Rushed(49)

April, who's already packed, comes over and takes my hand. “Why didn't you say anything? The team could have taken a look at it.”

“And given Larroquette another reason to fire me?” I ask harshly. “April, I'm trying to keep my job, not lose it. I happen to like it here in Toronto, you know.”

“Really?” she asks, brightening. “So you're not just marking time until the NFL comes calling?”

I shake my head. “I still want to play down south,” I admit, “but I can't do that if I get fired from here. But also, I want to complete this season. I like the guys, and more importantly . . . I want you to come with me, regardless of where I play.”

April hugs me, but there's a little sadness in her eyes as she steps back. “What about my parents?”

“We'll take care of them,” I reassure her, “somehow.”

On the plane ride she and I sit in separate aisles, a team rule that the team sits together, and we even sleep in separate hotel rooms, which is perhaps the one thing I hate most about away games. For home games I can go to sleep Friday night with her in my arms, none of this “saving strength” bullshit for the game. I mean, we don't get intimate on Friday nights, but it's still nice to have the woman I love to warm the spot next to me in bed.

Warming up, I’m glad about one thing playing in Canada. It's barely the first week of September, but the weather is already cool and comfortable, with temperatures in the low seventies in the sun, and cooler along the sidelines where the stadium construction puts everything in shadow. “How're you feeling?”

I look over at Vince, who's wearing a glove on his throwing hand for the first time. “Not bad. What's with the glove?”

He flexes his hand a little, looking down with regret and a sort of bitter good humor. “Getting old, and the rheumatism is starting to kick up a little, especially in my right hand. I'll wear the glove for the rest of the season. Started it last year, but it screws with my grip a little, so I only do it starting in September. Main reason I'm retiring, actually. Heart's still willing, the body isn't quite able any longer.”

“Hmm . . . looks like both of the Fighters' QBs are running a bit gimpy then. Guess I'll just have to tough it out.”

“Do your best,” Vince reassures me. “I'm sure it'll be fine.”

The game starts, and we go on defense first. With a week of rest, the defense is prepped and ready, and I'm happy when they hold the Montreal offense to just a single first down before they punt.

Our first play is a play action pass, and I fake a hand-off to Bobby who releases on a Pound route, running through the line like he's still got the ball. If he's still standing, he'll run to my backside flat, but I'm looking for Paul and Robbie. Robbie's got a window, and I let my pass go. My finger flares, but I grit my teeth through the pain.

Unfortunately, gritting my teeth doesn't help my pass fly any better, and while Robbie hauls it in for eight yards, the pass flutters just enough that he's not able to get any extra yardage. Shit.

It's the pattern for the rest of the first half. Most of my throws, while close enough that the guys are catching them, are just a little off. They're jumping up for balls that float, overextending or holding up, breaking stride enough that they're getting hit as soon as they catch the ball. We score a touchdown and a field goal, but that's it.

Meanwhile, after a promising start, the defense is getting hammered again. They give up two touchdowns and barely prevent a third when time expires on the first half and we go into the locker room down fourteen to ten.

Sitting on my stool, I flex my hand, looking at my knuckle which is starting to swell. I may need to check off and do some running the second half, there's no way I can throw another twenty-five passes in the second half.

“How're you doing, Tyler?” Coach asks, squatting down in front of me. “Your throws have been off all week.”

“We can use some more runs this half,” I admit. “I think I banged my hand.”

Coach nods. “Right. During the second quarter with that sack, right?”

Yeah . . . during the sack. I don't say anything, and Coach lets me get away with it. “Well, we'll see. Tyler . . . don't let what the GM said Monday get to you. He's more of a PR man than anything else. You don't need to sweat it.”

“I'm not. Honest, Coach. I'm busting my ass out there, just my grip isn't quite right.”

“You want the docs to take a look at it? Vince can start the second half.”

I shake my head, there's no way a starting QB gives up his slot unless he's about ready to die. Some people consider us the prissy princes of football, but the fact is, you try sitting calmly in a pocket while a bunch of defensive linemen are coming for your ass, and then letting a pass go a half second before one of those giants tries to rip your spine out the hard way. “No. I'll tough it out.”

Coach leaves, and I focus for the rest of halftime, making sure that when we get the ball, that I'm ready. We're only four points down, we can make that up with one good drive.

The offense gets a lucky break on the kickoff, as Bobby is able to take the ball all the way to the fifty, only getting pushed out on a last ditch diving shove from the kicker. Going out to the huddle, I put the pain aside and look around at the guys. “Okay, Bobby got us started, let's punch it quick, push these guy's shit in quickly.”