Page 79 of Good Guy Gabe

That still sounds like stalking. And this is feeling weirdly like an intervention, especially when several others casually make their way toward the snack table, conveniently next to me.

These assholes are blocking me in.

I know a fucking play when I see one.

“Listen, dicks, Joss is having my baby, and I love her. We’re going through a bad patch, but we’re getting past it.” Positive affirmations. I don’t know how to fix this. I’m not sure if continuing to do the same thing will get me there, and I’m not sure what else there is. But I haven’t given up yet. My NFL careermay be over, but I’m not giving up on everything else. “And we’re going to get married, so you better not say shitty things about her.”

There’s a lot of silent communicating happening around me. I’ve been the one silently communicating enough times to know that Blaise has no idea how to do this. I smirk shamelessly when everyone’s eyes end up on Blaise, who’s either flagging a plane or relaying signals from the baseball coach to the pitcher.

No one moves, but Blaise ultimately nods and says, “Yes, this halftime show does suck and I do think we should go toss a ball around. Great idea, guys.”

The entire party, fourteen Jugs first-stringers, ends up on the front lawn. We tell ourselves this is going to be a gentle football game, hardly anything more than flag football, but come on. We only know one way to play this game.

The Super Bowl Halftime Show must be garbage because several of the neighbors watch from their porches. A couple wander toward us.

We don’t have a balanced team. There are no running backs here, just Merrick. We have our punter, Donnie Thompson, who’s brave enough to take over that role, and then we don’t have any of the defensive back field, just the line, but that makes Merrick happy. “Thank fuck Allore’s doing family shit with Morales,” he jokes, although he’s not laughing. He’s not a laugher.

Allore is batshit on the field. He’s a great safety for it, but the best thing about being on a team with Allore is he’s not on the other team. I’m not sure he wouldn’t accidentally wreck Merrick in the heat of the moment.

The game is simple: we see how long it takes to make a touchdown, the touchdown being the neighbor’s driveway. We figure that’ll be enough shenanigans to get through the halftime show, and it’ll burn off steam. Thompson and the defense — heavy for the first play, not that anyone’s counting — line up in the neighbor’s yard, Kai holds the ball, and Thompson kicks the crap out of it, sending it all the way to our driveway, narrowly missing Bodley’s Camaro.

“Shenanigans!” Blaise yells as he slides his ass right across the hood to retrieve the ball and make a run for it.

Chaos. Blaise doesn’t run balls, and now I’m seeing that this was a strategic move by a coach of eons past who likely didn’t recognize the value of his arm so much as the impossibility of his running. Instead of attempting to gain any yardage whatsoever, he darts in and out between the vehicles, leaving four of the D guys chasing after him as it turns into a game of protect-the-property-value. He gets blocked by Bodley and Thompson — the other Thompson, Rydell — on either side of Vedder’s lifted truck, so he drops down and crawls under it, popping up on the other side. He sprints across the lawns, hitting the neighboring driveway and spiking the ball before breaking into the Chicken Dance.

“Can we fine him for that?” Donnie Thompson asks with a chuckle.

“For what? The idiot didn’t score,” I point out.

“Get your ass back here!” Merrick yells.

From across the lawn, Blaise shouts, “We’re done! I won!”

“You literally had your entire body and the ball on the ground.”

Even at this distance, I can see his grimace. “Right, yeah. I guess Vedder’s truck’s the line of scrimmage.”

“No the fuck it isn’t!” Vedder yells, and we settle for the mailbox a couple feet up from the driveway, just to give us a bit of space to work. The second play goes far more cleanly, with Merrick catching the ball and Rydell herding him into the street, out of bounds, about twenty yards down the lawn.

The next play, Blaise passes it off to Donnie, but Vedder accidentally hits him hard enough he fumbles the ball. It hits the grass, and instincts take over. Everyone scrambles for the ball, and Rydell ultimately comes out of the pile with it.

I pivot to chase after him. Again, instinct. We didn’t think this game through clearly enough to know what will happen if he gets back to the driveway — or worse, if he doesn’t, and then defense is playing offense and we end in some Stranger Things nonsense — but I give chase.

My entire body turns.

Except one foot, snagged on a sprinkler.

Right as Vedder plows into me, a totally friendly hit if my knee wasn’t pivoted the wrong way.

I go down screaming.

Chapter 32

Joss

IALWAYS GETnervous in hardware stores.

It’s the way employees go out of their way to be helpful. Not that I don’t appreciate it, but I’m always on edge when I’m out in public, and I swear the employees pop up everywhere. It’s like they’re all watching the aisles from security cameras, prowling for women who look lost to pounce on.

---