

“I've got just a little bit of paperwork to turn in on these trips, since this is the end of the month. If I don't get them in, the accounting people get their panties in a twist,” April says with a chuckle. “So I'll head back to the office first. I'll be home by nine though.”

“Great, I'll pick up some butter chicken curry from that place down on the corner, we can relax.”

April smiles and gives me another kiss. “Just relax is right, mister. Remember, women weaken legs.”

She leaves, and I watch her go, smiling wistfully at the sight of her butt in her new jeans. Even April's clothes are changing, and she isn't hiding her figure as much as she used to.

I hear a hum behind me and I turn, seeing Trisha James sipping at a cup of what smells like coffee with an amused look on her face. “Well, at least I can see my number was burned for good reason.”

“A good one. I don’t suppose you can keep this one off your show?”

Trisha laughs and nods. “We cover football — not dating. Unless you do something on the field or involving the cops or something warranting a press release, we don't mess with it. Best of luck with that though, she looks like a nice girl.”

A producer calls out her name and she turns her head and waves. “That's my cue. Take care of yourself tomorrow.”

I nod and head out of the studio, hoping to catch up with April before she's left the parking lot, but I don't see her when I get out there. I shrug and head over to my Mustang, and put my keys in the door. “Excuse me, Tyler Paulson?”

I turn and see a guy in a sport coat and jeans, and he doesn't look like a fan wanting an autograph. Still, he doesn't look like a psycho either. “Yes, I'm Tyler Paulson. How can I help you?”

The guy whips out an envelope, and hands it to me. “Thanks. You've been served.”

He turns and walks away while I stand there, stunned, looking down at the envelope in my hand. Served? As in . . . a lawsuit?

My fingers tremble as I open the envelope, and unfold the notice inside. Ontario Court of Justice, the concern of Tyler Paulson vs. Catherine Paulinski and Greta Lawson in the matter of paternity and child support . . .

I blink, a pit in my stomach. Catherine Paulinski? Greta Lawson? Who the f*ck are they?



Third quarter, and I'm flat out stinking up the joint. Overthrown passes, underthrown passes, bad reads, it doesn't matter, if I can f*ck it up, I've done it so far this game. Through two and a half quarters I'm ten out of twenty-four passes, zero touchdowns with an interception. At least the defense has found their balls a little bit, and we got a lucky punt return that has kept us in the game. We're down by seven, seventeen to ten.

The problem is, I can't get that envelope out of my head. Two women, both claiming I had unprotected sex with them two months ago, both claiming they're now pregnant. I mean, first, what are the f*cking odds? And to have it happen just before April and I started seeing each other . . . what are the f*cking odds?

“Tyler? HEY, TYLER!”

Something smacks me in the head, and I look up to see Dave Hawk looking me in the eye. “Call the play, man.”

Play? Oh yeah, the play.

I call the play, break the huddle, and everyone gets into position. I settle into shotgun, and read the defense. Well, there's twelve guys out there, I can count still at least.

Dave snaps the ball, and chaos erupts. Bobby comes across like he's expecting a hand-off, but it's not there, while Paul and Robbie are running crossing wiggle routes that end up getting both of them into what is essentially double coverage. DeAndre’s getting jammed, and oh shit, here comes the linebacker . . .

I take off, running like a scared rabbit for the nearest hole I can find. There's a hint of daylight up ahead, and maybe I can squeeze through for some gain . . .

I don't even feel the hit, it's so fast and violent. I just know suddenly I'm flying sideways, knocked totally off my feet with something wrapped around my waist. The grass comes up hard, jarring me, and my helmet bounces off the ground, stunning me. I somehow held onto the ball at least, but it takes me a moment to get up.

It's third down, and Coach sends out the punt team. I get over to the sidelines, where he's giving me the hairy eyeball. “What the f*ck was that?” he asks while the punt goes on and our defense takes over. “I called for triple slants, not that Keystone Kops Cluster Fuck.”