Isolation Play (Dev and Lee) (47 page)

“
Oh. Yeah, you’re right.”

“
Fuck you, kicker,” I say. Charm gives me a friendly push. I return the favor, sending him two steps back.

He folds his arms and sings, “Kicker, kicker, I’m a kicker” while trying to do a little Siberian kicking dance that ends up overturning one of the large equipment benches. Our equipment manager grumbles and waddles over to straighten it up. Charm pretends to dust himself off, comes back over, and pats my shoulder.

“
Awright, Gramps, I’m heading out. You guys doing dinner?”

I look at Gerrard. He nods. “Short one, though. Everyone’s gonna want to get home early.”

Not only that, the mood at the dinner is significantly muted. It’s been a month since we lost, and that was in a rainstorm on the road. We, the defense, make some half-hearted comments about how the offense needs to step it up, how holding Highbourne to twenty is pretty good—their second-lowest total of the year, someone says—but I have the nagging feeling that I could’ve done just a little better. Looking around at the lowered ears and downcast eyes of most of my teammates, I guess they’re thinking the same.

Carson, in particular, downs beers faster than I’ve ever seen him drink. He’s uncharacteristically talkative. “Should’ve had that guy. I’m fast enough to take him. Thought you were closer to the sidelines.” This last to Pace, who made the tackle that temporarily saved the touchdown.

“
Hey, I was covering their cheetah,” he said.

“
It was a run,” Carson says, though not looking at Pace.

“
They’ve run the flea-flicker.”

“
Once all year.”

“
Hey,” Gerrard says. “We did good. We got some stuff we need to fix in practice, but that guy’s gonna get his yards. We kept him mostly contained.” He lifts his glass, then thinks about it and stands, getting everyone’s attention. “Listen,” he says, “we’re gonna lose some games. No shame in losing to Highbourne. Like Coach said, we’re heading on the road for a month. If we keep together, keep trusting each other, keep playing at the level we’re playing, we’re gonna come out of this with three more wins and we’ll come home...for Monday Night...eight and three.” He pauses to let that sink in. “Eight. And Three.

“
No Firebirds team in the last fifteen years has been better than four and four at the halfway mark. We’re five and three now. We have more wins than ten of the last fifteen Firebirds teams got all season. And we’re not done yet. But we need to be a team. We need to stick together.” He glares at Carson and Pace. “You got that? You hear me?”

We all raise our glasses. He sweeps the room with his gaze. “One, two, three,” and we all join in the toast: “Defense!”

The mood picks up somewhat after that. Vonni grins a grin that reminds me of Lee, and says, “You’re gonna make a good coach,” across the table to Gerrard.

“
In a couple years.” The coyote acknowledges the compliment with a flick of his large ears.

“
I mean this week.” Vonni waves a black-furred paw dismissively. “Highbourne? Whatever. When we see ’em in the playoffs, we’ll be ready.”

Gerrard shows a toothy smile. “That’s the spirit.”

People start to disperse not long after that, muttering about practice and sleep. I take out my phone to text Lee that I’m on my way. It buzzes as I’m putting it back. I wonder what Lee’s saying, but it’s not Lee, it’s a voicemail. Weird. Ogleby knows not to call me, and anyway, it’s only one voicemail, so it can’t be him.

My new phone, it turns out, tells me what number it is that left the voicemail. The old one did, too; I just never bothered to figure that one out, and this one doesn’t need me to figure it out. It just shows the entry right there on the screen: “Home.”

My heart jumps. I screw around with the phone’s interface for a minute until I get the message to come up.

Mom’s voice sounds in my ear. “Hi, Devlin, it’s your mother. I just came back from the supermarket and I saw the Weekly News. I don’t understand why...I’m very upset. I’ll call you again.”

That’s it. I stare at the phone. What the hell?

I call back, but there’s no answer. The voicemail greeting has been changed to a terse, “This is the residence of Mikhail and Duscha. Please leave a message.”

“
Mom,” I say, “It’s Devlin. Listen, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Call back? I’ll have the phone with me. Please give me a call.”

The Weekly News? I can’t remember what that even is. Then, passing a supermarket on the way home, it hits me. I make a sharp turn into the parking lot, ignoring the honking, and park in a handicapped spot. I’m only there for two minutes, the time it takes to run in and grab a paper from the rack and throw a five down on the nearest register.

Then I’m outside, trying to decipher the photo-crowded cover and blocky white print. In the corner: “GAY FOOTBALL STAR’S ANGUISH.” I flip to page three.

There, amazingly, is an account of the fight I had with Dad in the restaurant. Well, sort of an account. It’s insane. They say he called me a “little girl.” They claim that he threw a bottle at me on his way out and that I sat at the table and cried for an hour after he left. They even get Dad’s name wrong, calling him “Robert.” It would be laughable if it weren’t so insulting.

The pages are crumpling in my paws. I crush them and throw them onto the passenger seat. Jerking the truck into gear, I back out quickly and drive the last few blocks home. Who the hell...some waiter at the restaurant, maybe. Because I didn’t call them, and Dad didn’t. Lee? No, he wouldn’t do that.

Fucking hell, I didn’t need this on top of everything else this week. What’s gonna happen when the guys on the team see this? Practice is going to be even more miserable. Corey’ll love it. I can just hear him saying, “Hey, Miski, don’t start crying,” when Steez yells at me. Fuck.

I pound the steering wheel and hear a crack. Nothing appears to be broken, though, when I glare at the plastic. Maybe just stress noise. My ribs creak in sympathy.

On the way up, in the elevator, I can’t keep from pacing back and forth, swinging my duffel bag against the walls, the newspaper crumpled in my paw. I hit the wall once or twice. The elevator feels confining, stifling. I jab at the button for six again with a finger, a knuckle, a fist. When the elevator finally lurches to a halt, I shoulder through the slowly opening doors and fairly leap across the landing. I jab the key at my lock three times before it goes in.

I don’t see Lee until I lock the door behind me and turn around. I drop the duffel and throw the newspaper at him. His ears fold down as he opens it. “Page three,” I snarl.

I want something stronger than beer, but my liquor cabinet is bare. I grab a can from the fridge and crack it open as Lee says, “You cried for an hour?”

“
No.” I almost crush the nearly-full can in my paw. My claws scrape the metal. “And my father’s name—”

“
Isn’t Robert. I see. Also they seem to have been able to overhear choice parts of the conversation.”

“
God fucking dammit.”

He drops the paper. “You think if your parents see it, maybe—”

“
Mom already did. She called.”

“
Oh.” His voice is very small. “Did she...did she say whether you should come home?”

“
I haven’t talked to her yet.” I look at his lowered ears. “But it doesn’t sound like something she was getting ready to say.”

We stand, not looking at each other, for several silent heartbeats. I don’t want to ask him if he had anything to do with it. I don’t want him to think I don’t trust him. I wish I didn’t keep thinking it. His tail is curled down between his legs, his arms are folded in front, and he appears to be staring at the border between the living room and the kitchen.

“
Dev,” he says, and I know what it is before he says it.

“
Don’t tell me,” I say, roughly.

“
I need to.” He takes a breath. I could stop him here. “I talked to Kinnel. That reporter. But I didn’t tell him any details.”

I stare at the paper so I don’t have to watch him. “He got details.”

“
I said you went out to a Sonoran restaurant.”

“
That’s a detail.” My claws are out. I pull them back in and stab a finger in his direction. “You just can’t leave anything alone. You told me it would blow over, you said it wouldn’t last. Did you even believe that?”

Rather than becoming more miserable, he fires back. “You weren’t cheering up! You were depressed all week, and you still are.”

“
It’s been
one week
!”

“
Yes, and you haven’t talked about it, made any effort to talk to your family, done anything at all.”

“
I called my mother.”

“
That helped.”

I growl, “And I suppose you just called this morning and got the story in the paper hours later.”

He looks down. “I talked to him, what was it, Monday.”

“
Monday. One
day
later.” I throw my new phone at him, missing on purpose. He jumps as the phone smacks into the wall and drops to the floor. Little pieces skitter away from the large crack in the screen.

“
Don’t throw things.” His tail bristles, then smooths out.

We both stare at each other. “I’ll say I’m sorry if you do.”

“
I’m sorry,” he says, immediately. “I’m really sorry. I tried to take it back.”

“
Not hard enough.”

“
Not soon enough.”

My fists are clenched again. “Lion Christ, Lee, why did you do it? Why spread our family business all out in public?”

“
I thought...” He clenches his own paws into fists. “I thought that maybe public exposure would make him take you back.”

“
Take me back? You
met
my father, didn’t you?”

“
I thought it’d shame him. Prejudice survives in...in...I didn’t think about the effect on you.” He wrenches the words out, with visible effort. “I thought you’d be fine.”

His ears are flat. He looks thoroughly miserable and yet hopeful, beneath it all. I’m about to make him more miserable. “Fine? Do you even know me?”

“
Dev—”

“
It sounds like you’ve been talking to Brian again.”

His expression closes. “No,” he says quietly. “No, I haven’t. And he hasn’t been talking to me.”

I feel a pang at that, but I’m still struggling with the idea that Lee, the one I went to when my father kicked me out, betrayed me. He didn’t go talk to Brian, but he talked to this reporter. “So this guy, Kinnel. Did you jerk him off, too?”

His ears flatten. His expression closes even further. “At least hear me out before jumping to conclusions.”

“
So tell me what the attraction is. Go on. I’m all ears.”

“
Are you going to throw something else at me?” I quash the guilt and just glare at him. He exhales. “Listen, I thought he could help—”

“
I don’t want to hear what you were thinking!”

He folds his arms. “Then what do you want?”

I want him to go back in time and make it not happen. I pound a fist against the wall. I don’t like how good it feels. “You’re supposed to be the smart one!” I yell.

He doesn’t jump at the crack, but his ears flick. He steps back into the bedroom and picks up his unopened suitcase. For a moment, he hesitates, looking at me.

I stalk across to stand in the bedroom doorway, blocking his way. “You think running away is going to help?”

He doesn’t drop the bag. “I’m not running away. Just giving you time to cool off.”

“
Right,” I say. “Time. It’ll get better in a few months, right? Or years? Or should I call your reporter friend and tell him to print this?” His ears fold down. “Would that shame you into doing the right thing?”

He winces, but stands his ground. His voice is steady, but I can tell the words come with an effort. “I swear I was just trying to help you.”

“
I can take care of myself,” I snap.

His ears flick. “You’re not doing a very good job.”

I smack the door frame. “Better than you are.”

There’s a kind of energy between us when we fight. As close as we are now, I feel it, but it’s tainted. I want him to comfort me, but he’s the one who hurt me. I can’t resolve it. I see the conflict in his eyes, as he looks at my fist. “I should go.”

He’s worried I might hit him. I’m worried about that, too. “Why do you want to run out on me? Going to see him?”

He shakes his head, sharply. “You’re not seriously jealous?”

“
No.” I unclench my fists. “I don’t know what I am.”

“
I told you the first chance I got. I didn’t want to do it over the phone. I know I screwed up.”

“
Yeah, you did.” I stare him down until his ears flatten. “You screwed up the way you always do. You took things too far and you think you know what’s right for everyone.”

He sags. I don’t want to feel sorry for him. I want to feel angry at him. And I do, but it’s all mixed up and confused and I hate that. I wish I could just feel hard, clean anger. Or that he would say something that would let me forgive him.

His voice is still firm, but low. “I guess you’re right, stud. I do all that. I do the only things I know how.”