Rushed(48)

“You might be surprised,” Tyler whispers. “But you’re right. Let's get some rest. I’ve got an angry coach to deal with tomorrow.”





Chapter 17





Tyler





“You got yourself arrested.”

It's not a question, more like a statement of fact, and as I look over at Coach and Mr. Larroquette, I can see them already getting ready to not believe whatever I'm going to say.

“Yes. I was arrested.” I'm sitting in one of the two office chairs on this side of the GM's desk, the scabs on my right hand hidden under my left. There isn't much bruising, but the knuckles themselves are ugly, brown with ugly scabbing. I hadn't noticed it last night, but then again, I was distracted by other things. There is some pain though, which worries me.

“On assault charges.”

“Yes.”

Mr. L. sighs and runs his right hand through his rapidly receding hairline. I wonder if he does that all the time, which is why his hair is in full scale retreat up his skull. “That's two fights you've had in less than half a season, Tyler. This is one that brings the League into it as well.”

“I understand that sir, but I didn't throw the first punch.”

“Yes, Miss Gray has told me as much,” Coach says, “which is why you're not getting suspended immediately. We've talked with the League offices in Montreal, and while they've suspended and fined you according to League policy, those punishments are being delayed until the court case is settled.”

“So in other words, if I cop a plea or get found guilty, I'm going to be suspended and fined.”

“Actually,” Mr. L. says, “if you're found guilty, you're going to be fired. Clause twenty-eight in your contract gives the team the right to terminate your contract with no penalty if you are found to be in violation of Canadian criminal law.”

Shit. I knew I should have read that contract more closely, not that I would’ve thought that through in the moment. “Sir, I understand that you're angry, but I didn't do anything wrong. He swung first, he was being abusive to April, and I didn't just jump on him. In fact, once he was down, I backed off.”

“Perhaps, but in any case, this is your warning. The team will collect your potential fine from the League in advance, holding it until a determination has been made. If the charges are dropped or you are found not guilty, you'll get the money released to you.”

I nod in understanding. However, at the moment my mind isn't on the money, but on two other things. First, that I could be fired. While I may not want to stay here in Canada for good, getting fired isn't going to help me get a shot with the NFL. Second though, is my hand. My pinky finger on my right hand is killing me, and it's been that way since waking up yesterday morning in the hotel. While it's not as bad as f*cking up my thumb, any sort of injury to a quarterback's hand is not what I want to deal with. “I understand. Let's just win some games in the meantime.”

“This game is going to be important, Tyler. Montreal is in the Eastern Division, and we need to beat them to maintain number one position for the playoffs.”

“Another bye for the playoffs will be nice,” I agree. “I'll get it done, Coach. Don't worry about it.”

The problem is, I'm not getting it done in practice. I try a bunch of different grips, but without my pinky finger being able to put that little bit on the ball, everything's going wobbly, especially if I have to throw over fifteen yards. Vince pulls me aside about halfway through practice, concerned.

“You okay? You're putting up ducks today. I think Pierre's going to go get his shotgun, he's from Manitoba you know. They do duck hunting all the time.”

“Yeah, I'll be okay. I think I've just got a blister or something, I'll adjust.”

He gives me a wary look, but nods. “Nothing to do with the fight? That hand doesn't look too good. ”

I roll my eyes, this guy's got more information than the CIA. “No. Jesus, does everyone know?”

“That you got arrested? It was on the TV earlier. Trisha James is getting plenty of airtime out of it,” Vince says with a chuckle. “I bet that some of your American friends might even hear about it. All right, rest the hand, try some light passes. I'll talk to Coach, take some more snaps with the first team offense. You sure you'll be able to gut it out for Saturday?”

“Damn right I will. If Larroquette's going to fire me, then I'm for damn sure going to prove that he's f*cking up by doing so.”

Vince nods. “Good old Clause 28. Yeah, he's a bastard with that one, eh?”

I raise an eyebrow and look over at a grinning Vince. “Did you just give me an 'eh'? Next thing you know, you'll be calling someone a hoser.”

Vince shakes his head and adjusts his pants. “The only hose I need to worry about is down here. Chill out, work with some of the scout team guys on getting your passes down again, and we'll be good.”

For the rest of the week, I take it easy in my throwing in practice, to the point that April notices. Friday morning, as we get ready to go to the airport for the game in Montreal, she confronts me about it. “Your hand is hurt.”

“Yeah,” I admit, stuffing my lucky pink undies into my bag. “Pinky finger's still messed up. After about five or ten throws, the joint starts to ache all to hell.”