Only your people and the authorities know the truth. You are formally requested to come to a security meeting held by the police and the highest-ranking stadium officials, where you are kindly informed by the FBI that the unknown perp mentioned you when calling in the bomb threat. Yes, they know about the social media messages; your team has been in touch. No; they don’t believe there is any further threat. They are so glad that everything worked out, they tell you. Your attendance at games has been so good for the NFA’s image. You are a valued member of the Cyclones family. Ofcourseyou will be allowed to continue attending Kaius’s games.
(Beside you, Kai says nothing, but keeps a hand tightly on your knee under the table.)
The gears work rapidly behind the scenes. Within minutes of the bomb threat being made public, Desiree has scrubbed all your social media. Years of posts and photos go dark. Fans, somehow, don’t make the connection. They speculate that you are leading to the announcement of #SG10, or that something elsehugeis in the works. Your haters say that it’s all for attention. Poor little Sterling Grayson, playing the martyr again.
Ultimately, the unnamed disruptors get what they want. The story is massive and drowns out the Grammy excitement for several news cycles.
Chapter Seventeen
@ESPN:Football rivalries have always captivated us. From Lattimore and Evans to Finnegan and Johnson, some player beef refuses to end when the clock runs out. As the 6-2 Miami Cyclones prepare to take on the 7-2 Buffalo Blues in Week 10, conference seeding is not the biggest story in play. Buffalo’s newest recruit, Julian Tamatoa, will meet Kaius Reinhart on the field for the first time since Tamatoa injured the Train in preseason as a Tampa Terrier and put him on the IR for five games. The uniform has changed, but Tamatoa’s outsized and aggressive play style likely has not. Some believe Reinhart’s still not back at 100%, but others say that maybe he was just waiting for his moment. After all, revenge is a powerful motivator…
***
The Buffalo game is away, and you aren’t in attendance. Not only are you all too happy to avoid football stadiums for the moment, but Orchard Park is cold and rainy all day Monday leading up to the night game, making you glad that you went to visit your family for a few days. Darien, Connecticut isn’t much warmer, but at least it’s been sunny.
Your mom goes all out for the game, spending the day in the kitchen and preparing a ridiculous spread of chicken wings sauced in multiple flavors, potato skins, charcuterie, pigs inblankets, Hawaiian roll sliders, and three different kinds of dips. Wearily, you remind her that this isn’t the Mega Bowl, and, besides, you don’t normally eat that kind of food. She just sasses you back, reminding you that they’ve never been able to watch Kai on the field with you at home, and sticks a plate in front of you that was clearly premeditated with your bitching in mind: six naked wings that were baked instead of fried, along with a haystack of julienne-cut raw veggies and a scoop of homemade hummus. She tells you to stop whining, and goes back to stirring her crock pots. Sadly, Noemi isn’t even home to have your back. Once a month or so, she actually leaves her nest and goes to play board games with her three closest friends, and this is the unlucky night.
At the 8:15 kickoff, the mercury in New York sits at 31 and is falling fast. The rain is steady and persistent. During the pregame patter, a commentator mentions that the weather is downright miserable, and the camera pans to fans wearing ponchos atop winter hats in the stands.
“Don’t worry,” another commentator laughs. “They’ve got the heat of divisional hatred to keep them warm.”
The first quarter is a defensive shootout, which is your least-favorite kind of football. Your dad, a lifelong NFA fan, is on the edge of his seat, shouting at the screen. For several plays, neither team makes it to midfield, getting stalled after one or two drives. Miami can’t seem to get a pass game going, and only gains yardage in short, painful increments by running the ball. To be fair, Buffalo is in the same boat. Both defenses are strong and aggressive. Sandy looks frustrated by the first huddle of the second quarter, but you are proud of Kai and his line. He’s playing well, getting right up on the line and putting pressureon Buffalo’s quarterback. Books plays a few snaps, and he’s textbook (no pun intended), as usual.
On Miami’s first possession of Q2, Jameson is able to miraculously break away on a good route, and gets open way down the field. Sandy spots him and rips the ball, only for a Buffalo player to knock it out of the air and almost intercept it. The defensive guy probably celebrates a little too obnoxiously, but Jameson gets in his face and has to be shoved back by one of his teammates.
“Ooh, we’re getting a little chippy,” the commentator notices with interest. “These two squads really don’t like each other. Did anyone guess we’d still be scoreless with 10 minutes left in the two? You know they’re getting edgy.”
Miami gets far enough down the field for Dettweiler to attempt a long field goal, which sails in.
“Three points are three points,” your mom offers with a shrug.
You’re keenly interested in the next possession by Buffalo. If Miami can contain them again, you know from your bit of experience, they might pick up the momentum they gained with the FG and really get something moving when they next get the ball.
Kai lines up opposite Tamatoa. Despite the press having hyped their rivalry all week, Tamatoa has been uncharacteristically quiet. You wonder if he feels badly about having hurt Kai so severely last time. Either that, or Buffalo warned him that they don’t want to put up with bush league bullshit from their players. Either way, you’re glad that he isn’t jawing at Kai. Kai’s been tense about this game, and he doesn’t need the annoyance.
The ball is snapped. Buffalo’s quarterback holds on, and weighs his options. The O-line is doing a good job staving off Miami’s defense, giving him time to scan the field. He’s jumpy in the pocket, clearly itching to lob the ball. He spies someone down field and gets his arm back, just as Kai breaks free of Tamatoa. The quarterback throws the ball, and Kai absolutely plows him two seconds later. It’s a late hit, but he didn’t intend it. Personally, you think he slipped a little bit in the mud on the field. Still, the ref throws a flag. Downfield, the receiver misses the ball, killing the play.
Clearly regretting what happened, Kai extends a hand to the fallen quarterback, offering to help him up. The QB stays down an extra moment, hand to his gut.
“C’mon!” your dad hollers. “Stop milking it!”
Suddenly, what seems like the entire Blues offensive line rushes at Kai. It’s a football culture thing, you know. The players protect their quarterback; he’s the linchpin. Any perceived slight is met with force. Quickly, Miami’s defense jumps in as well. There’s some shoving and yelling, and Kai is in the center. Unlike most scrums you’ve seen, it doesn’t dissipate as fast as it started. The referees blow whistles, and flags rain on the field, followed by black hats. Some guys at the outside of the pile-up—you recognize Sandy, Nyko Waters, and even Books—are trying to pull Cyclones away. More level-headed members of the Blues are doing the same, peeling the scrappier players off the angry knot.
In the middle, there’s just Kai and Julian Tamatoa.
Helmet-to-helmet, they scream soundless profanity in each other’s faces. Tamatoa is gesturing aggressively with his hands, and Kai’s fists are balled in his gloves. There are four zebras on them, all comically smaller than the two titans squaring off onthe 31-yard line. They pull ineffectively at both Kai and Tamatoa, but they are quickly shaken off. You wish you knew what was being said.
Tamatoa stabs Kai in the chest with his pointer figure, then whacks the flat side of his helmet with his palm. Even 350+ miles away and through a TV screen, the insult is obvious:Your head still fucked up, Choo-choo?
“That’s just disrespectful,” your mother murmurs.
Kai clearly agrees. In an instant, he’s reached over and jerked Tamatoa’s helmet off his head. Tamatoa’s locs spill from their confinement, and he blinks in surprise in the frigid night. Only for a split second, though, before Kai swings the helmet and starts beating Tamatoa with it.
Your dad jumps up. “Oh, shit!” he curses.
A referee tries to jerk the helmet from Kai’s grip, but he can’t manage it. In the breadth of a heartbeat, Kai’s slammed Tamatoa twice in the back and shoulders, making the tackle drop and try to cover his skull with his big arms. One particularly intrepid referee grabs Kai by the arm, pulling with his full weight. Like Samson breaking his chains, Kai tosses the ref aside, and he lands on his black-clad ass.
Half the Cyclones coaching staff, including Beausoleil himself, run onto the field. It takes the head coach getting in Kai’s face and laying hands on him to restrain Kaius. Finally—finally—he backs up, and lets a handful of officials scrape Tamatoa off the ground. The man appears to be both cursing and bawling. For a few moments, the game is in utter chaos.
