Mr. November

Chapter 1Week 1 Oakland Mustangs vs Phoenix Wildcats 0-0-0 “Oh for f**k’s sake! I could have caught that f*****g ball! Look at that fucker. Come on, Coach. This is f*****g ridiculous. Why don’t we just give them the f*****g game if you’re going to let the secondary be so weak!” Nobody paid any attention to DeShawn Jones’s string of profanities. Patton Cooper looked over at the young man, watching him hop from one foot to the other, unbothered by the heat of the afternoon or his pads. He held his helmet in one hand, and Patton snorted at the sight of it. Like Coach Williams would change his mind and put DeShawn in so early in the game. The kid was good, and he’d probably be making his professional debut soon, but it wouldn’t be that Sunday. Not unless something happened to Darnell Devereaux. “Do you believe this bullshit?” DeShawn demanded, gesturing madly with his helmet. Patton didn’t have a chance to respond before DeShawn shouted at the field again, this time encouraging Devereaux to get his “slow motherfucking ass” into gear. “Well, do you?” “No,” Patton said mildly, hoping his tone didn’t invite any further comments. His run-ins with the rookie cornerback had been few and far between in training camp and the pre-season, but Patton knew better than try to engage him. DeShawn had all of the attention of a badly trained puppy, every topic always turning back to his prowess on the field, the number of interceptions he had in college, the number of picks he intended to have by the end of the season. Patton didn’t mind that so much. He wasn’t any worse than any of the other kids. Except, he was a kid. Patton was a little horrified to realize he couldn’t even remember his rookie season. Too many blows to the head, probably. “God. How can you stand this? I want to play.” Patton Cooper was six the first time he took a snap, leading his PeeWee team to a big win that marked the first of Patton’s string of big wins. By the time he reached high school, he forgot if he even liked playing football as the sport became a means to an end. Patton liked winning. Patton liked it when the spectators streamed onto the field and lifted him above their shoulders. He liked holding the trophies and the weight of championship rings on his fingers. Patton Cooper liked to be a winner, and for thirty years, he’d been a champion. But he wasn’t anymore. Patton’s body betrayed him in little, maddening ways. His knee hurt every morning, stiff and screaming at him through the muddled haze of sleep. Patton could still throw. But some of the speed had been lost, and at times he didn’t quite get the distance he wanted. It seemed too early for this to happen to him. He was only thirty-two, his twenties just barely behind him. When Patton stretched his knee and iced his shoulder, he uselessly repeated that to himself. It’s too soon. I’m still too good. Patton became fascinated with the fodder of his own life, turning inward until he had nothing but his own mind to keep him company, evaluating and reevaluating everything he thought he knew about himself. Is this what I want with my life? Is this who I am? Patton vaguely believed he had no business asking those questions. He was a football player. He was a good quarterback. He was Mr. November. What else could he be? He’d sacrificed his physical health, his personal relationships, his education to be the ideal. He’d done so happily because he was so sure it mattered. Now he began to suspect that maybe, possibly, none of this mattered at all. This was not a thought Patton indulged in lightly. Not while he sat in the midst of the massive machine that was the Phoenix Wildcats. He used to attend Mass with his very religious mother, forcing his ever-present doubts to the back of his mind, certain it was a sin to even think that God might not exist, even though he didn’t think it, he knew it, and he felt terrible for continuing the charade of piety even if he did it for his mother’s sake. Football had never felt more like a religion to him. That didn’t stop him from wondering why he was there, what he was doing, how could he fix it. The technical answer to the first question was I signed a contract. The technical answer to the second was mentoring the next hot shot. The technical answer to the third question was the most depressing of all. He couldn’t fix it unless he invented a time machine or figured out a way to strip ten years from his life. Patton studied his hands and pretended he hadn’t heard the question. Four of his ten fingers were crooked, thanks to bad breaks that hadn’t healed properly. His right hand was heavily callused. Patton couldn’t even remember what his fingers looked like without the thick skin. “Sorry, man, that wasn’t cool.” “It’s fine,” Patton said, meaning it. It wasn’t as though he didn’t understand where DeShawn was coming from. A shrill whistle sounded, indicating the end of the first quarter, and DeShawn dropped to the bench, watching as the defensive starters hurried to the sideline. Most of them made a beeline for the coolers, pouring water over their heads before taking a drink, but they were in robust spirits, good-naturedly shouting at each other before Coach quieted them down. “I think you should be out there, for what it’s worth.” “Don’t talk like that,” Patton growled. “I’m not and it doesn’t matter what anybody thinks.” “Hey, I was just stating a preference. No need to bite my head off.” “Oz is the leader of this team now. So keep your preferences to yourself from now on.” “You always this f*****g bitchy? No wonder you’re always sitting by yourself. s**t, and I thought you’d be cool. I remember when I used to watch you play. I was in fifth grade your rookie year, and I hated you.” Patton’s brow furrowed. “What the hell kind of story is that?” “No, it’s cool. I was a Breakers fan.” “How disappointing for you.” “You have no idea.” “You still wanted to play football after following the Breakers.” “I wanted to play against you,” DeShawn said, his voice a little gruff, his eyes serious. “Don’t you ever listen to my interviews?” “No.” DeShawn grinned. “It’s like I’ve been telling everybody since I got drafted, I always thought we’d meet out on the field someday. I know every move you’ve got.” “You don’t.” “No, I do.” He touched his temple and pointed at Patton. “I know how your brain works, Cooper. I know how you think.” “Do you think you’re the first corner who’s ever said that to me? I’ve heard it all before. Including the season I only had three picks.” DeShawn leaned closer, and though the teams had returned to the field for the beginning of the second quarter, his full attention stayed on Patton. “But I know something that nobody else does. Those three? They were the same play. Sometimes you get a little impatient and you throw off that back foot. It’s fine when you’re throwing to the left, but not the right.” “That’s not a big revelation. The analysts have been saying that for years,” Patton said stiffly. DeShawn’s easy grin never faded. “Yeah, sure they have. I’m going to catch the rest of the game so I can tell Darnell everything he’s done wrong.” “Did it ever occur to you that Darnell doesn’t want or need to hear s**t from you?” Did it occur to you that I don’t need it, either? “He might not want it, but he needs it.” “He’s one of the best corners in the league.” “Yeah, that’s the story. But it’ll be changing when they see me play.” Patton looked over his shoulder as DeShawn walked away, his attention naturally drawn to Oz’s imposing frame. Patton wasn’t a small guy, but Oz was almost inhuman, taller than anybody else on the field, unexpectedly graceful, his feet fast and nimble when he avoided the hundreds of pounds of angry linemen barreling toward him. He sat hunched over an open playbook with Chip, the offensive coordinator, chewing absently on his fingernail while he watched Chip gesture at the page. It was impossible to dislike the good-natured, confident Oz. Patton sensed a kindred spirit in him, and he couldn’t begrudge the kid, but he burned with helpless jealousy, too, feeling it twist tighter and tighter inside of his chest. It was like too much whiskey downed too quickly, and sometimes the base of his throat clenched and tingled like he was going to vomit. The defense opened the quarter with a strong stand, hinting at the ways the Mustang offense would fall apart. They were committed to running the ball, but they weren’t making any big progress. Their quarterback, Felton, was young and eager, and Patton knew exactly what bad call he would make. Two plays later, he tried to force a play to the far right, and he underestimated Darnell’s speed. “Stupid, stupid,” Patton murmured just before jumping to his feet and cheering his teammate to the end zone. Felton managed to save the play with a diving tackle, but they were on the twelve-yard line and the entire stadium roared with excitement. Oz trotted onto the field to a deafening bellow, the hometown team welcoming their new man and all his potential. “What would you do?” DeShawn asked, at his side once again. “I’d get the ball to the end zone.” “How? What play would you call?” Patton shook his head. “I can’t answer without getting a good look at their defense.” “You’ve been looking at them all week. Studying the tapes when you think nobody notices.” “It’s not the same.” “So you’re telling me you’d trot out onto that field without a single strategy in mind? You have to call something in the huddle.” Patton shook his head again. He had a process, but it was his own, and he didn’t speak about it to anybody except Coach and Chip. He especially wasn’t going to describe his method to this kid. Who knew where he’d end up in the next season? Who knew where either would of them would be? “That’s fine, I wouldn’t tell me either.” “I thought you had me all figured out. You tell me.” DeShawn licked his lips and then accurately outlined the strategy Patton had been mulling from the moment Felton threw the interception. He didn’t need to say anything to confirm that DeShawn was right. The corner knew it, too. “Don’t look so surprised. This is my job. No different from the way you read defenses.” “Maybe it’s a good thing for me we won’t meet on the field.” “Was that a compliment?” “Does it matter? You’ll take it as one, either way.” “Yeah, that’s true.” Patton nodded at the field, indicating he wanted to watch. Momentum was a funny thing, and if they scored first, that momentum might shift to their side of the field. The late summer sun beat on their shoulders, inching closer to its zenith, alone in the blue. Patton’s back itched, and he caught himself idly wishing he could peel his pads off. The ball sailed through the air as he tried to sort out what that could mean—taking off his pads in the middle of a game? Would a soldier strip his armor in the middle of a battle? What was wrong with him that the thought would even cross his mind? Bryce Winter, a wide-receiver just coming into his own in his fourth year, caught the reception for a touchdown. Patton cheered with the rest of the team, patting Bryce on the back when he came back to the sideline. Bryce’s eyes flickered with something as he accepted the congratulations, and some of the sharp tension in Patton’s chest eased. He recognized that look, and it was nice to know that his opinion still mattered to somebody. Patton felt good enough about that to offer Oz a genuine smile when he whipped his helmet off. “Not bad, kid.” Oz smiled broadly, and it occurred to Patton that he really was a kid. A kid who just scored his first touchdown in a professional game, and that deserved more than a few gruff words. Patton good-naturedly pounded Oz on the back and added, “Do that again, and old Waxman will start to panic. You’ll have his whole defense picked apart.” Oz opened his mouth to respond, but Chip pulled him aside, already running his mouth. Patton felt eyes on him, boring into the back of his skull. He spun around to see DeShawn watching him, an uncommonly thoughtful look on his face. A wave of irritation washed through him, and he barely bit back the order to quit his f*****g staring. Maybe DeShawn saw the intention on his face because he shrugged and turned to speak to Bryce. Patton moved to the end of the bench, keeping to himself for the rest of the game, unneeded and brooding. * * * * Patton’s home was a welcome reprieve, a piece of paradise he’d painstakingly carved out of Los Angeles. He’d never been a man of flashy or ostentatious taste, but he wasn’t afraid of spending his money. He needed a haven, a place safe from the world and the game—the good and the bad. He never minded road games as a young man, but after he finished remodeling the house to his exact specifications, he began to resent them a little. No matter how wonderful the hotel, it couldn’t compare to his own bed, his own bathroom, his kitchen where everything stayed exactly where it belonged. Patton supposed that meant he was getting old. He had nothing like that in Phoenix. He had his agent’s assistant find him a house to rent there. Far too big for him, but it had a large, heated pool. That had been Patton’s only specification when all of the details were being settled. Swimming was good physical therapy for his knee. He limped into his den, unnecessarily locking the door before dropping to the couch. The three championship rings were in a glass case above his head, and he stared up at them, the games still fresh in his mind. Patton had left most of his other belongings in his home in LA, but he would not live anywhere without his rings. Their win that afternoon had been decisive, twenty-eight to seven. The lone Mustang touchdown had been a defensive play, a fumble recovery deep in Wildcat territory. It had been a tough break, and DeShawn had been full of righteous fury, though everybody had ignored him. Everybody but Patton, who couldn’t stop himself from looking at the other man, absorbing details with each flick of his eyes. Physically, he’d been built to play cornerback. He was long and lean, well-muscled, capable of getting his body in the air to reaching impossible heights. He wore long braids to his shoulder that annoyed Patton—he firmly believed hair should never be visible when wearing a helmet. His dark eyes were intelligent and his high cheekbones made Patton wonder if he had any Polynesian ancestry. That seemed likely, given the burnished tone of his skin. His youth attracted Patton’s thoughts again and again. He didn’t think DeShawn had meant anything when he said he’d been watching Patton since he was a kid, but the comment still burrowed under his skin and clung to him with sharp barbs. Patton’s stomach growled, reminding him that there had once been a routine. Back when he was a winner, and the patterns of his life had almost mystical significance. Every decision had been critical as Patton strived to keep his world perfectly balanced. He was not a superstitious man by nature, but superstition surrounded him, and fears and obsessions from infusing his life. His routines had become very important to him, and now they were gone, Patton wasn’t sure how to adjust to the unbalance. He abandoned the couch, since the food wasn’t going to come to him, no matter how much he might wish otherwise. There used to be invitations to family dinners after every home game, and there still were invitations, to be honest. But he didn’t really know his new teammates, and he didn’t know their families. It had been easier to develop friendships as the team captain, when he was a franchise quarterback, when he played like he belonged there. Now it just seemed like too much work, having the same getting-to-know-you conversations, answering the same questions, telling the same stories. If Chris were there, he’d smack Patton on the back of the head and tell him to stop being such an anti-social drama queen. Patton caught the edge of the counter and gripped it as the all-too-familiar of regret washed through him. Chris had never even seen this house, but Patton could imagine him standing in the kitchen, sweating onions in the wok with a frown of concentration, absently pushing his hair back away from his eyes between comments on Patton’s performance. Patton filled a deep pot with water and set it on the front burner, capable of nothing more than spaghetti, boiled eggs, and sandwiches. It would be easy to hire a cook and a housekeeper. He’d had one of each in Los Angeles, but like most things since Patton’s move to Phoenix, it didn’t seem to matter that much. He salted the water and stared at the bottom of the pan, waiting for the tiny bubbles to form and float to the surface. If asked, Patton wouldn’t describe himself as lonely. He wasn’t. He missed his old life, he missed Chris, he missed his teammates and his friends, but only in an abstract way. He’d been living under a glass bowl for the past six months, capable of seeing the world, but unable to hear it, smell it, or connect with it on any real level. And when he tired of looking, all he had to do was close his eyes and embrace the darkness, blissfully unaware of the world he no longer felt a part of. Patton boiled an entire box of spaghetti, added a jar of Ragu, and served himself on a plate out of habit. He returned to the den with his food and a beer, flipping on the television so he could watch the day’s highlights. The footage switched to the Wildcats game, and he caught a glimpse of his own face on the television. He paused the image, staring at himself with more than a trace of surprise. He didn’t look old. He looked tired. It was only opening week, and he already looked like he’d been through the wringer and was the worse for it. The image disappeared, replaced by Oz’s smiling face. The stats beneath his name spoke for themselves. Twenty-four completions for twenty-seven attempts. Three touchdowns. Over two hundred yards in passing. Forty-eight yards in rushing. He wasn’t flashy, but he was solid. Patton’s stats for the day were much less encouraging. Nothing but a line of zeroes.