Rushed(59)

“Pass along to the security and to April . . . after the game, I don't care what happens, I want her on the field after they do the whole handshake and stuff. I need to tell her something important.”

Francine gives me a grin and nods. “All right. Should I be excited or sad?”

“You should go cheer your ass off, I'm planning on lighting up the scoreboard,” I tell her instead, pulling on my helmet.

We go on offense first, and jogging out to the huddle, I can see the questions in everyone's eyes. “No worries guys, let's light this shit up.”

I take the snap from Dave and drop back, looking left then right, reading the defense. The Vancouver guys are playing it cocky, a little soft in the zone, thinking that after losing to them last time, we'd be rattled. This is a different group of Fighters . . . this is a different me.

Robbie's covered, but Paul has a step on his man, and I throw, hitting him just as he turns back on his hook route. He grabs the ball, but then does something even I didn't expect. He fights off the d-back and turns upfield, stiff arming another before getting taken down after a twenty yard gain.

The next play is a run, and I hand off to Bobby, who slashes through the right side for a four yard gain, setting up second and six.

It's the game of my life, and if I think that normal Canadian football is like a video game, we play that first half like kids in a park. Every off your rocker, brain addled play that we can come up with, we do. The Vancouver defense is looking at us like we're insane, they don't know how to react to this group of twelve psychopaths who seem to have taken over for the Toronto Fighters offense.

Our defense is just as free, attacking with tricks and hard nosed hits that puts BC on its heels. Their quarterback, the League MVP just last year, is running for his life most of the half, harassed and even getting picked off twice, something that doesn't happen often for us.

At the half, we're already up twenty-eight to nothing. Three touchdown passes and one TD reception in a single half. It's the sort of game that you dream about.

In the locker room at half time, I go up to Coach Blanchard, who's smiling while he talks adjustments with the other coaches for the second half. “Hey, Coach?”

“Tyler . . . hell of a good first half.”

“I'm sure Trisha James and the other media's spewing over it now,” I reply with a laugh. “Can you send a message up to Mr. Larroquette, please? After the game, I'd like to have a quick meeting with him in the middle of the field. You, me, the GM . . . and April. We've got something to talk about.”

Coach nods, and grows serious. “Tyler… you've been a pain in the ass with your off the field issues, but you're one hell of a quarterback. I'm going to miss coaching you.”

Coach offers his hand and I shake, keeping my thoughts to myself as I head back to my locker. I can see the questions in the eyes of my teammates still, but I have put a plan in motion, and I'm not going to stop it no matter what.

The second half is a turkey shoot, and by the end I match my career highs in yardage, touchdown passes, and best of all, the Fighters win seventy to twenty-one. I cross the field to shake hands with the BC players, even Chris Liu, who played hard but was contained in the loss. “Good game, Tyler.”

“Chris. You played hard. We just had it today.”

He nods, and we go our separate ways. The field is ours right now, although out of respect for the BC team, I avoid stepping on their logo for the next part of my plan. I see April and pull her into a hug, careful not to crush her with my pads. “I missed you.”

“It was one night, and the way you lit it up today, I should leave you alone more often,” she teases, hugging me back. “Tyler . . . about that . . .”

I shake my head and take her hand. “Hold off on what you've got to say for five minutes, okay? Trust me, just five minutes.”

April's uncertain, but she nods slowly after looking in my eyes, and I give her a reassuring smile. “No matter what, I love you, okay?”

“Okay,” she says with more heart than before, and I hold her hand while I look for the GM and Coach. Blanchard’s giving a quick interview to some television people while the GM is right behind him, his eyes flickering over to me while I come over with April.

“Coach, great game,” I congratulate him. “I'll never forget this one.”

“Tyler, like I said at halftime, it's been an honor.”

The camera crew has turned the cameras to me now, and I couldn't set it up any more perfectly if I'd planned it. “Actually Coach, the honor is mine. Mr. Larroquette, do you have a pen on you?”

“Ah . . . sure,” the GM says. “What for?”

“For this,” I say, reaching into my helmet. I'd gone back into the team offices Thursday before packing, grabbing the paper that I pulled out now, wrapped in the sandwich baggie that I'd used to keep it protected from the sweat that soaks my hair. “This is the paper you showed me the other day in your office.”

I unwrap the paper, and spread it out on the side of my helmet. Uncapping the pen, I scribbled my signature on the line, and hand it to him. “I'm a Fighter for the next five years, Mr. Larroquette. Please inform Baltimore that I'm turning down their offer.”

There's a stunned silence as I hold the paper out to him, but the first person to break it is April, who sort of squeals before wrapping me up in a hug. “Really?”