Page 5 of The Check Down

Chapter two

Griffin

“Tough game, Lacey.”

I lift my heavy head and regard the young player who gives me a sympathetic smile. I’ve got a good ten years on Devon Greenway, but I sure as hell didn’t provide him with a stellar example of our shared position out there on that field today.

My first game with my new team was absolute shit. I dropped three passes and fumbled on third and goal in the fourth quarter. The media is going to have a field day. I can see the headline now:Rusty Lacey fumbles in Blues debut.

I muster a brisk nod for Devon. That’s all I’ve got left in me. But he takes the bench next to me and carries on as if we didn’t lose an important conference game minutes ago.

“What’d you think of their coverage adjustments after the half?” He swivels wide, curious eyes my way as he hunches over to unlace his cleats. He’s smart to ask; we’ll face this opponent again later in the season. Though I’ve been a piss-poor mentor for the kid today, he’s eager to learn all he can, and he soaks up every tidbit I share like a sponge. His hunger for game knowledge is apparent in everything I’ve witnessed of him this past week.

I like him immensely. Have since the moment I met him, and I hope I can teach him a thing or two.

Despite his chill demeanor, the mood in the Blues locker room is somber. Coach Mundy gave us the old “keep your chins up, boys” speech a few minutes ago, and now we’re dragging our feet, going through the motions of getting showered and dressed.

The media awaits.

Instead of offering Devon insight into our opponent’s defensive strategies, I give him a compliment. “That catch you made in the third on second down was fire.” I’m not blowing smoke. The kid has skills.

He beams, his smile wide. “I played wide receiver all through high school and college. I can be light on my feet when I need to be.”

I chuckle. Tight ends are not known for being light-footed.

“Wouldn’t have had to go all ballerina tippy-toes if I had your height, though.” He stands and tugs his jersey over his head, then gets to work on the rest of his gear.

“Ballerina tippy-toes, huh? Think my little sister had that doll when she was younger.”

Devon and I twist at the voice. Quarterback Beau Dempsey grins at us as he dodges guys in every state of undress on his way to his locker.

“Sister? She single?” Devon jokes.

Beau gives him a good-natured eye roll. “She’d eat your lunch, Greenway.”

Devon wraps a towel around his naked lower half. He turns on the charm as he says, “I’d love to be on her menu.”

Beau snaps a rolled towel at him on his way to the showers, but he dodges it and cackles, the sound rising above the locker room din.

Confusion swirls in my gut. These guys are surprisingly upbeat after a tough loss.

I open my mouth, ready to share that thought with Beau, but he speaks first.

“Don’t beat yourself up too much about today,” he says as he rubs a tanned hand through his sweat-soaked hair, the dampness making it appear darker than its usual sandy-brown shade. “You’ve been in the league long enough to know that bad days are inevitable. It’s how you handle the bad days that matters.”

I’ve only spent a handful of hours around Beau Dempsey this week, but I could tell immediately that he embodies theCpatched on his jersey. The four gold stars beneath the white letter are further evidence of his grit and dedication. The guy’s only four years into his career, and he’s been captain since the beginning.

He jerks his jersey up over his head and joins me on the bench. “We’ll find our rhythm, old man,” he jokes. He busies himself with removing his pads and the athletic tape on various body parts, but his tone turns serious as he asks, “How’s the shoulder?”

“Feels good. My mistakes today were mental; the shoulder had nothing to do with it,” I assure him.

With a nod, he stands and wraps a towel around his waist. “I’m glad you’re here, Lacey. Let’s hang out sometime. Outside of all this.” He lifts his chin, gesturing to the now almost-empty locker room. “And don’t let that room,” he tilts his head to the exit, “get to you today, either. Give ’em that Racy Lacey charm, and they’ll forget all about the drops.”

There’s no way those vultures won’t mention the drops. But I give Mr. All-American QB a confident nod that belies the heaviness in my limbs.

After my turn in the media room, which is somehow as brutal and not as bad as I expected, I step into the hall, ready to get out of here, and discover my new head coach leaning against the wall, hands in the pockets of his khaki pants.

Bobby Mundy has been the Blues’ head coach for the past ten seasons. He’s well-respected in the league, and from what I’ve heard over the years—as well as what I’ve witnessed this past week—he runs a fair and positive ship. Reminds me a lot of theformer teammate I stayed with in Georgia. He builds up the boys on his team at the local high school rather than pointing out every damn mistake.

---