Out of Bounds(10)
“Ouch,” I say, wincing in pain, like I can feel what Sanders is going through. “That’s terrible. What’s next?”
“GM made a trade a few days ago. Looks like he just wrapped it all up, so we wanted you to take a look at the release. Shouldn’t be anything out of sorts, but it’s good to follow our new procedures on everything. Gotta play by the rules.” Stuart slaps a few sheets of paper on my desk. Still warm. Fresh off the printer. “Back in ten?”
“Of course,” I say, as I grab the pages. This is an easy in, easy out scenario. I seriously doubt the release will require any lawyering, but when you need to fix a bad rep, you can’t cut corners, even on something as simple as a statement about a quarterback requiring surgery. When Stuart leaves I begin reading, but I’m still thinking about that other quarterback. The one who made me weak in the knees. Who sent butterflies swooping through my belly. Who turned me on.
Normally, I’m pretty solid when it comes to assessing situations. My radar is finely tuned, and I was so certain Drew would be dialing my numbers. Maybe Ally was right. Maybe something happened to him.
Setting aside the page for a minute, I take a quick break to check out the Bleacher Report to see how Drew is faring in the preseason. Fine, fine. I’m stalking him, but I reason it’s for my job. It’s good for me to know what’s happening in the league. Once I learn what Drew’s up to, I’ll give all my focus to this quickie news release on our quarterback.
I peer at the screen. There’s no info on Drew’s number today. No report on his preseason stats with the Anaheim Devil Sharks. Nor yesterday. That’s odd. I check the clock. Stuart will be back in five minutes.
Turning away from the computer, I return my focus to the release about the injury. All looks good. I flip to the next page.
The first paragraph makes me blink. Once, twice, three times.
The words rise up from the page, beating, like they’re alive.
The Los Angeles Knights are pleased to announce the team has traded for Drew Erickson, a quarterback from the Anaheim Devil Sharks. He will likely start in the first game of the season for the Knights.
Chapter Four
Drew
Los Angeles is sharp.
Better than I expected given the team’s troubles in the last year or so. But they’ve weeded out some of the guys who were bringing them down. I firmly believe those kind of problems have a way of carrying over to the field. You just can’t f*ck shit up, land punches, snort lines, and, well, knock up a teenage cheerleader, and then play like a pro when it’s time for kickoff.
Today marks the end of my first week with my new teammates. In the morning we run routes once more, so the receivers and I are in synch on the timing of the plays. The pace is light in the early hours, but picks up after noon with a long series of passing drills under the hot sun. By the time practice ends, my muscles are drained and I’m sweat-soaked, but I can’t complain. This is a good kind of exhaustion. The kind that seeps into my bones and portends a good night’s sleep.
That’s what I need to stay strong this season and injury-free. And that’s exactly what I intend to do this fall. Stay in top-notch shape and take the team all the way. As I walk off the field with Tony Elkins, our leading receiver, who sports a full beard and a long mess of hair, he claps me on the back. “Nice work, Erickson. Been a good week.”
“Thanks, man.”
“Keep that shit up and we can make it far this year,” he says, offering a fist for knocking. I reciprocate.
“That’s the goal.”
“Streak, baby. We need to get on a streak.”
“Yeah? That’s the key?”
“I’ve already got my lucky socks planned. Soon as you start working that magic in the pocket, firing off beautiful bombs to your favorite receiver,” he says with a wink as he taps his chest with both hands.
I nod, long and playful. “As long as you catch ’em, man.”
He holds his arms out wide. “Always, baby. These arms were made to cradle the ball,” he says, and I like his brand of cocky confidence.
We head indoors, the blast of cool air-conditioning a welcome relief from the heat. I glance around the concrete hallway, still getting used to the look and feel of Los Angeles’s facilities.
Getting traded wasn’t entirely unexpected. The writing was on the wall when Anaheim drafted a Heisman winner in the first round last spring, and paid big bucks for his arm to the tune of a fat four-year contract for the Georgia graduate. Like a goddamn neon sign flashing that my days were numbered. It’s been tick-tock since then, as I waited for the call any second. Didn’t matter how good my last season was; my contract ends in a year, and the future of Anaheim rested on the new guy’s shoulders.
I get it. I’m not annoyed. This is how pro ball goes. I’m just glad I got traded only thirty miles away. I’d happily pack up for a lot of franchises—hell, for pretty much whoever comes calling with a good offer—but I like Southern California, and I have a boatload of good buddies in this town both from my college days and from the first three years in the pros.
But there’s an even better reason I’m glad I was sent to Los Angeles. The chance is mine and mine alone to start every game. Los Angeles isn’t trying to groom a new superstar, like my old team was. My new team is simply aiming to keep its head above water, and its nose out of the news. I can absolutely deliver on both counts.