A Jacks - Passion_s Her Game

"You won't play," Binks said.

I went outside to my car. It was a cool, sunny October afternoon. I drove across town with the top down. The motel looked big and new. I got a room and asked the switchboard to ring Leighton's room. No answer. I left a call. I went downstairs and ate dinner and bought the papers and tried Leighton's room again. No answer. I was half-asleep with the paper over my face when Leighton called wanting to know what the hell I was doing in town.

"Come over and I'll tell you," I said.

"Are you sober?"

"Come over and see."

Just hearing Leighton's voice reminded me of his wife's voice. I tried to put the sound of her voice away, but it wouldn't go away. I lay there on the bed thinking of her, waiting for Leighton. There was a hell of a lot to remember when I started thinking about her.

How she had looked at me that time in practice camp, straight through me as though she were looking two thousand years beyond me, as if I simply didn't exist. She was standing on the side of the field. It was August, hot and muggy and the coach had been driving hell out of us because we were going to open against Baltimore in a non-scheduled game, and everybody was out of shape and the coach was sore as hell. But one thing you got to say about Bud, he never showed it, just a look, that's all he needed to give you, just a look at your guts or legs and you knew what he meant.

Her hair was shining, golden, and she had a beautiful body. I could see every curve, breasts, thighs and legs, beautiful, smooth as a racing sloop. I walked past her and gave her the eye and she looked straight at me. I thought maybe she was just being polite because I probably stank worse than a dead mule after a two hour scrimmage. I got about five steps past her. Those tits did it. Not her blank eyed stare. I wanted to know who owned those beautiful tits. I turned and went back to her and tapped her on the shoulder. She knew even then who it was. She didn't turn. She didn't move.

"Yes," she said. "What is it? What do you want?"

"I thought maybe you were looking for somebody."

There were always young broads around training camp and on the road. Not as good as in baseball where you don't get whacked around like in football and can hardly lift your cock to pee out of after a tough game, but always broads some place.

But none of them quite this classy.

"I am looking for somebody," she said.

"That's funny," I said. "So am I"

She still hadn't turned around.

"Sorry I can't help you," she said.

"I think you could," I said. You should have seen her ass. Beautiful.

"Goodbye," she said. "I'll tell my husband I just met the quarterback."

I got the hell out of there fast. One thing I always try not to do is get my meat where I get my potatoes. I didn't want to get mixed up with anybody's wife from the team.

But that didn't stop me from thinking about her, and now waiting to see Leighton again I went on thinking about her, remembering her…

How her body was not only beautiful but pleasant, how I met her the second time at a team party and walked up behind her and spoke to her in a voice that was neither soft nor a whisper, but only loud enough for her to hear, standing a few inches behind her shoulder: "I don't care what anybody else says I think you've got the best shape in the room."

She didn't even turn. The rim of the glass against her lip did not move as she spoke, looking straight ahead, just as if she hadn't heard me, her voice cool and detached: "If you tried, you could be quite decent."

"I bet if you turned around you'd see how decent I am."

"Why don't you bring your own date?"

"I don't know any girls."

"Maybe you ought to meet one."

"I'm just a shy country boy."

"So I've heard."

"Has it all been that good?"

"Run along, little boy, and drink your beer." She walked straight away, across the room, to where her husband was leaning against the wall, talking to MacDonald, a new guard from Alabama.

Screw you baby, I thought, Scallen's going to run a big play right over you yet. Goddamn, she had a beautiful ass and legs.

Leighton looked bigger than I remembered. He had been All-American at Wisconsin, then a dislocated shoulder in his senior year, that wouldn't mend right after an operation, kept him out of pro-football his first two years after college. Then he'd played two years of pro-ball with me. After I was fired, he'd been injured again, traded, and now he was trying to work his way back up. He sat back in a chair and lifted his two big feet up on the writing desk and looked at me.

"Well, well," he said.

"How goes the battle?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" he said.

I put both hands behind my head and leaned back against the pillows at the head of the bed.

"Same thing you are."

"Cut out the crap."

I didn't say anything for a long moment. I just looked at him. He sat there staring at me.

"I'm going to need your help Saturday, Jack," I said.

"You gotta be kidding."

"No, I'll start if Vakos doesn't come out of the hospital."

"Like hell. We gotta a kid -"

"I'll start," I told him.

"And you want me to. make you look good?"

"I'll make you look good, too."

"Nope," said Leighton. "I hope they break your neck."

"Maybe I ought to tell the coach."

"Tell him. I don't give a damn."

"Come on. It's all over," I said.

"Bullshit," Leighton said.

"She's dead."

"You ought to be dead," Leighton said.

"All I need is one good game."

"You think you can come back?"

"Wanna bet?"

"You're outa your mind," Leighton said.

"It was an accident," I said. "Don't you think I paid enough for it? I didn't mean to kill her."

"You were drunk. With my wife. Remember?"

"O.K."

"What happened to this stock business?"

"I want to play football."

"What have you got left? Maybe five years. You're no Blanda."

"I'm throwing well. You'll see."

"You look like you're in shape."

"I feel great."

"So does Hogan. Don't crap me you're the same after that accident and all that booze."

"What about yourself?"

"O K.," he said.

"Come on," I said. "They're holding you together with tape and piano wire."

"I had a good year."

"On a taxi squad," I said. "And now you want to work back up to the taxi squad. Why'd they send you down?"

"You're over the hill," Leighton said.

"Well, let's see if you are. I'll put that ball right in your hands."

"You don't know the patterns."

"Drop a few and see where you'll wind up."

"I'll catch 'em."

"That's all I want to know."

"Care for a drink?" said Leighton.

"No thanks," I said. "See you in the morning."

I sat on the edge of the bed, then stood up as he turned the doorknob. I felt things were going to be O.K. Leighton had a great pair of hands. If he dropped the ball or screwed up the patterns he'd only shaft himself, not me. I hoped he was O.K. physically. Above all I hoped the offensive line could hold a block.

I got undressed, climbed into bed, turned the light out and tried to go to sleep. It wouldn't work. I kept thinking about her, how it all started, and the worst part, how it all finished. No, don't think about that, I told myself, think about making love to her, think about the sweet times.

But that only made it tougher to sleep, and it was no use not trying to think about her at all, no matter how hard I tried. I was all alone with her again in a dark motel room.

Joan Leighton. There, I'd done it, let myself say her full name. I started getting a hardon thinking about her. I felt my cock getting harder and harder against the sheets, the damn shaft was straight up.