Sandra Brown - Play Dirty

“Okay.”

“These guys were giving him hell. So I plowed through them and pulled him away from the wall, walked him to his locker, told him to get his clothes on, wipe his nose for God’s sake, and get the hell out of there.”

“And then went back and beat the crap out of his tormentors.”

“Tried anyhow,” Griff mumbled.

Coach watched him for a long moment, then stood up, replaced the chair beneath the desk, and went to the door. “Ellie says dinner’s in half an hour. You’d better wash up.”

“Coach?” He turned back. “Don’t tell anybody, okay? I’ve only got one more day of suspension, and…and I promised Lancelot.”

“I won’t tell anybody, Griff.”

“Thanks.”

To this day Griff remembered the expression on Coach’s face as he left his room that evening. He was never able to define it, but he knew that something important had happened, that some sort of understanding had passed between them. As far as he knew, Coach had never betrayed his confidence about the incident.

By now he’d made the neighborhood block and for the second time approached the house with the white flowers on either side of the front door and the backyard pool with the slide. He’d wasted enough time. It was do or die.

The two kids with the football were still throwing passes to each other when Griff parked at the curb and got out.

THE BOYS STOPPED THEIR PLAY, WATCHING AS HE WALKED TOWARD them. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey.” They said it in unison, cautiously.

“Is this Bolly Rich’s house?”

“He’s inside,” replied the taller of the two. “He’s my dad.”

“What’s your name?” Griff asked.

“Jason.”

“You play ball?”

Jason nodded.

“What position?”

“Quarterback.”

“Yeah?”

“Second string,” Jason confessed self-consciously.

“Want to play first string?”

Jason looked at his friend, then back at Griff. “Sure.”

“Give me the ball.”

Again Jason first consulted his friend with a look, then passed the football to Griff, keeping himself at arm’s length. “I’m throwing ducks.”

Griff grinned at his use of the term for a slow and wobbly pass. “That happens to everybody once in a while, but you can avoid it.” He took the ball in his right hand, pressed his fingertips against the laces. “See this?” He held the ball for Jason and his friend to observe.

“You’ve gotta keep the pads of your fingers tight, like you’re trying to squeeze the air out of it. So when you let it go…” He motioned for Jason’s friend to run out for a pass. The kid went willingly. Griff drew back his arm. “You’ve got control, better aim, and speed.”

He threw the ball. It sailed straight and sure. The kid caught it and beamed. Griff gave him a thumbs-up, then turned to Jason. “A bullet instead of a duck.”

Jason raised his hand to shade his eyes against the sun. “You’re Griff Burkett.”

“That’s right.”

“I had a poster of you in my room, but my dad made me take it down.”

Griff snuffled a laugh. “I’m not surprised.”

“Griff?”

He turned. A slight man, wearing cargo shorts, a holey T-shirt, and old sneakers, had opened the front door and was standing on the threshold between the flowerpots. He was balder, but his eyeglasses were the same ones Griff remembered from the last time Bolly had interviewed him.

“Hello, Bolly.” He looked down at the boy. “Keep practicing, Jason.” The youngster nodded respectfully. Then Griff joined Bolly at the door and extended his hand. To the man’s credit he shook hands with him-after only a second or two of hesitation. But the eyes behind the wire frames weren’t exactly glowing with happiness to see the most hated man in Dallas at his front door.

“I think Jason has the potential of being good one of these days.”

Bolly nodded absently, still trying to recover from his shock. “What are you doing here, Griff?”

“Can I have a minute or two of your time?”

“What for?”

He glanced over his shoulder at the two boys, who were watching this exchange with undivided attention. Coming back around, Griff said, “I promise not to abscond with the family silver.”

The sportswriter hesitated for several seconds more, then went into the house and motioned for Griff to follow him. Off the entryway, Bolly led him down a short hallway and into a compact, paneled room. Shelving was jam-packed-even overflowing-with sports memorabilia. Framed photographs of Bolly with star athletes took up most of the wall space. There was an untidy desk in the corner dominated by a telephone and a computer. The monitor was on. The screen saver showed fireworks blossoming in multicolored silence.

“Sit down if you can find a spot,” Bolly said as he squeezed himself behind the desk.

Griff removed a stack of newspapers from the only other chair in the room and sat down. “I called the sports desk at the News. The guy who answered said you were working from home today.”

“I do most days now. Go into the office only a couple days a week, if that much. If you’ve got e-mail, you can conduct just about any business from home.”

“I used a computer in the library this morning. Felt like a caveman looking at the control panel of a 747.”

“They build in obsolescence. Keep you buying upgrades.”

“Yeah.”

An uncomfortable silence followed. Bolly picked up a stray tennis ball on his desk and rolled it between his palms. “Listen, Griff, I want you to know I didn’t contribute anything to that piece about you that came out during your trial.”

“I didn’t think you did.”

“Well, good. But I wanted you to know. That writer-You know he’s in Chicago now.”

“Good riddance.”

“Amen. Anyway, he pumped me for information on your background. Your folks. Coach Miller. All that. All I told him, the only thing I told him, was that you had the best arm and best hustle of any quarterback I’d ever seen. Topping Montana, Staubach, Favre, Marino, Elway, Unitas. You name me one, you were better. I mean that.”

“Thanks.”

“Which makes me all the more pissed off at you for what you did.”

Bolly Rich, a sports columnist for The Dallas Morning News, had always been fair to him. Even when he didn’t perform well, like one Monday Night Football game against Pittsburgh. It was his rookie year, his first time playing the Steelers on their turf. He played the worst game of his career. Bolly’s column the next morning had been critical, but he’d placed part of the blame for the humiliating loss on the offensive line, which had done precious little to protect the new quarterback. He hadn’t crucified Griff the way other sportswriters had. That wasn’t Bolly’s style.

Griff was hoping to appeal to Bolly’s sense of fair play now. “I fucked up,” he said. “Huge.”

“How could you do it, Griff? Especially after such an outstanding season. You were one game away from the Super Bowl. All you had to do was win that game against Washington.”

“Yep.”

“No way Oakland could have defeated the Cowboys that year. Y’all would have waltzed through the Super Bowl game against them.”

“I know that, too.”

“You only had to get the ball to Whitethorn, who was standing on the two. The two! Nobody near him.”

Bolly didn’t have to recount the play for him. He’d replayed it in his mind a thousand times since he threw that pass while the final seconds of the game ticked off the clock.

Fourth and goal on the Redskins’-it would be the goddamn Redskins-ten-yard line. Cowboys trail by four. A field goal won’t do it.

The center snapped the ball into Griff’s hands.