"I didn't? My mistake. I remember telling my secretary to send out the invitations."
“What's her name, Dad?"
"Tawny," he says with a leer that tells me exactly what Tawny Hart looks like. My father has very consistent tastes: tall, long hair, and a body you could bounce a quarter off any part of it, even if it is surgically enhanced. In fact, to him, a girl just isn't a woman without a little silicone somewhere.
"Where'd you meet her?"
"She was a massage therapist at a club I frequent," he says, and I try not to roll my eyes. Great. He met her at a rub-n-tug. Wonder how much she charged for a handy. "She and I just clicked."
"Uh-huh. Well, if you have a chance, think you can make it to the game? I'm sure I can get you in if you don't have tickets."
Dad shakes his head and looks at his watch. "Don't think so. Meeting's going to run all day, so . . . another time. Really, though, I've gotta go. See you later, Duncan."
"Yeah, Dad . . . bye."
The reporter is in my face, and it's not the day that I want to do any of this shit. The past two days have been terrible, and it’s only because the Athletic Director insisted that I'm doing this.
"I'm telling you, college football fans, what a game we've got for you today. The Western University Bulldogs host the Clement Golden Spartans, in what a lot of folks are calling the biggest game in the first half of the season. Western and Clement have traded the conference championship back and forth over the past few years, with whoever wins this game normally going on to clinch the conference title."
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Last year, we took Clement, and two years ago, they took us. Big fucking deal. The yapping announcer goes on.
"Things are a little different this year, as the Pacific Football Conference has followed in the footsteps of many of the other major conferences and implemented a championship game system. That doesn't make this game useless, of course. There are still major impacts for the national championship at stake, as well as the fact that whoever wins this game holds the edge for the conference championship, as the team that finishes the regular season as the conference champions will host the championship game."
Will this guy hurry the fuck up? I need to get taped. I need to see Carrie. The past two days, she's barely said anything to me, and I'm not able to focus. I can't get past Wednesday night, and I want this to be over with. Then there was my Dad . . . fuck this. I need outta here. Now.
"With us now is Duncan Hart, the star tight end of the Western Bulldogs. Duncan, thanks for joining us. I know you're going to be getting ready to play soon."
"I'm always ready to play," I say into the mike, just letting my mouth go. I don't care any more. "But what's up?"
"Well, Duncan, in pregame analysis, it's going to be a tough battle between Western's spread offense, and Clement's vicious defense. In speaking yesterday with Nick Hostler, the Clement defensive captain and linebacker, he says that he's looking forward to it. It seemed very interesting. He was quite interested in you, in particular. Any idea why?"
Because last year, I smoked his ass . . . not that I would use those exact words in an interview. I know I’m a trash talker, but I try to be smart about it. “Nick's the sort of player who wants to test himself against the best. It's one of the things I like about him."
"You say one of the things. What's the other?"
"He keeps testing himself against me, and he keeps failing the test," I say with a smirk.
After the interview is over, Coach Bainridge pulls me aside. "Really, Duncan? Did you have to bad mouth the other team two hours before kickoff?"
"Don't sweat it, Coach," I reply, brushing him off. “It wasn’t that bad—just a little gamesmanship. If anything, it should get the fans riled up. Hostler knows I hate him, and he hates me. Some kiss-kiss words before the game won't change that. Besides, I need to get ready."
"You’d better," Bainridge says, giving me a look, "because your practice the past two days has been garbage. Get your head right."
I'd like to get my head right, but it seems that I've got everyone and their fucking brother trying to stop me from doing it. I go to the trainer's room, where Carrie is finishing up taping Tyler's ankle—he rolled it a little on Tuesday—then she turns to me. "You know, you don't need the elbow tape anymore. That thing's stronger than it was before your injury, by this point."
"Just give me my security blanket and let me have some peace of mind," I reply, holding out my arm. Carrie goes to work, wrapping the first layer of pre-wrap around my elbow, totally silent. I fume for a moment, then launch in. "Well, Duncan, why yes, I have had a great morning. In fact, I was just enjoying a wonderful conversation with my friends about whether to have granola or pancakes with breakfast tomorrow. How's your day been? Oh, I'm doing fine, Carrie. I saw my father before breakfast, where he blew me off, and I've just completed an interview with a national cable network, where I probably came off as an asshole, pissed off Coach Bainridge, and now, the one person I really want to talk to won't even speak to me. Other than that, my day's going to hell!"