Third quarter, and I'm flat out stinking up the joint. Overthrown passes, underthrown passes, bad reads, it doesn't matter, if I can fuck it up, I've done it so far this game. Through two and a half quarters I'm ten out of twenty-four passes, zero touchdowns with an interception. At least the defense has found their balls a little bit, and we got a lucky punt return that has kept us in the game. We're down by seven, seventeen to ten.
The problem is, I can't get that envelope out of my head. Two women, both claiming I had unprotected sex with them two months ago, both claiming they're now pregnant. I mean, first, what are the fucking odds? And to have it happen just before April and I started seeing each other . . . what are the fucking odds?
“Tyler? HEY, TYLER!”
Something smacks me in the head, and I look up to see Dave Hawk looking me in the eye. “Call the play, man.”
Play? Oh yeah, the play.
I call the play, break the huddle, and everyone gets into position. I settle into shotgun, and read the defense. Well, there's twelve guys out there, I can count still at least.
Dave snaps the ball, and chaos erupts. Bobby comes across like he's expecting a hand-off, but it's not there, while Paul and Robbie are running crossing wiggle routes that end up getting both of them into what is essentially double coverage. DeAndre’s getting jammed, and oh shit, here comes the linebacker . . .
I take off, running like a scared rabbit for the nearest hole I can find. There's a hint of daylight up ahead, and maybe I can squeeze through for some gain . . .
I don't even feel the hit, it's so fast and violent. I just know suddenly I'm flying sideways, knocked totally off my feet with something wrapped around my waist. The grass comes up hard, jarring me, and my helmet bounces off the ground, stunning me. I somehow held onto the ball at least, but it takes me a moment to get up.
It's third down, and Coach sends out the punt team. I get over to the sidelines, where he's giving me the hairy eyeball. “What the fuck was that?” he asks while the punt goes on and our defense takes over. “I called for triple slants, not that Keystone Kops Cluster Fuck.”
“Sorry . . . I just missed the play,” I mumble, shaking my head. Coach grows concerned, and calls the trainer over, who checks me out. “No, I don't have a concussion.”
“Yeah well, you're playing like shit today,” Coach says, concerned. “What’s going on?”
“After the game, we'll talk,” I say. “I . . . I might need the team's help on this one.”
Coach nods, serious. “Okay. But whatever it is, put it out of your mind for the next seventeen minutes, can you? I need a quarterback out there, not a zombie.”
“I'll do what I can.”
I take a seat on the bench, shaking my head and waving off any of the other players who come over, concerned. I turn around and see April in the stands, wearing my old Western jersey just like she'd asked to do when we officially became boyfriend and girlfriend. Underneath, I know she's wearing her lucky lingerie, something she'd shown off for me the first night she got it, but right now sex is just about the furthest thing from my mind.
Shaking my head, I try to wrap my head around the clusterfuck that I'm in now. The best girlfriend of my life, the first one I can say that I've had real feelings for since Catrina, that's for sure . . . and I go and fuck it up. Literally, fuck it up. I mean, how can I tell her that our first night out, when I treated her like an inconsiderate shit, I end up not only hooking up with two bar sluts, but somehow get them both pregnant? At least, that’s where I’m assuming these chicks are from.
But the problem is, I remember nothing. Hell, I barely remember names at this point. I've spent the past eighteen hours since that envelope was handed to me racking my brain, and my memory keeps fading just after the two girls come up and offer to pay for my drink . . .
“Tyler, you here man?”
I look up and see Vince taking the seat next to me. I hazard from the look his face that Coach has been asking him to warm up, in case my head isn't screwed on right. “Yeah, I'm here.”
“Coach wants my opinion if you should go back in the game. What's going on?”
I shrug. “Legal problems. Got a lawsuit dropped on my ass last night, having problems getting it out of my head.”
“So you're not sick or anything? Just mental?” Vince asks, and I nod. He hums and nods himself. “I won't ask the details, not my job. I'm just a backup QB who wants to become a coach next year. But if you want my advice, just separate yourself from the event. Nothing you do in the next quarter and two minutes is going to affect that lawsuit, but it will affect this team and your job. So put it aside. It'll still be there after the game, that's for sure.”