Twelve Men in the Huddle, page 20
“That writer is living with Brianna,” added the Twister. “Now that’s some fine local fare. They’re saying she snuck him into the Badlands.”
“Billy ‘Mo” Morris – After the Glory, is the title of the article,” said Connor. “Billy is looking a bit heavy, and going bald…”
“Hair is overrated,” interjected Beef Bartley.
Connor showed the cell phone image to the Twister. It was a snap shot of Billy on his front step, with Barnyard beside him, a solemn look on both their faces.
“Damn,” said the Twister. “Billy looks like he’s forty or something. Ever since Swagner took his girl, he’s gone to hell.”
“Not true,” said Pete.
“Swagner,” said Twister. “The bone doctor!”
“There is nothing going on between us,” said Pete. “Just friends.”
“Connor, Coach Hayes wants to see you,” shouted Assistant Coach Avery. “Now!”
The running back made his way over to Hayes’ office, where the coach was already reading a print out of Hal Green’s article.
“Nothing but a bunch of hogwash,” mumbled the coach, his eyes fixated on the article. “We took good care of Billy Mo. I promised his mama I would – and I did.”
“You wanted to see me coach?”
“Yea, sit down Connor.”
Connor sat down in a chair facing the coach’s desk, behind him was a wall covered with photographs, signed by former players and dignitaries. The coach continued to read the article for several more minutes, just shaking his head.
“Like I tore up Billy Mo’s knee,” said Coach Hayes to himself.
Connor remained silent, while scrolling through the rest of the article on his cell. It spoke of the Badlands and the cloistered atmosphere of the Tulsa Valley program. References were made to an “insulated” program, built over time by inbreeding, and led by the revered Coach Hayes. The entire coaching staff consisted of former players, all recruited and coached by Buford B. Hayes. Not a single exception existed in the ranks.
“Makes us sound like some sort of a wacko cult,” said Hayes, now putting down the article. “Like I’m the Daddy Llama or something.” He took a set of reading glasses off his face. “Billy Mo has turned on us. After all I’ve done for the boy and his family.” He tossed the glasses down in disgust. “Hell, Coach Avery just told me Billy’s seeing plays over and over in his head – from the last State game. He’s lost it.”
“I haven’t seen him around in a while,” said Connor, still wondering why the coach called him in. “He doesn’t look good in the photo.”
“The boy has let himself go,” said Hayes. “But why he turned on us, I don’t know? They must have given him a few bucks.”
“Maybe.”
“That writer is trouble Connor, you stay away from him. Ya hear me? I’m reasonably positive he’s a spy.”
“Yes coach.”
Connor just sat in front of the coach for several more minutes, wondering what was up. Deep down inside he felt this team would be the last group of players capable of delivering a national title to the coach. The championship trophy was the only piece of hardware absent in the room. It was the crown jewel the old ball coach had been chasing for his entire career. Without it, his legacy would be incomplete.
“Connor, I want you to start wearing some t-shirts around town,” said the coach. He flipped a pack of colorful shirts towards the star, wrapped in clear plastic.
“Sure coach. What do they say?
“They just have the Tulsa Valley logo on the front.”
“What about the back?” asked Connor, holding up one of the shirts towards the coach. “What’s this?”
“Ah, Tarpon-T,” said the coach with a wave of his hand. “Clint Benson is pedaling it, and as you know he’s the president of the booster club. Clint kind of pays for this whole place, one way or the other.”
“This is the stuff we drink already? Harper Cider, right?”
“Yea, some marketing gurus gave it another new name. Do you like it?”
“The name, or the drink?”
“The name.”
“No. Not really… anything else coach?”
“Yea there is one more thing Connor,” said the coach. “I mean you being the captain and everything.”
“What’s up?”
“The young doctor, Harper’s fellow. How’s he doing with the team?”
“Oh Dr. Wagner? He’s great, really smart and gets along with everyone. He did a nice job on Beef’s ankle. And remember when Lance thought I tore my ACL? It was Pete Wagner who made the correct diagnosis, right there on the field.”
“What about with Miss Jackson? Is he like you know, socially active with her? Because she used to be Billy Mo’s date.”
“Not that I know of coach.”
“The other night I saw her standing next to Dr. Wagner battin’ her eyes like a toad in a hailstorm. Even an old buzzard like me can see that. She looked mighty interested in the young man.”
“Why would it matter to the team coach?”
“Billy Mo is upset about something. I’m just trying to figure it out. Maybe that’s fueling his actions. Just a thought.”
“I don’t see anything there coach,” said Connor. “But I’ll keep an eye on it.” The running back got up to leave. “Anything else coach?”
“No Connor, but thanks for wearing the shirt. I promised Mr. Benson you would help out. He really appreciates it.”
“No problem coach.”
At that very moment, just across town, Clint Benson sat next to the Ganoga marketing team. At his side was Officer Lester Bailey. The congregation was holding court in The Honey Hole, a gentlemen’s joint on the fringe of town. The entrepreneur was putting the final touches on the Tarpon-T deal with his signature charm. Dancing directly in front of them was a barely clad female, swinging on a pole.
“Her name is Unique,” chimed in Clint over the loud music. “She’s a favorite here.”
“Unique indeed,” said Wilton Stec as he looked up at the dancer and her full bodied presentation. He took a twenty-dollar bill from a stack of cash on the table, and waved it at Unique as she gyrated closer, prompting the salesman to tuck it into her waistband. Clint had been replenishing the stack of money for the past hour.
“Why is it called the Honey Hole?” asked the other salesman.
“A honey hole is a fisherman’s favorite spot Ralph,” responded Clint. “A secret spot where the bass are big, and the fishing is good.”
“Or where the gators are nesting,” added Officer Bailey. “A lot of the gator hunters talk of their honey hole.”
“Are you kidding me,” laughed Wilton. “It’s named the Honey Hole for obvious reasons.” He was precariously close to the dancer, stuffing bills into her underwear. The perfume on her body stimulated his olfactory organ.
“I spoke to the coach and he’s in regarding the commercials,” said a sober Clint, keeping a close eye on Wilton. “I also printed up a bunch of shirts for Connor Kelly, our star running back to wear. It has the Tarpon-T logo on the back and should get us some free publicity.”
“Hey buddy, back it up,” said the Honey Hole’s manager, a middle aged man with a series of scars across his nose. He took a step towards Clint’s guest.
“It’s all right Teddy,” said Clint with a wave of his hand. “I’ve got an eye on him.”
“I’m confident we can have the contract signed just prior to the championship game,” said Ralph. “That way, we can legally plaster the product’s name all over America.”
“Great!” said Clint, still carefully observing Wilton. “Things couldn’t have gone better.”
Unique suddenly got down on all four extremities and crawled seductively towards Wilton. She only had three minutes left on stage before the next act. Although a lucrative night already, a payment was overdue for the upcoming school semester. She positioned herself directly in front of Wilton, and rapidly moved her shoulders back and forth, causing her upper torso to jiggle. The dancer was going for pay dirt as a howl let out from some local sots, sitting behind Wilt in the dollar bill section. Wilt reached out to grab the forbidden fruit.
“Hands off!” shouted Teddy with a swing of a blackjack. The baton struck the salesman hand, causing him to recoil backwards.
“Hey, what the…”
“Teddy, Teddy!” shouted Clint.
The disciplinary action prompted Wilt to lunge forward and grab Unique. His fingers caught the elastic band of the dancer’s G-string, causing it to snap back and spew twenty-dollar bills all over the bar. What followed was a blow from Teddy, directly to the salesman face, resulting in a blast of blood. The locals started screaming as a burly bouncer from the other end of the bar sprinted towards the scene. Unique started to frantically pick up the bills as Clint held back Wilt. With the help of Lester, they pulled Wilt away from the bar, just before another dose of local justice was delivered.
“Get him outta here Clint!” shouted the manager, holding back the young bouncer.
“Honey Hole my ass,” cried Wilt as blood continued to stream out of his nose. “I’ll sue everyone of you!”
“Easy Wilt,” said Clint, now realizing he was getting a bit old for such a scene. “Let’s get you home.”
“Beat it mister,” said the manager, not backing down from the legal threat. “We only got one rule here, and that’s not to touch the entertainment.”
“Yea, yea. We know Teddy,” said Clint as he stepped forward and picked up the wad of money from the table. He peeled off a hundred dollars and handed it to Unique.
“Thank you Mr. Benson,” said the student.
“You’re welcome Unique. Thank you.” He next handed a few twenties to the manager as Lester quickly escorted the sales team out the door. “Sorry Teddy.”
The manager said nothing as he stuffed the cash in his pocket. Clint turned around and headed towards the door, handing the remaining cash to the dollar row denizens, who quickly jumped to the front. Their favorite dancer was due next, and it would be a pleasure to be up close to the action.
“Bambi, Bambi, Bambi!” went their chant.
“It’s just a nose bleed,” said Wilton outside in the parking lot. “I don’t think it’s broken.” He was holding a bloodied handkerchief to his face. “I’m sorry Mr. Benson, but that girl did something to me.”
“You sure it wasn’t the Scotch?” replied Clint. “C’mon, let’s get you back to my house.”
“The hell with the Honey Hole!”
While driving home, Clint Benson was quiet. Just a few more weeks he thought, and the deal would be over. He wanted it so badly.
Just then, Pete Wagner was walking home across the campus. Tomorrow he would fly out to California with the team. He was looking forward to the trip, especially with Heather on board. His cell phone rang.
“Peter. Good evening.” The caller was Dr. Gualteri, the orthopedic surgeon from the PGH.
“Hey Dr. G.”
“How’s our lineman, Beef doing? By the way, I love that nickname.”
“Great. We’ve got him on a range of motion program. He’s healing well.”
“Fantastic,” said the surgeon. “I’m just calling to get back to you on his blood work. I checked into it and yes, a T:E ratio was ordered for some reason. I even had to look up what the hell it meant.”
“Well I ordered it Doc. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it to you.”
“No problem Pete. For what it’s worth, the ratio was normal. One to one per the lab.”
“Great. Thanks for the call Dr. G.”
“No problem Pete. Sorry it took a while to get back to you. Good luck down there. Keep in touch.”
Nothing was making sense thought Pete. He was sure Beef’s T:E ratio would be abnormal, based on his size, strength and hair line. His phone rang again – this time it was home.
“Hello son.”
“Hey dad. What’s up?” Pete knew his dad wasn’t much of a conversationalist over the phone. His mother always made him call and speak first.
“Tell him I said hello,” echoed his mother in the background.
“Your mother says hello Peter.”
“Yea, I heard her.”
“Well, I’m getting back to you about Dr. Schmeckle. We’ve been trying to contact him for days.”
“No answer,” shouted his mom. “We’ve been trying!”
“We just found out today he had a massive stroke,” said his father. “Apparently isn’t doing too well.”
“His son found him lying on the floor,” said his mother in the background. “He was there all night. Can you imagine?”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” said Pete.
“He can’t talk or move his right side,” said Mr. Wagner. “It doesn’t look good.”
“He was a big smoker Peter,” shouted his mom. “Smoked like a chimney. It was fashionable back then.”
“I’m sorry to tell you that son.”
“I don’t know what Scranton’s going to do without him,” yelled mom. “He’s a saint.”
“O.K.,” said Pete. “Thanks for the information pops. I’ll notify Dr. Harper.
“What about your mother. Don’t you want to talk to her? She’ll get upset if you don’t talk to her.”
Before Pete could answer his mother was on the phone.
“He saved your life Peter. If there is a funeral, I want you up here, out of respect for the man.”
“Hopefully he will pull through,” said Pete, now approaching his apartment.
“I’ve been praying for him,” said Mrs. Wagner. “Prayer is a powerful tool.”
“O.K., well goodnight mom. I’ve had a long day and have to get ready for the trip tomorrow.”
“Make sure to take some heavy clothes Peter. Everyone thinks California is warm all the time, but that’s not true.”
“O.K. mom.”
“Smile at the camera. Your father and I will be watching.”
“Goodnight mom. I love you.”
“Love you too son. We’re so proud of you.”
Pete entered his apartment, still expecting to see Jamal turn the corner, but he was gone. He turned on some lights and headed into his bedroom. Out of his pants pocket he took out two items. One was a skin patch from the training room. The other was a small plastic jar filled with a sample of trainer’s cream. He placed the items in a dresser drawer.
The doorbell rang, startling him. He was tired and not in the mood for conversation. He opened the door.
“Chloe!”
“Hi,” said the woman before him.
“Oh my God,” said Pete. “What’s going on?”
“I heard you needed a new roommate. So here I am!”
“What? I’m speechless. You shouldn’t have. What a surprise.”
“I hope you’re not upset.”
“No, no. Don’t be silly. C’mon in.”
She kissed him on the cheek and accepted the invitation. Her left hand dragged in a large luggage bag on clunky wheels. Behind her followed a peculiar, cold breeze.
Chapter Twenty Two
LOS ANGELES
Heather stared out the window in a fit of rage as the jet made its final descent into LAX airport. Seated next to her was Athletic Director Vern Foster, who was leaning across the aisle chatting with Coach Avery. Their discussion centered upon tomorrow’s prime time matchup with Western Southern University. The Cougars currently held the number four ranking in the country and were undefeated at home. The matchup was considered the final hurdle for the Tarps. If they won, a shot at the national title was all but guaranteed.
Earlier in the day she stopped at Pete’s apartment to see if he needed a ride to the team bus. He was already gone, but Chloe answered the door with a touch of sass. Heather was shocked to see her smug face and stacked frame. Just twenty-four hours ago she enjoyed dinner with Pete, yet he failed to mention his former fiancée’s presence on campus. The lady of the house was wearing one of his old college shirts, which barely covered her upper thighs. In her hands was a large cup of steamy coffee, held tight by long, slender digits. After saying hello, Chloe slowly blew across the coffee cup, showing off a pair of pouty lips. Heather held her composure until a ray of morning sun lit up the competition’s left fourth finger. There, sparkling in the sunlight, was a magnificent diamond ring set in a traditional pattern. The boulder caused Heather to blink in a repetitive fashion, as if there was something in her eye. She tried to keep her attention on Chloe’s face, but her gaze kept returning to the gemstone. Her heart began to race and she became short of breath. From that moment forward, she could recall no details of the conversation except that as Chloe’s plump lips moved, she wanted to scratch her blue eyes out. Hurt and wounded, she limped back to her car and drove to the bus, where a smiling Pete Wagner awaited.
“Good morning Heather,” was his one and only line. She stormed past him onto the bus, in a fit of internal rage. Pete nervously looked at her but spoke no further, with the team all around. Her actions spoke louder than words, yet she wanted to scream. Another Jamal she thought, just passing through as if everything was a game. Fortunately she hadn’t slept with him. He had saggy boobs anyway.
While boarding the plane he tried again to say hello, but she didn’t respond, shoving her bag violently into the overhead compartment. He had gotten the message, loud and clear. Over the next four hours, a fury slowly churned over and over in her soul, burning out of control as the plane’s landing gear deployed. What about all of the late night phone calls? Why had he been so nice to her? Her feelings were true, yet she had been duped, nearly taken in by the choirboy act. Now like always, she was back to square one. The ‘most likely to succeed’ prom queen from Franklin High hits another dead end. She wanted fresh air, needing to get off the plane as soon as possible. Happily ever after my ass, she thought.
“Heather, the stewardess wants you to put your tray up,” said Vern Foster. “Are you O.K? You haven’t said a word the entire flight.”
“I’m fine,” said the school’s S.I.D. as she slammed the tray into the upright position. “Couldn’t be better.” She looked at the stewardess, her ring finger also adorned with a massive stone. “There, are you happy?”
