The Baller: A Down and Dirty Football Novel(7)

Easton beamed and promptly dropped his towel.

We went live. “So. Congrats on another big win this week. And on your rushing touchdown.”

“Thank you.”

I held his eyes for a few seconds, then deliberately dropped my gaze—right to his manhood. “It was a short run. What, about four inches?”

“Oh no. It was definitely more than four inches. I’d say at least twelve inches.”

“I believe the official stat is four inches. Men and their fish stories,” I chided.

Easton’s smirk got a little less smirky. And it was laced with indignation. I was happy. Clearly, he wasn’t. “Tell me, what did you change in the second half? Before halftime, it looked like you were having trouble with your passing game. Wren Jacobs even swatted two of your attempts to pass the ball to Daryl Breezy. Were you just having trouble getting it up?”

Easton’s eyes narrowed. “No. I wasn’t having trouble getting it up. I just needed better protection. Coach made some changes at halftime, which plugged up the gaps we were showing in our offensive line. Once the protection was there, I was able to slide ‘em right in.” Just as I had done, Easton held my gaze for a few seconds, then looked down, taking my eyes with him. My controlled interview went to hell the second I realized he was getting aroused.

When I looked back up, he was smiling like a Cheshire cat. Then he took control of my interview again. “Bruce Harness did an outstanding job today. That punt block at the start of the second half changed the momentum.”

“That block made him break into the top ten of career punt block leaders,” I responded.

Easton’s smirk disappeared. He looked surprised I knew the statistics for punt blocks off the top of my head.

“That’s right. Five more and he could clinch the record for all-time best punt blocker.”

“Six more,” I corrected him.

“Five.”

“Six.”

“Five.”

“Herman Weaver, nineteen seventy to nineteen eighty. Started with Detroit, ended with the Seahawks. Fourteen blocked punts. Harness has nine. He needs six more to break the record.” Easton opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. I’d regained control of my interview. “One last question?” I turned and saw the line of impatient reporters behind me. “Is your knee ready to face the first-place Chargers next week out in California?”

“Will you be there to cover it?”

“I will.”

“Then you can count on me being ready.”





Chapter 4


Brody

“Go long!”

Grouper’s mop clanked to the floor, and he started limp-jogging down the long hallway. Shannon, the nurse in charge of the day shift, walked by, shaking her head. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen us doing shit like this . . . we’d been screwing around since Grouper had bite in his step. Hip surgery had slowed the geezer down a few years ago. Now my passes were more of a lob than a bullet.

“He’s sixty-nine years old,” Shannon called over her shoulder. “You’re going to give that sweet old man a heart attack someday.” I caught her smiling as she continued on.

When Grouper made it to the far end of the hall, I sent the ball spiraling sixty feet until it fell directly into his hands.

“I still got it.” He headed back toward me.

“You never had it. I set that ball into your palms.”

“Bullshit. You can’t throw for crap. Everyone knows a pass is only as good as the intended receiver.”

“Does Little Guppy know how disrespectful his grandpa is to his idol?”

“Pfft. Idol. I’m his damn idol.”

The eight-year-old Grouper was a huge football fan and an even bigger Brody Easton fan. For his last birthday, I’d stopped by the kid’s party. He was so excited, he actually cried when he saw me. That got me a few weeks of ball-busting material to use on Grouper senior.

I stopped at the nurses’ station. “How was her week?”

“It was a good week, actually,” Shannon said. “She wants to go shopping. Says she needs new underwear, even though she has a drawer full.”

“So have the aide take her shopping.”

“You want me to have the aide take her on an outing that will cost you an extra three hundred dollars, plus the cost of the underwear, even though she has forty pairs already.”

“Will it make her happy?”

“I suppose.”

“Then, yep.”

She smiled. “I’ll schedule it for this week.”

I found Marlene in her room watching a rerun of The Price Is Right. The show was playing Bullseye, where you had to add up the total cost of a bunch of different items to come to a certain total.

“Hi, Marlene.”

“Shhh.”

She had a pad and pencil, and her shaky hand was furiously jotting down prices as they showed each item. Bob Barker held up a gallon of milk and I sneaked a peek at her scribble. Fifteen cents. Okay, so I had an idea what year we were in today.

She wasn’t happy that her total wasn’t even close to the answer. I tried to make her feel better. “They inflate the prices just to make it harder for people.”

“I think you’re right.”