“Perhaps, but in any case, this is your warning. The team will collect your potential fine from the League in advance, holding it until a determination has been made. If the charges are dropped or you are found not guilty, you'll get the money released to you.”
I nod in understanding. However, at the moment my mind isn't on the money, but on two other things. First, that I could be fired. While I may not want to stay here in Canada for good, getting fired isn't going to help me get a shot with the NFL. Second though, is my hand. My pinky finger on my right hand is killing me, and it's been that way since waking up yesterday morning in the hotel. While it's not as bad as fucking up my thumb, any sort of injury to a quarterback's hand is not what I want to deal with. “I understand. Let's just win some games in the meantime.”
“This game is going to be important, Tyler. Montreal is in the Eastern Division, and we need to beat them to maintain number one position for the playoffs.”
“Another bye for the playoffs will be nice,” I agree. “I'll get it done, Coach. Don't worry about it.”
The problem is, I'm not getting it done in practice. I try a bunch of different grips, but without my pinky finger being able to put that little bit on the ball, everything's going wobbly, especially if I have to throw over fifteen yards. Vince pulls me aside about halfway through practice, concerned.
“You okay? You're putting up ducks today. I think Pierre's going to go get his shotgun, he's from Manitoba you know. They do duck hunting all the time.”
“Yeah, I'll be okay. I think I've just got a blister or something, I'll adjust.”
He gives me a wary look, but nods. “Nothing to do with the fight? That hand doesn't look too good. ”
I roll my eyes, this guy's got more information than the CIA. “No. Jesus, does everyone know?”
“That you got arrested? It was on the TV earlier. Trisha James is getting plenty of airtime out of it,” Vince says with a chuckle. “I bet that some of your American friends might even hear about it. All right, rest the hand, try some light passes. I'll talk to Coach, take some more snaps with the first team offense. You sure you'll be able to gut it out for Saturday?”
“Damn right I will. If Larroquette's going to fire me, then I'm for damn sure going to prove that he's fucking up by doing so.”
Vince nods. “Good old Clause 28. Yeah, he's a bastard with that one, eh?”
I raise an eyebrow and look over at a grinning Vince. “Did you just give me an 'eh'? Next thing you know, you'll be calling someone a hoser.”
Vince shakes his head and adjusts his pants. “The only hose I need to worry about is down here. Chill out, work with some of the scout team guys on getting your passes down again, and we'll be good.”
For the rest of the week, I take it easy in my throwing in practice, to the point that April notices. Friday morning, as we get ready to go to the airport for the game in Montreal, she confronts me about it. “Your hand is hurt.”
“Yeah,” I admit, stuffing my lucky pink undies into my bag. “Pinky finger's still messed up. After about five or ten throws, the joint starts to ache all to hell.”
April, who's already packed, comes over and takes my hand. “Why didn't you say anything? The team could have taken a look at it.”
“And given Larroquette another reason to fire me?” I ask harshly. “April, I'm trying to keep my job, not lose it. I happen to like it here in Toronto, you know.”
“Really?” she asks, brightening. “So you're not just marking time until the NFL comes calling?”
I shake my head. “I still want to play down south,” I admit, “but I can't do that if I get fired from here. But also, I want to complete this season. I like the guys, and more importantly . . . I want you to come with me, regardless of where I play.”
April hugs me, but there's a little sadness in her eyes as she steps back. “What about my parents?”
“We'll take care of them,” I reassure her, “somehow.”
On the plane ride she and I sit in separate aisles, a team rule that the team sits together, and we even sleep in separate hotel rooms, which is perhaps the one thing I hate most about away games. For home games I can go to sleep Friday night with her in my arms, none of this “saving strength” bullshit for the game. I mean, we don't get intimate on Friday nights, but it's still nice to have the woman I love to warm the spot next to me in bed.
Warming up, I’m glad about one thing playing in Canada. It's barely the first week of September, but the weather is already cool and comfortable, with temperatures in the low seventies in the sun, and cooler along the sidelines where the stadium construction puts everything in shadow. “How're you feeling?”
I look over at Vince, who's wearing a glove on his throwing hand for the first time. “Not bad. What's with the glove?”