Page 63 of Playing for Love

* * *

Officially,every game counted the same, every win was important. In reality, Sunday night games were special. We were in the national spotlight, the crowds were loud, the excitement palpable and we had all day long to work ourselves into a riotous frenzy, psyched to beat the shit out of the other team as if we were going to war. In short, by the time the game whistle blew at a normal Sunday Night game, to a man, we’d lost all perspective on the game. And I was the leader, the main perpetrator of the win or die mentality, pumping up the team crazier than a locker full of steroids.

But tonight wasn’t normal. Apparently. Sure, I’d arrived early. Did all the things I needed to do. Had the massage, got myself examined, taped and dressed. I sat in the chair in the middle of the locker room, my helmet in my hands and yelled at my teammates. Sent the usual messages.

But on the inside, I was on auto pilot. I didn’t feel it. The urgency, the energy wasn’t there.

Whipping my towel at a cornerback, I yelled at him to move his ass.

Hunter slid into the chair across from me, the only one in the locker room that dared to take the empty chair.

“What the hell, Wyatt?”

“What?”

“You have less bite than my grandma.”

I gave him the finger. What else could I do about it.

He shook his head and stood. I stood and walked out of the room into the tunnel. He followed. I knew he would.

“We need this win,” I said.

“I know that. Do you even care?”

I shot my eyes at him. “What the fuck kind of question is that?”

“The kind that comes from watching your distracted ass all day, you’re shuffling instead of jumping. Your half-hearted worn out trash talk.”

Turning from him, because what the hell did I say to that? He was right and I had no idea why. Not really

“Maybe I have the flu.”

“Maybe your mother is in the hospital and you’re heartsick.”

“That shouldn’t take away from football. Playing is what saves me from heart ache.”

He snorted. I walked away before he could ask me about Mia. She was the last person I wanted to think or talk about. I walked onto the field, hoping I had the flu, knowing I didn’t.

* * *

After the game,on the way into the locker room, my teammates avoided my eyes. I couldn’t say the same for Coach Marini or QB coach Parker. The game was a disaster and I was ground-zero for all that went wrong. We’d lost by the biggest margin since my rookie year here four years ago.

I’d fumbled the ball on a hand off on the first play of the game. There was no explanation for how or why I went out there on our second possession and took a sack for a twenty-yard loss, my normally unerring scrambling powers out of order, temporarily I’d hoped. But no such luck—or whatever had possessed me. Because after that I threw two interceptions, had no touchdown passes and if it wasn’t for our running game we wouldn’t have scored at all.

The team gathered in a sweaty tired huddle around Coach Marini.

“The loss is on me, coach,” I said into the silence.

“This is a team sport, Wyatt.” He paused, boring his eyes into me. I didn’t flinch but I wanted to vomit. “That said, I acknowledge you had your share of mistakes.” He moved his eyes around to the others, taking everyone in. “Suck it up men. No one’s perfect. Next game, we get better.” He paused. “Next game, we win.”

We shoved our helmets in the center of our circle and shouted our usual team cheer, albeit without the usual team enthusiasm. Normally, I wouldn’t have put up with that shit, but today, since I was the major offender, I fell out of the huddle and went to my locker, peeling away the uniform, then the pads, concentrating on each layer, trying not to think about anything. Especially not what the hell I would say to the press. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a game like this—because I never had.

Coach came up behind me. “My office, Wyatt.”

I nodded and took off my shoulder pads.

“Now.”