Rushed: A Second Chance Sports Romance

* * *

* * *

S
itting in the locker room
, my hands are shaking as I knot up my cleats. Today is my last chance to make the League after the performance I had at the Combine. Pro Day is here, and I need a good showing. If not . . . things get dicey.

I fucked up at the Combine, to put it lightly. Sure, I did okay with my forty-yard dash, and my three cone drill did all right too. But when it came to the big tests, my Wonderlic, the interviews, and most importantly, my throwing drills, I screwed the pooch.

It wasn't totally my fault. I mean, when I got to Indianapolis, I was nervous, and when I get nervous, I like to go out and party. So the night before the combine, I hit up a club. I didn't pick up a girl, not that I didn't hit on a few, but all that was available were some women who wanted to relive their college days, and I wasn't in the mood. So after a couple of hours of getting free drinks and a lot of playing around, I staggered back to my hotel at one in the morning, half-drunk and not in the least bit relaxed.

To nobody's surprise, I showed up for the Combine nervous and tired, and my results showed it too. Now, I'm getting ready for my last chance to prove that I can be a pro ball player, and I'm nervous as hell. I did everything right this time. No drinking, no parties, no girls, even. I've spent the past four days living like a Shaolin monk, except for cutting my hair. I ain't cutting the hair. It took too long to get my look just right.

"You all right?"

I look up from my shoes and see Duncan Hart, one of my best buds on the team and the real star of the Western University Bulldogs. He's already got his stuff on, except he's got a pair of regular training shoes hanging around his neck. He's going to do the bench press and a deadlift demonstration to prove that his elbow, which was recently under the knife, is back to full strength. If anyone doubts that after the workouts he and I have put ourselves through to prep for this Pro Day, I'll happily readjust their reality. We’ve never been in better shape in our lives.

"Yeah, I'll be fine," I reply, shaking out my hands. "Just got the jitters, you know? I mean, I'm not the one with the only question being if he gets a first or a third round draft pick. You've got your ticket punched, it's just a matter of how big a contract you land."

Duncan, who a year ago would have made a smart ass comment, instead smirks and shakes his head. "You'd be surprised."

I cough and shake my head in disbelief. Duncan Hart, feeling the nerves? No fucking way. "What the hell are you talking about? You've got it made."

"We'll see, won't we? Come on, let's go get warmed up."

We go out onto the grass of the field, where I can already see the scouts and some of our coaches standing around. I know a lot of the scouts' work is to get the inside scoop from our coaches about our real playing abilities. Pro Days and workouts can show some things, but video tape and interviews with coaches are still a favorite tool. Of course the scouts know the coaches will try to give the sunny side of things, but still, they talk.

I know what they say about me. Good reads, decent feet, but his receivers make him seem better than he is.

The worst two things, for me at least, are what's probably keeping me from being a second or third round lock for the League draft. First, that my arm is supposedly weak. Yeah, I can't heave the ball seventy fucking yards, but I'm not a six foot four, two hundred and forty pound freak with a cannon for an arm. I'm six two, just on the short side for a pro quarterback, and I'm two hundred and fifteen pounds. I have to be more mobile, and that means I can't just set up and fire bombs. And I've worked hard on it, I can throw harder than ever, but more importantly, I can put the ball on a dime if I get a chance. Still, when teams are looking for monsters who have cannons for right arms, my gun show isn't quite getting the attention I think it deserves.

But what’s more troubling is my off the field reputation. With the League's main offices more worried about sponsor deals and family friendly images, a guy who likes to party and has gotten into a few fights off the field isn't the type the League is interested in nowadays.

Okay, sure, I like beautiful women. It's one of the great things about going to Western, you can't throw a rock in any direction without hitting one who loves a guy with a surfer dude look like me. My last girlfriend, before I broke up with her, was half Filipina. Beautiful caramel kissed skin, a butt you could bounce quarters off of, and she knew how to please her man. I had a hard time breaking it off with her, but I just wasn't into her the way that I knew she was into me. And as much of an asshole as I can be sometimes, it just wasn’t fair to keep seeing her.

Doesn't matter now, I've been single for the last half a year, since the ninth game of the season. Now I need to focus on this Pro Day, and after doing my throwing demonstrations and nailing my interviews, I’m hoping to end it with a good performance.

While I take a moment to collect myself before the run tests, Coach Bainridge, our head coach, comes over. "How's it looking, Coach?"

He’s has always been a guy that I can talk to. He sort of took me under his wing, let me pick his brain… he’s been around the game long enough to know a little about everything. He can watch game tape of me and tell me every flaw I make on the field, and he's helped me be a smarter quarterback.

"We're just getting started, Tyler. You light it up on the QB drills, and you'll be fine."

There's something in his eyes though that says differently, and I take a deep breath. "Cut the shit, Coach, you always did before. What's the deal?"

He rubs his day's worth of stubble, he never does shave on game days, I guess this fits too, and licks his lips. "They're not really asking a lot of questions about you, Tyler. A lot about Duncan, some of the teams are wondering what Joe Manfredi can do with his numbers, but the League thinks they've got their QB situation pretty well settled. Unless you can really light it up here, you may not get a call at all. I'm sorry, son."

I shake my head and check the knots on my cleats. "Guess the only thing to do then is go out and kick a little ass. All right, I'll get ready."

* * *

"
A
nd with pick
number thirty-two of the seventh round, San Francisco selects . . . Adrian Granger, of the University of the Great Lakes."

The player's lounge inside the Adams Pavilion has been mostly empty for hours now, as Joe Manfredi gave up during round five. Duncan, who got selected yesterday with the big first round pick that I’m honestly happy he got, stopped by with his girlfriend Carrie about two hours ago to see how I was doing. I won't give up my seat though, and as the last pick is handed out to Mr. Irrelevant, I let my head drop. My eyes are burning, I haven't even blinked in what feels like twenty minutes, and I convince myself that the tears that are in my eyes are because of that. Yeah, that's it. I just need some Visine and I'll be good.

I hear someone coming up behind me, and I see Coach Bainridge bringing a drink over from the table. He hands it to me, and before I take a sip, the smell hits my nose. Scotch, and from the oaky aroma, not rotgut shit either. "This is against university rules,” I say, pretending that I care.

"You've broken a few in the past five years," Coach B says somberly, taking a seat on the couch next to me. "Besides, you're over twenty-one, and you aren't officially part of the team anymore. Drink up."

The scotch burns, but helps calm me down. When I'm finished, Coach sits back while I look for the words. It takes me longer than I thought it would, I'm normally a quick tongue. "So what now?"

He sips at his drink again and crosses his legs, leaning back and giving me an appraising look. "Depends on you. You've got four options, from my point of view."

"I'm listening."

"Well, first, you can give up football. I know your major isn't exactly great. You picked it based more on keeping your football eligibility than getting into a Master's program, but you've got the personality. You could make a good life doing sales or management using your game skills. You're a natural leader. You could do well."

I think about it, then shake my head. "No, Coach. I love the game too much to just walk away. I don't want to be
that
guy, twenty years from now at the class reunion who is balding, wearing a polo shirt that is too small, talking about those good old days with my gut pushing over my belt."

"Ouch, but too accurate," Coach chuckles, then sips at his drink again, polishing it off. "Option two is to go into coaching. You've got the brains to make a good coach, and I could get you a slot as a graduate assistant next year. It's not a lot of money at first, but you could work your way up.”

I think about it. Xs and Os . . . "No, but it's tempting. I'm not saying never to coaching, but . . . there's still a player in me. I can play pro ball."

"That's what I thought you'd say. Well, that brings me to your other two options. The first is the phone call I got about an hour ago. Toronto of the Canadian League wants to offer you a contract, contingent on you not being signed with a team in the States. The Canadian League had their draft day a little before the League's, and while nobody drafted you because they didn't want to waste a pick on a guy who had a shot at an American team, they did pick you up on their 'notice list,' which is like a supplementary draft that they have up there."

An offer? That sounds good. "What are the terms?"

"Not bad. They didn't give me a dollar amount, they want to talk with you personally, but they said upper range for a quarterback in their league. Of course, upper end for them and upper end in the USA are two very different numbers.”

“What do you think, Coach?"

He thinks for a moment, then shrugs. "It's got to be your choice, Tyler, but here's my thoughts. The League's stacked with quarterbacks right now, so unless someone goes down with an injury, your chances of getting more than a third string or a scout team slot are small. But, Canadian ball, the game's a bit different, the field's different. You're going to start with more money than a scout teamer or practice squadder, but there is a much lower limit up there.”

"But I wouldn't be banned from the League," I muse. "I mean, guys have gone from Canada back to the US before. Good ones, too." I think about it. "When does Toronto want to talk?"

"Quickly. The Canadian season starts in early July, and runs until the weekend after Thanksgiving when they run their championship game. They'll probably let you walk for graduation, but you're going to be going straight from graduation to training camp."

"That's not a problem. I'm not hurt, and with what Coach T's been putting me through, I'm in the best shape of my life. And like I said, it's not a prison sentence, it's just a season or two in Toronto. I can light up the field up there, and get an invite to a League team if everything goes right.”

Coach gives me a grin, and slaps my knee. "All right. Let's go to my office, we can make that call back to Toronto."