"Back off, 83," the ref says, giving me a warning. He's a home ref, even if he is paid by the conference, and he's not going to throw a penalty on me unless he has to, not after we already gave up a touchdown.
“That’s bullshit!” I scream. “You’re fucking blind!”
The ref tosses his penalty, blowing the whistle, and I feel hands pulling me back, but I don't care. I lose my cool, going at him even more, and it’s obvious to me even while I’m yelling at him that I’m not even mad at the missed call. I’m pissed that things in my life aren’t going how I want them and looking for a scapegoat.
The ref throws another flag, blowing his whistle twice, and I’m ejected from the game.
I stare at him, ready to charge, fighting against whoever is holding me back, when Coach Thibedeau comes around and throws a cup of water in my face. "Duncan! Get a fucking hold of yourself!"
I stop, shocked. What the hell did I just do?
"Get to the locker room," Coach Thibs says, his voice gentle now that I'm at least a bit under control. "You got ejected. You're not allowed on the sidelines. We'll talk about this after the game. Coach Taylor?"
"Yeah?" Coach Taylor says, and I see he's already there, probably ready to physically escort me from the field if he needs to. Hell, he was probably one of the people holding me back.
"Walk Duncan back to the training room. And make sure he's calmed down, okay? Just . . . ditch your gear and calm down."
The fans, for the first time in three years and four games, are booing me as I leave the field. I cringe, and I feel like running, but my pride keeps me walking as I reach the tunnel, even as I feel some joker spray me with a cup of ice and probably Coke, since the stadium doesn't allow beer. I feel Coach Taylor behind me, but I'm empty. I don't feel it any longer. I just make my way to the training room, unstrapping my shoulder pads as I walk.
"You need anyone to talk to?" Coach Taylor asks when I pull my gear off and sit down on the padded training table.
“I’m fine.” But I don't feel that way. “I’m just frustrated. You're not pissed, Coach?"
"Oh, I'm pissed, but remember, I'm not a football coach. Besides, you're talking to the man who got so fired up and pissed off for an event that I head butted an Atlas Stone and knocked myself out. So I can kind of understand, even if I don't like it. Chill out here, and I'll have someone check on you later."
I lie back on the table, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out where I had been for the past three days, when the door to the training room opened again. I look over, my heart catching in my throat when I see Carrie before I sigh and put my head back down. "Sorry, nice guy Duncan isn't here. The asshole just got done making an idiot out of himself."
"Actually, it was me who came down here to apologize," Carrie says softly. "I shouldn't have spoken to you that way when you came to get taped up. I screwed up your mental mindset—threw you off."
There's a part of me that wants to agree with her, to shift the blame. But I look at her face, and another part of me, perhaps the stronger part that might actually be a decent guy, speaks up instead. "No, Carrie, you don't need to apologize. I've been this way for days. And it's all my own fault. All you did was tell me the truth."
"What happened?" she asks, coming over and hopping up on the table next to me. "Seriously, you looked ready to burst a blood vessel out there."
"I was," I say, sighing again. “It’s been a lot of things, but what you said, when you were pissed off at me in the Bangkok House, I've been kicking myself about it ever since. I guess I finally realized that I'm too much like my father. Then I saw him at breakfast today, and it didn't go well, and then . . . well, I was just a time bomb waiting to go off."
Carrie stops, looks into my face, then puts a hand on my shoulder. “We've known each other since June. That's what, almost four months now? I don’t think you've ever said a thing about him. I think this is the first time I've ever heard you use that word in a conversation, in fact. Lots of momma jokes, but nothing about your father."
I nod. "I don't talk about him often. He and I . . . we don't get along very well. Probably has something to do his lifestyle."
“What kind of lifestyle is that?”
I chuckle darkly. "Check it out yourself, but I'll save you the creepy research. Winston Hart is one of the bigger venture capitalists in Silicon Valley, never the public figure, but high enough in the group of investors that he has swing, before he cashes out and takes his money elsewhere. He's worth . . . well, put it this way. I'm not here on scholarship, and my apartment in the Vista Apartments is fully paid for by him. He probably doesn’t know or care what it costs. It's his way of showing familial relationship."