He starts at my words, his mouth gaping. “Tuck ... shit ...”
“I don’t want to discuss it,” I say.
He gets in the passenger side. “Okay, but are you all right?”
No. I’m bitter. I want to pummel something with my fists. I need to pound the shit out of everything in my workout room.
I grumble out an unintelligible response as we squeal out of the garage.
Jasper flips on the radio, and two familiar voices fill the car.
“And they aren’t scoring any points. That’s where it starts, and that’s where the problem is,” says Dog’s voice from theDog and Jerry Show, a sports-radio talk show.
I huff. A few years ago, I was their shiny star with a standing weekly interview on Tuesday afternoons. I’d talk about our game and news around the league, but this year I haven’t felt like talking to them—and they haven’t called. My hands clench the steering wheel.
“Amen. Our Pythons offense is the worst in a fifteen-year history, and it’s not the QB’s fault, folks. Jasper Janich can’t throw the ballandcatch it too,” Jerry says on a chuckle.
“These guys are hilarious,” Jasper says.
“Really? You like them now? A couple of years ago you called my lawyer to see if you could sue them for saying that you ran like that kid who wore a scoliosis brace in third grade.”
He bristles. “Meh, they like me now.”
Dog is back. “Janich is a stud quarterback, but he’s running for his life, and the ole veteran, Tuck Avery, is stinking up the joint this year.”
Bitterness eats at me. Where’s the love for a player who’s spent the past fourteen years bringing championships to our city? The speedometer hits eighty as I pass a BMW on the expressway.
“Yep, he’s gone from being ole reliable on third down to just being old,” Jerry says.
They both laugh as I hit ninety and pass a sedan.
“He’s fumbled more than he’s caught passes,” Jerry adds.
I grit my teeth. Not true. I speed around a truck, hitting triple digits.
Jasper puts his hands on the dashboard, then his seat belt, checking it. “Dude. You’ve got special cargo here. Take it easy.”
Dog chuckles. “Tuck’s so old he farts dust.”
Jasper gives me an uneasy look. “That one was kind of funny?”
“Yeah, sure,” I mutter as I downshift and accelerate around a tractor trailer.
Jasper crosses himself. “Baby Jesus, save us.”
Blue lights glitter behind me. Cursing, I ease off the accelerator. Gravel sprays when I pull off to the side of the road.
“Shit, shit, shit, fuck, damn, sorry I cussed, Jesus,” Jasper says as I jerk to a stop.
I lean my head back against the headrest and close my eyes. Breathe. Breathe.
A cold sweat breaks out over my skin—not about the cop but at the helpless feeling inside me.
I can’tmakemyself be a better football player. I can’t fix this. The team is going to dump me. My team is going to leave me behind. Even Jasper.
The trooper taps on my window, and I roll it down. Jerry and the Dog are still making jokes as Jasper turns the radio off.
The cop, a tall dude around my age, leans down. A disbelieving scoff comes from him. “TheTuck Avery. This is crazy. I was listening to the show when you passed me.”