"You want me to throw the game?" I ask, horrified. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"
"Son, I'm not saying you need to really throw it . . . just, don't do as well as you might," he says. "You already have a banged up elbow, so just don't go as hard as you might normally. Think about it. An injured performance won't hurt your pro prospects, and you can take it easy, reduce your chance of injury."
I don't know what to say. Seven years of ignoring my football, and now he wants me to throw a game? Never mind that if I do, and it's discovered, I get banned from the game forever. I shake my head, trying to comprehend how I ever called this man my father. "Excuse me. I need to go."
The waitress is approaching the table, so I stop her and ask for my salad to be sent to my room. Dad starts to get up, then stops when I point at him, gesturing down with my finger. I leave the restaurant and go out into the lobby, leaving the hotel and sitting out by the pool. I need someone to talk to. There are so many thoughts whirling in my head. Thankfully, my phone is in my pocket, and I pull it out, dialing from memory.
"Hello? Duncan?"
Carrie's voice is a balm to my mind, and I let out a shuddering breath. "Yeah, it's me. Sorry, I know we just got off, but I had to call."
"Aww, how sweet," Carrie purrs. "What's up? You sound troubled."
"I just ran into Dad," I say, finding a chaise lounge chair and sitting down. The pool is lit right now, the water swirling in patterns of light in the night, casting weird little swirling beams all around. "He says he came to watch the game."
"That's a good thing, isn't it?" Carrie asks. "So why don't you sound happy?"
“He wants me to throw the game. Apparently, he owes a lot of money to some men in San Francisco . . . and not exactly the sort of men who wait to collect their debts."
Carrie hums, then clucks her tongue. "Let me ask you—in your entire life, what has remained pure, unsullied?"
"You," I immediately reply, and Carrie's warm hum helps me relax a little.
"Thank you, but I'm hardly pure, and in the grand scheme of things, you haven’t really known me that long. What else?"
"Football," I answer, seeing what she's trying to say. "It's always been pure."
"Then keep it that way. Duncan, you're a man now that you weren't even six months ago. You're a man that I'm proud to love. Be that man. You know what to do."
I do. I know exactly what to do. "Thank you, Carrie. I . . . I think I should go do that now, and go get some sleep. Thank you."
"Sleep well. I love you."
"I love you too. Good night."
I go upstairs, to the fifth floor of the hotel. There are ten rooms per floor in the hotel, and this one is just for the coaches and university staff. I go to room 503, Coach Bainridge's room, and raise my hand, knocking. "Yes?"
"Coach? It's Duncan Hart. I have to talk to you about something."
My elbow's killing me. I swear, every drive, I'm getting hit in the arm at least once. The defensive ends are even using the elbow against me when I try to block them, pushing my left elbow across my body to torque it, putting more pressure on it. It's not a dirty move. It's the same move I use to get a linebacker or defensive back off me to run routes, but it still hurts all the time.
If there's any saving grace, it's that my biceps tendon isn't getting strained. Most of playing tight end is pushing, not pulling, and my triceps and chest are more important than my biceps for that. Still, the biceps is used when I catch, if anything, to pull the catch in and to cradle it against my body.
"How's it feeling?" Tyler asks, sweat dripping off his face. Two minutes left in the second quarter, and it's still a tight game. We're playing Georgia A&M, and they're a tough bunch of Southern boys. To our disadvantage, they are also used to this heat and humidity, and we're not. December, and it's still eighty-two degrees and nearly ninety percent humidity. What the hell? At least it's not trying to play them in August.
"I'll live," I hiss, flexing the arm. I took a punch to the elbow that last play, and I'm aching. “Let’s just play.”
I line up in slot and square myself for the jarring impact I'm going to need to deliver. GAM has been playing me man to man all night, making me use my arm as much as possible.
The ball snaps, and I yank, pulling the cornerback forward with my right arm. He doesn't expect it, and I'm off, running ten yards before crossing with our split end and turning to look for the pass. I've got a step, and Tyler puts it in my hands perfectly. I take off up the field, just inside the sideline, and cut back when I see the GAM safety coming on a pursuit angle. A juke move, and I'm past him, angling across the field for the last ten yards and going in untouched for the touchdown. I toss the ball to the ref and exchange shoulder smacks with my teammates.