Isolation Play (Dev and Lee) (45 page)

“
Is that from a brochure? And isn’t your tiger already out? Is his father gay?”

I shake my head. “I was thinking of a friend of mine. It’s just different, that’s all.”

“
So what if the papers print it and he digs his heels in?”

I rub my fingers over my cast. “Then how are we any worse off than we are now?”

“
You don’t think it’ll make his father more angry at you?”

I lift my cast. “Hard to imagine that. Anyway, he yelled at him in a public place. It’s not going to come back to me.”

“
Have you told your tiger about it?”

My tail curls around my hips. “No.”

“
I see.”

I interrupt his judging. “I’m going to. Just waiting to do it in person.”

“
You know how to handle him.” He holds up his paws. “I’m just thinking that if you’re trying to get him on your side, you might want to be more thoughtful about the things you do to his family.”

“
He’s already on my side.” My tail curls more tightly against me.

He sighs. “Would you like to see a headline in the newspaper about your mother’s meetings with Mrs. Hedley?”

I bite off a facetious reply. “Sure. It wouldn’t do any good, though.”

“
What about a headline about you?”

“
I told you, outing someone is different.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t see that.”

“
You’re not gay.”

He looks me in the eyes, and lifts a paw to rub the whiskers on his muzzle. “No, and I suppose that makes a difference. Your tiger is, and a celebrity. I really have no idea what that world is like. You could be right after all. Maybe it’s okay to do something that’s a little wrong in order to achieve a larger right. But have you thought about this? Have you thought that in throwing his son out for being gay, your tiger’s father is doing just that, in his eyes?”

“
Maybe that’s where I got the idea,” I say, tightly.

“
Fair enough.” He leans back. “Is he expected in town again any time soon?”

“
They live up in Lake Handerson.”

“
No, no. I mean your tiger. Devlin, right?”

“
Dev. Yeah. Uh, no. I go down to see him when he has home games. I’m going this weekend. But he doesn’t come up here much.”

“
Too bad.” He finishes off his beer and sets down the empty mug.

“
I’ll get this,” I say as he fishes for his wallet, and he doesn’t protest. “Another one?”

“
No, I should be getting back. Work in the morning, and your mother’s friend will be gone by now.” He starts to get up.

I sit a moment longer, then think, hell with it, I don’t like the wine anyway. I get up with him, toss some cash on the table, and walk him to the door. I want to say more, to respond to his reaching out, but I don’t know how to do it. It’s been so long since we talked without sniping at each other that I’m not sure how to handle it.

Outside, our ears flatten again, and tails fluff up. The wind’s picked up, and the streets are emptier. “Want a ride back?” he says when we stop at his car.

“
I’m good,” I say. He unlocks the car and bends to open the door. The decision I’ve been struggling with for the past few minutes comes to a head. “Listen...”

He stops and lifts his ears a touch. I take a breath and then plunge on. “I was going to go down to Chevali for Thanksgiving. I’m not sure where we’ll be going, but...maybe I could ask Dev to come up here.” He doesn’t say anything. “I mean, with the cold, it’ll feel more traditional. I guess we’d just hang out at my place. If you’d want to come by.”

The wind blows our fur in the same direction: his right, my left. He adjusts his glasses and then nods, the wind catching the white fog of his breath before it can properly form. But I can hear his words clearly. “All right. I’ll give you a call.”

I smile, raising a paw as I step back. He gets in the car and drives off.

Though the wind is brisk enough to make me want to shove my paws in my jacket pockets, I get out my phone as soon as my father’s car is on its way. Kinnel answers with a rasp in his throat that clears after a couple coughs. “Don’t run the thing about Dev’s father,” I say.

He sounds amused. “Pangs of conscience?”

“
You know, it just...I’ll find you another story.”

“
That’d be good anyway.”

“
You didn’t already run it, did you?”

He coughs again. “Would it make you feel better if I told you that one of the waiters at the restaurant was already going to the tabloids? That we split the money?”

“
Is that true?”

“
Will it matter?”

I wait at a corner for a light to change, a bundled-up raccoon a few feet away. I turn away from him. “It’ll make me feel less guilty.”

“
Then it’s not true.”

The light changes, but I don’t move. “What?”

“
Listen, Mister Farrel,” he says. “In my biz, you do some stuff people will give you shit for. You turn over rocks, shine daylight on secrets. You talk about shit people don’t want talked about. And you’re always gonna get people telling you to leave it be, let sleepin’ dragons lie, whatever. The only way you deal with that is you take responsibility for everything you do. You decide it’s the right thing, and then you stick by that decision. Be a
ma-e
.”

“‘
Ama-heh’?”

“
Ma-e
. My grandfather was Navajo. It means...it’s what us guys are supposed to be. Strong, upright, honest. Responsible.”

“
Huh.”

“
Yeah, it’s a nice word to toss out. The point is, own up. You believe you’re doing the right thing, show your balls.”

I hurry across the street, turning a corner into the teeth of the wind. “Is that another Navajo phrase?”

“
Nah, I picked that up from Chuck Danger at the Crystal City Herald. He’s a skunk. He said that all the time. If you were slow chipping in for dinner, he’d say, ‘show your balls!’ Said it to gals too.”

I don’t know what to say to that, besides, “Seriously?”

“
Yeah, he said telling them to show their tits was illegal.”

I snort. “Is that what you told your wife when she left you? That you were doing what you believe in?”

When he talks again, his voice is subdued. “That’s cold, fox.”

“
You talk all this talk about being a ma-heh, showing your balls, and it’s easy for you, this time. All you did was send someone some piece of someone else’s life and collect a check.”

“
I don’t see how it was harder for you. You just called me and now you’re feeling guilty. And I’m tellin’ you, it happens. Don’t let it stop you from telling me more stuff, right?

“
It’s different when I’m just passing along Dev’s quotes.”

“
Or yours. Whenever you want to tell that story...”

Maybe if Dev leaves me. It’d make a good cautionary tale. “Not yet.”

He sounds amused. “Course not. Don’t sweat the story, Red. Nobody reads the fuckin’ tabloids anyway, nobody who matters. Bored females and college students, and nothin’ they say gets taken seriously.”

“
That’s sexist of you.”

“
All the same, my half was enough for rent.”

“
Half?”

He chuckles hoarsely. “Night, Mister Farrel.”

I scurry the last two blocks back to my apartment, where I make myself a nice hot cup of tea and curl up in bed. I almost want to call Dev’s father and just talk to him, even though my paw, aching from the cold, reminds me how useless that would be. Or his mother, but it’s clear who’s the
ma-e
in that family. If I’m using Kinnel’s word right.

Come on now. I’m the fox who dressed up like a girl to trick a football player into fucking me. I spent my entire senior year hiding my relationship from my friends. How can I not be okay with a little subterfuge, using the media to shame someone? I’d thought I was.

But what worries me more than ever is what Dev will say when I tell him.

?

After two solid days running around the northeast, I hop on a plane for Chevali, and I’m not just looking forward to the warmer weather. Dev’s playing a late game, and for once I can get to the stadium in time to watch it in person. They’re playing their third consecutive home game, this one against the Highbourne Rocs. A lot of Highbourne fans in their navy blue and russet shirts have invaded the top deck, but fewer than used to show up at Chevali games last year. Nearby out-of-towners are finding it harder to get tickets with the Firebirds having such a good season.

My seat is down in the lower deck, near the top, so I’m not out of place in my Firebirds shirt. The family of possums next to me waves cheerfully in their red and gold; the foxes in front of me flash me vulpine smiles, tipping Firebird-logo hats; I look down over a sea of red and gold to the bright green field.

With binoculars, I check the stands for signs about Dev. There are a few supporters: Dev’s Divas are back in the top section across from me, and in the lower deck near the end zone is a sign that says “#57: Pick It Off Then Pick Me Up.” I grin and lower the binocs, scanning the Rocs sideline for Seito, the white wolf who beat Dev in his last game at Forester. I spot him, finally, wearing number 11 and a headset. He’s supposed to be pretty smart, with a strong arm, just not as mobile or tall as most pro teams like. But he’s in his second year backing up Highbourne’s all-star quarterback, so he must be doing something right.

Dev keeps his phone off during games, but I talked to him before I got on the plane. It sounds like he’s been having a crappy week of practice. The family thing’s really gotten to him, the way the stress of the whole thing with Brian did a month or so ago. Plus, the cougar he replaced, Corey Mitchell, returned to practice this week. Even if he weren’t an ass, the possibility that Dev might lose the starting spot isn’t helping.

But come game time, Dev handles everything pretty well. He runs his routes with precision, even if he still isn’t anticipating what his teammates are going to do. I see Gerrard bark at him twice; he doesn’t really respond.

Even so, none of the crucial plays of the game go through him. Chevali gets a touchdown on a nice run from Jaws, and adds a field goal just before the half. Highbourne keeps getting close but can’t punch it in, so it’s 10-6 at the half.

Highbourne is one team that is terrific at halftime adjustments. On their first series in the third quarter, they’ve got second and five from midfield. They bring in an otter at running back, which has Gerrard pointing and waving Dev and Carson into different positions. They come up to block the run.

Most teams have otters as kick returners if at all. They supposedly aren’t tough enough to take the pounding a running back gets, but the Rocs are using theirs as a change-of-pace back, not an every-down runner. This guy is so good that he’s got other teams looking closely at their rosters to see if any of their kick returners could play a little RB.

I’ve seen some good kick returners, but nothing like this otter. His offensive line opens a small hole for him for a second, but that’s long enough. He jukes through, then darts forward under Carson’s arms, quicksilver in russet-trimmed white. Once he gets past Carson, he turns on the jets and Vonni barely catches him at the two. They pound it in from there for a 13-10 lead. Dev was blocking on the other side of the field, and even Gerrard was too slow to get over to help. Nothing they could’ve done.

Highbourne’s quarterback, a smart veteran wolf who started one of the two championships they won when Fisher was there, runs the rest of the game well. The teams trade touchdowns, and then Aston launches six desperate passes in the last two minutes, completing four of them. The last one falls a foot ahead of Ty’s outstretched arms as the clock ticks down to zeroes.

There’s disappointed muttering around me, cheers from the upper deck. I stand with the possum family, whose younger pup is almost crying at the loss while his older brother looks on scornfully. The mother consoles him; the father says, “It’s just one game.”

“
Highbourne’s good this year,” I say conversationally, allowing them to ignore me if they want.

The father, a few inches shorter than me, gives a quick nod. The crying pup is in his mother’s arms now, so the father pats the older son. “We’re still five and three,” he says. “And we mostly kept their offense in check—except that one run. Good defense wins championships.”

That perks me up as I make my way through the crowd. Dev’s unit—his side of the team, that is—is getting good recognition. I can mention that to him tonight to ease the mood he’s sure to be in.

Before I tell him about the tabloid story. My feet hesitate; the otter behind me bangs into me and goes around without a word. I keep walking, trying to turn over words in my head. How can I tell him? Show your balls, I hear Kinnel say. Maybe that might not be a bad idea to take literally. Be a
ma-e
, sure, but there are ways and ways to say things.

I make my way to his apartment, knowing he won’t be there for a while. I don’t know if the defensive players go out after a loss the way they do after a win, but I do know he’s going to have practice tomorrow, so we’ll only have tonight and tomorrow morning.

His building is quiet. I let myself in, wondering how long it’ll be before some stalker makes it in through the building’s shoddy security, and ride up.