SteVo+ 3,702 Posted September 16, 2016 (edited) | | | | Knights of Andreas Part V Based on Characters Created by: badgers Bangy Barracuda Bay BigBen07 BradyFan81 BwareDware94 CampinWithGoatSampson Chernobyl426 CrimsonRaider DonovanMcnabb for H.O.F eightnine FartWaffles Favre4Ever GA_Eagle JetsFan4Life Maverick RazorStar Sarge seanbrock SteVo Thanatos Turry theMileHighGuy Vin Zack_of_Steel Chapter Sixty-Two – The Line That Divides The pre-game excitement in Ford Field fades fast. Lions fans hoping that the firing of their offensive coordinator will spur some sort of comeback from their dreadful 1-7 record will have to wait at least another week, it appears. The visiting Knights dominate the first half, up 21-0 after one quarter. The home team’s lone highlight comes when ex-Knight Sebastian Janikowski makes a sixty-yard field goal, but the Lions trail at halftime, 24-3. The Knights come out confident and relaxed to start the second half. Jameson pounds away up the middle with Grodd and Penner leading the charge. Facing third and one, Jameson surges into a crowd and leaps for the needed yard. A massive pile of bodies ensues, and Penner finds himself at the bottom. When he gets up, his right shoulder feels stiff. “You good?” Grodd asks. “Just got crunched a little,” Penner says. “I’m fine.” The next play, Penner has difficulty pushing forward, holding his own but unable to lower his body and drive like normal. A few plays later, the Knights are punting. Penner fights off trainers and doctors on the sideline, though they eventually declare him fine to return without a trip to the locker room. Meanwhile, the Lions put together a solid drive resulting in another Janikowski field goal, cutting the lead to 24-6. Harden is ready to dive into some complex iterations of the hybrid defense when he sees Brock creep back toward the sideline, clutching his chest. “What’s the matter with you?” Harden asks. “Trying to block that kick, asshole speared me with his helmet. I can’t fuckin’ breathe, coach.” “Alright, take it easy. Trainers! Check him out.” Brock heads for the tunnel, propelling Jamari Price to a starting role. Harden considers whether he can run the hybrid with Price at DE/OLB, but then he remembers that Price played 4-3 DE in college. No problem. The offense retakes the field, Penner included, but the Lions apparently have everyone bottled up, prompting three consecutive incompletions by Maverick. “D-Jam,” Maverick says after a quick debrief from McKenzie, “what’s the matter? Can’t get open on a simple out?” “Yo, 23 is a baller, man,” Wilkes says, referring to Darius Slay, who has been all over him today. “I don’t care. Seventy-five million dollars and you can’t beat him?” “Hey, don’t do me like that, man.” Fans start screaming, and players look up at the big screen, seeing Eric Ebron run free. Flash narrows the gap, diving just before the goal line and tripping him up, but Ebron’s momentum carries him across the goal line. Randall bows his head in shame and finds a quiet spot on the bench. Sensing his frustration, Grantzinger takes the vocal lead. “Let’s go now!” Grantzinger yells. “We gotta put this thing away, motherfuckers. Stop dicking around and bury these assholes!” The Knights go back to work with a new atmosphere in the building, the defeated lull of the first half now replaced by a steady hum. Jameson gets going again, quelling the home crowd’s enthusiasm and taking the game to the fourth quarter. Wilkes finally beats Slay on a deep route, and Maverick bombs it for him. Wilkes tracks it, jumps, and plants both feet, one of them on the white grass. Maverick curses in frustration as the punt unit comes out. Still without Brock, the Knights defense operates the hybrid, much more comfortable with it after a long week of preparation. It doesn’t matter, though, as Stafford attacks the secondary. The Lions show a lot of different looks and formations, all of which seem to have an upper hand against the Knights’ 3-4/4-3. Harden watches Randall get beat again by Ebron on a crossing route and feels a tap on his shoulder from someone in a blue hat. “Schwinn’s gotta come out, coach.” “Who the fuck are you?” “Coach,” Dr. Evans says, also appearing out of nowhere, “this is the league neurological consultant.” “Nero-what?” “One of the concussion guys upstairs thinks Schwinn’s a little woozy after that last tackle.” “Thinks?” “It’s protocol, Merle. Schwinn’s gotta leave the field.” “Oh, fuck it. BOBBY!” It takes a few seconds to get Schwinn’s attention, but he eventually trots off the field and walks unwillingly toward the locker room. Harden knows enough about the league’s concussion protocol to expect he won’t return. The Lions march down the field, amping the crowd up with every first down. On first and goal, Stafford throws up an end zone ball for Calvin Johnson, who outreaches Lucas easily before Flash can get there. Incredulous, Harden calls his two-point conversion play, knowing the Lions have to try for a three-point game. Flash shades toward Johnson, corners inch up for press coverage, and linebackers prepare to blitz. Stafford hands off to Ameer Abdullah, who runs straight ahead into the end zone. “Right up the middle,” Harden says. “Unfuckingbelievable.” The contrast between both sidelines tells the story. A game that was 24-3 at halftime is now 24-21 with 10:25 to go in the fourth quarter. Harden finds McKenzie before chewing out his defense. “Put these guys away, Mac. Enough bullshit.” “We’re trying, coach.” The Knights get a few first downs with a balanced attack, ticking valuable minutes in the process. They’re near midfield with under seven minutes left when Penner’s shoulder stiffens up again, and trainers force him off the field. Without him, run blocking falls apart. The Knights run some more clock, but Maverick faces third and twelve. He rolls out under pressure, not finding any open receivers. Running out of room, he goes down, taking the sack and running the clock. The Lions take over from their own twelve with 4:02 to go. Without two starters, Harden calls plays like normal, putting pressure on Stafford and forcing him into quick throws. A mixed batch of catches and errant throws comprises an inconsistent drive that nonetheless moves the chains. The two-minute warning arrives with the Lions about fifteen yards from Janikowski’s range. Harden sends more blitzes, trying for a sack or interception. It doesn’t work. Stafford hits Abdullah out of the backfield, who gets around Price easily for a big play, and the Lions are in field goal range. The clock ticks as the Lions look for a game-winning touchdown. Stafford drops back and Randall, on instinct, runs through the offensive line. Stafford sees him late, runs away, and Randall swats his leg, tripping him up. The Lions decide to wind the last fifteen seconds of the clock before calling their final timeout. They do so with 0:03 left and the ball on the thirty-five. Janikowski lines up for a fifty-two-yard kick. “Overtime, ladies!” McKenzie tells his offense. “Be ready for overtime!” Harden, who never bothers with icing the kicker, watches as Janikowski boots it, clearly far enough. It wobbles a bit as it sails toward the right goal post and strikes the net. Both sidelines celebrate and clamor for a look at the officials, who wave their arms horizontally. White jerseys run out onto the field as the Knights celebrate. Dominating in the first half felt good, but hanging on for a tough win somehow feels even better. Now, they’re heading back home with a winning record. Harden takes the podium for his post-game press conference with a sheet of paper in front of him, a rare occurrence. “Alright, some injury news first,” Harden says. “Brian Penner had some stiffness in his shoulder. We’re not really sure what that is yet. We’ll know tomorrow, but we don’t expect it to be anything serious. Sean Brock has a bruised rib, so he’ll be questionable for next Sunday. Robert Schwinn is being evaluated for a concussion by the league, so who the hell knows when we’ll hear something there. Questions.” A few idiots give the usual bullshit, dancing around the important stuff, until one finally asks Harden for his evaluation of his team in the second half. “I thought we played soft, honestly. And I’ll give credit to Detroit, they played hard, they fought back. But we had plenty of chances to put ‘em away, and we didn’t.” “So, coach, how do you use this game going forward? Despite the way things played out, you’re coming off a win with Minnesota at home next week.” “It sure doesn’t feel like a win, I’ll say that much.” In a good mood, Phillips walks briskly to Schneider’s office to hand off some paperwork, seeing Schneider on the phone. “Alright, Pete,” Schneider says, barely noticing Phillips’ presence. “I’ll get back to you this afternoon.” He hangs up and rubs his eyebrows. “You look stressed,” Phillips says. “That was Peter O’Reilly.” “The Super Bowl guy?” “Senior Vice President of Events is his title, but yes, the Super Bowl guy. It all goes through him. Weather plans, halftime show, stadium parking…hell, even city traffic and hotel bookings reach his desk at some point.” Phillips subconsciously looks at the countdown that has been posted on Schneider’s wall for months. There are 83 days until Super Bowl 50. “You want to know something, Chance? I hope it’s at least ten years before we have to do this again.” “That bad?” “Beneath the glamour and the honor and the prestige lies a horrendous mess of details. And those details must all connect perfectly. That power outage at the Superdome a few years back? No way anything like that’s happening here. I won’t allow it.” “The stadium’s only five years old. I doubt we have any problems.” “I hope you’re right. Actually, I have to make a few more calls, so if you’ll excuse me…” “No problem.” Phillips leaves for Dr. Evans to get the latest injury update, then to Keegan’s office to dissect his midseason report. Players had planned to hit the field with some energy after winning three of their last four. They wanted to focus on putting together a good practice week to make it four out of five. Instead, they walk onto the grass with their head coach’s public comments echoing in their heads, one word in particular. Soft. To most of the players, there was nothing soft about Sunday’s performance in Detroit. Injuries piled up in the second half, but they hung on. Did they make mistakes? Definitely. Are there things they need to improve? Of course. Did they let the Lions back in the game with a lack of effort? No way. Coach Harden shows no desire to revisit his remarks, simply starting practice as he always does. Some players find this relieving, though most feel there’s something unfinished, uncertain, lingering in the air. What is certain is the Vikings come to Los Angeles this Sunday with a 6-3 record, in the middle of an apparent breakout season. The Knights seem to be aware of this, as practice is more physical than normal for a Tuesday. Once the pads go on, linemen push and shove each other after the whistle. Receivers and corners grab jerseys and facemasks jostling for position. Verbal jawing goes beyond friendly and borders contentious. One player who doesn’t think much of Harden’s comments is Wilkes, thinking only of himself for all the wrong reasons. Alex Johnson’s injury, though unfortunate for the offense as a whole, should have given him more targets, more catches, bigger numbers all around. It hasn’t. And the recent bullshit surrounding him definitely hasn’t helped, nor has Bishop constantly trying to be friends. Wilkes lets off steam one route at a time, lined up against Lucas in drills. He shoves at the top of every cut, throwing in some post-catch stiff arms for good measure. “Cool it with the OPI, D-Jam,” McKenzie says. “Let’s run ‘em clean.” “Maybe you should write that down for him, coach,” says an unmistakable voice. Wilkes ignores Schwinn and gets ready for another route. “So he can read it for himself.” “Get back to defense, Bobby, or I’ll sick Coach Harden on you,” McKenzie says. “Yes, sir!” Wilkes stares down Lucas, who looks winded, and runs a curl. He shoves off, and Lucas shoves back. He grabs Lucas’ jersey and throws him down. Maverick throws, and it goes over both of them as Wilkes extends his arm and hits Lucas in the facemask as hard as he can, ignoring the pain in his knuckles. A group of receivers and offensive linemen rush in to separate the two. Wilkes looks around at the rest of the field, practice still ongoing. He spots Schwinn running a cone drill and sprints straight for him. Schwinn sees him at the last second and takes off. “Whoa, what the hell?” A smile on his face, Schwinn tries to avoid the receiver, but Wilkes is faster. A mob of teammates tries to surround them both as the entire team takes notice. Wilkes grabs Schwinn’s jersey as they circle each other. Schwinn is lifted off his feet and latches around Wilkes’ neck from behind him. “Ride ‘em, cowboy!” With one swift, violent motion, Wilkes plants his feet and throws Schwinn to the ground. His back strikes the grass and his head snaps back, helmet smacking the grass. Half the team seems to get between the two, with Wilkes ending up on his knees, catching his breath again. “What the fuck, D-Jam?” “Hey, save it for Sunday, man!” “Bobby just avoided a concussion. You trying to give him one?” Wilkes sees a bare hand in his face, grabbing his facemask and twisting him upward, to his feet. He pulls back his arm for a punch and freezes, inches from Harden’s face. “Do it, motherfucker!” Harden says. “Give me a reason to kick you off this field. Please.” Wilkes breathes heavily, his heart pounding, and relaxes his arm. Harden pulls him closer. “You start running laps, right now, and you don’t stop until you throw up. Understand?” Silent, Wilkes makes his way to the track that surrounds the field and starts jogging. Harden commands everyone back to work, studying their faces closely. Wilkes loses track of laps after about twenty minutes. After an hour, when the players break for water, he feels his body turning on him, every muscle anxious to stop. He vomits ten minutes later, then again after another lap. Wilkes still feels sick when he finally gets to the locker room at the end of the day. The rest of the players steer clear of his locker, which is fine by him. Only one player actually says anything to him. “Yo, D-Jam.” He looks up from changing and sees Brock, shirtless, most of his chest wrapped up. “What’s with you, man?” Wilkes asks. “Bruised rib, remember? Can’t practice until Friday, they say.” “Oh. Right. You weren’t out there today?” “Nah, spent the day in physical therapy. Fucking bullshit. Anyway, I need some green, man. And I ain’t talking about weed.” “I’m short this week.” “Oh, c’mon dude, you’ve got—” “I’m short. Leave me alone.” Wilkes finishes changing and leaves, one of the first to reach the parking lot. He gets in his car, shuts the door, and checks his phone. He has missed calls and unread messages from multiple people, all of whom have the same request as Brock. These are people that need his help, people he wants to keep helping, but he only wants to talk to one of them right now. “Hey, Da’Jamiroquai!” the man says, answering after the first ring. “Uncle Linc.” “How’s the team?” “I don’t wanna talk about it.” “I was just talking to our athletic director today, and I told him about how you—” “Why didn’t you ever teach me how to read?” “What?” “Why didn’t you teach me? How come nobody never tried to teach me?” “Da’Jamiroquai, when I first took you in, you and I agreed that football was most important. You remember.” Wilkes chokes on his words, fighting back tears. He sees a few teammates emerge from the complex, suddenly thankful he paid for a dark tint on all his car windows. “Listen,” Uncle Lincoln says, “I wanted to ask you: can you send the money a little early this week? I’ve been having some difficulty with—” “You know what, Uncle Linc? I’m a little tight this week. I’ll send some when I feel like it.” He hangs up, tosses the phone into the backseat, and drives away. Less than three days until the game, Phillips is pouring over scouting reports in his office when a new email from Schneider goes out to the entire floor. He finishes reading it as Schneider himself walks into the office. “Did you get my email? Forecast is up to seventy percent.” “I just finished reading it.” “Merle should know, don’t you think?” “Somehow, I don’t suspect he’ll care, but I’ll pass it along nonetheless.” “Good. And one more thing, one I obviously didn’t include in the email.” Schneider closes the door. Phillips gets worried as Schneider steps toward the desk. “You been following these Adam Javad reports?” Schneider asks. “About how we were close to a deadline trade for a cornerback? Yeah, I’ve read them.” “Well?” “Detroit’s in shambles right now. Fired their offensive coordinator, Mayhew is probably on the outs too. They’re ripe for press leaks. What do you want me to say, Wayne? He was right. And for the record, the whole thing was sloppy. It was rushed, it was forced, and it’s not the way we do things around here. Part of me is glad we couldn’t make a deal.” Schneider grunts, an expression on his face somewhere between understanding and disappointed. After a moment, he says, “This Javad guy. I don’t know what you did to piss him off, but at some point we may have to do something about him.” “The L.A. Mobile, Wayne. He’s small time.” “He may not work for ESPN, but he’s shown his ability to give us headaches. Think about it.” Schneider walks out, leaving the door open. Phillips digs through his pocket for his cell phone, in which Javad’s number is still stored. A low, rumbling noise wakes McKenzie up. His eyes blink open and see darkness—it must still be the middle of the night—except for light from his phone on the nearest end table. He picks it up and has to blink a few times to make out the name. Once he does, he gets out of bed, thankful his wife hasn’t woken up. “Hello?” he says. “Mac! How the hell are ya?” “Merle, it’s…” He holds his phone away to check the time. “…two in the morning. We have a game in less than twelve hours. For fuck’s sake.” “Well, I know you said you’re not my sponsor anymore, but…” His sponsor. Oh, no, that’s it. How did he not realize? “Shit, have you been drinking, Merle?” “Do you have to ask?” “I hear rain coming from your side, so you’re on the porch. Let me guess, you’ve got the first glass of whiskey in front of you, you took a sip, and somehow I’m the first guy you call. That about right? Where are Melinda and Trish?” “Away for the weekend. I didn’t call you because you’re my goddamn sponsor, Mac. I called you because you’re my friend. And I’m three whiskeys in already. I think. Now get over here and have a drink with me.” He pulls into the driveway, stops behind Merle’s car, and hurries through the rain onto the porch. Behind the screen door, Bowser growls at him, showing his teeth. “Figured he’d run around outside like an idiot if I let him out,” Merle says. “Hope it’s not raining like this tomorrow,” Mac says. “That would certainly make things interesting. Take a seat.” Mac sits down, a table between his chair and Merle’s. Merle slides down one of two glasses. “On the rocks, for the pussy you are.” “I guess it’s not worth trying to take that away from you.” “Nope,” Merle says, gulping a good bit of what’s left in his glass. Mac accepts defeat and takes a sip. “Damn, this is good stuff,” Mac says. “A very old gift from my dad, going way back. It was the one bottle I didn’t pitch during the purge last year.” “Uh huh. So how’s it feel?” Merle feels—he’s still sober enough not to vocalize this, apparently—like seeing an old friend after a long time apart. He knows, however, that in the morning, he’ll wish they never met. “It feels like I’m drunk, Mac. No more dumb questions.” “How about a dumb comment?” “If you really can’t help yourself…” “Seriously, Merle. You and me—” “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you’re upset about me liking Chet better than you. I’m drunk, not stupid. What’s with this team? Few weeks ago, Chance sat right in that chair and did the same thing. We’re all supposed to be professionals. Why’s everyone so goddamn sensitive?” “Professionals,” Mac says, eyeing Merle’s whiskey glass. “Fuck you. Anyway, you’re the assistant head coach for a reason, Mac. Anything happens to me, it’s your team, like it was last year, not Chet Ripka’s. He’s got a great knack for coaching, but for what it’s worth, I don’t see him as a head coach. Not any time soon, anyway.” “Is this the first time?” “The first time I’ve had an assistant get jealous of another one? No. Though you are finding your own unique way to go about it, I’ll give you that.” “No, damn it, I mean the first relapse.” “First since last November, yeah. At least I made it a whole year. Not by much, but hey, cheers.” “Why now, then?” Merle puts his glass down and covers his mouth with his hand, sliding it down past the edge of his facial hair towards his neck. Mac can tell from his face this isn’t going to be more drunken rambling. “The players,” Merle says. “What about them?” “They’re turning on me. I can feel it.” Mac doesn’t know what to say. He’s felt something amongst the players too, but agreeing with Merle won’t help. Not on this topic, anyway. “This has never happened,” Merle continues. “Hell, my first two years at Devil’s Lake, we won four games. Combined!” “And?” “And the players loved me. I’ve never known coaching another way. Never had to fight for the players. If I lose them, I think that’s it. I think I’m done.” “You giving up football is something I can’t see,” Mac says with a smile, satisfied with that comment and hoping Merle finds it encouraging. “We’ll see. And it’s not like I can do a whole hell of a lot about it. Can’t sit the team down around a fire and have a powwow. This ain’t high school.” “Stringing a few wins together isn’t gonna make things worse. I feel good about tomorrow. Well, today, I guess.” “That Viking defense is a bad matchup for you.” “We’ll hang thirty on ‘em anyway.” Minutes pass between talking. Occasionally, Mac turns around to look towards the screen door, met promptly by a fresh growl from Bowser. After a lightning strike a few miles away, Mac says, “Trish and Mel, they come back tomorrow?” “Monday.” “You gonna tell them?” “I don’t know,” Merle says honestly. He’ll answer that question in the morning, if he can remember to ask it. Knights fans without ponchos seek refuge from the rain, and half of Farmers Field’s seats are empty at kickoff. Light rain falls off and on throughout the first quarter, preventing either offense from getting more than one first down per drive. The rain eventually stops, and the dark, threatening skies overhead fade into a light overcast. The field, however, is in ruins. Clumps of soggy grass fly off the ground in the wake of running cleats. Players slip and fall down left and right. Maverick and Teddy Bridgewater each have an embarrassing moment where they drop back to pass and slip planting their feet, resulting in a comical sack. Knights players express frustration on the sideline, some requesting different cleats as McKenzie waits for the field to improve to expand his play-calling. For now, both teams operate a run-heavy attack, highlighted by their star runners, Jameson and Adrian Peterson. Jameson enjoys running behind Penner, who can’t feel his extremely small rotator cuff tear once the adrenaline gets going. After a while, Harden gets to the point where he’s legitimately enjoying himself. With Brock out, Price is getting yet another opportunity to prove himself, but the weather should prevent the Knights from being punished if he sucks. As McKenzie walks past, Harden says, “Ah, smashmouth football on a shitty field. Takes me back to the good old days.” “Like meeting an old friend?” Harden wonders what that means as McKenzie walks away, feeling his stomach grumble as it hits him. “Son of a bitch.” From their suite, Schneider and Phillips watch the game, though neither one finds the field conditions comical, Schneider especially. Once it becomes apparent the field isn’t improving despite the lack of rain, Schneider summons an usher. “Get me Frank right away,” Schneider instructs. Content to enjoy the show, Phillips adds nothing to the discussion and focuses on the game, though there’s not much football beyond basic running plays and muddy tackles. Moments later, Schneider spins around and faces Frank Serkin, President of Farmers Field, the kind of man only summoned by bad news. “What’s going on, Frank?” Schneider says. “It rained all day yesterday, and, regrettably, we had an internal drainage malfunction.” “Internal drainage malfunction. How many words does it take to say there was a fuck-up?” “The rain didn’t drain like it should until this morning, by which time—” “Will it be like this all game?” “No. I’d say by the second half it should begin to improve, as long as the rain holds out.” “Second half. Okay, Frank. Get out of here.” Serkin nods and disappears. “You know what everyone watching this game is thinking?” Schneider says. “‘This is where the Super Bowl is this year.’” For once, for maybe the first time, Phillips understands Schneider’s frustration, feeling as if this impacts him as well. “So what do we do?” Phillips asks, surprised at his own use of the word “we.” “We make a statement. I make a statement. Tomorrow.” In the closing seconds of the half, the Vikings reach field goal range and send out Blair Walsh to attempt a forty-five-yard kick, makeable in normal conditions. The ball sails over the players, then wobbles horribly, falls to the ground, and lands twenty yards short of the goal posts. This gets one last laugh from the crowd, and the game has the honor of being the first in the season, across the entire league, that goes into halftime scoreless. The grass seems less soggy at the start of the third quarter, though it’s still beaten up from the first half. Players resign themselves to a messy game until the end. Wilkes, in particular, has already given up. It rained, the new cleats aren’t working, and Maverick hasn’t targeted him the few times he’s actually gotten open. So, when he’s not forced to take the field, he finds an empty spot on the bench and covers himself in a large coat. Maverick has noticed Wilkes’ indifference, of course, but he has bigger concerns. Nobody can get open on this field, and too many drives are a repeat of run-run-incompletion-punt. This is Maverick’s most frustrating game in recent memory. Defensively, Harden grows nervous as field position tilts toward Minnesota. Though he stacks the box with Schwinn to keep Peterson from breaking free, Bridgewater spreads the ball around to various receivers for short gains. It’s a strategy pretty much every opposing team has employed against the Knights, but today, it doesn’t seem Bridgewater wants to throw deeper than ten yards. Desperate for a way to seize control of the game, Harden pounces. The defense returns to the bench, the game still scoreless. Harden kneels in front of Stone and Lucas, most of the defense within earshot. “Alright. They’re eating up the underneath stuff and they don’t want to go deep. So, start jumping those routes for a pick. Got it?” Lucas and Stone nod. “And front seven, get your hands up on the rush. We should have five batted passes by now, damn it.” The defense returns to the field shortly, and Harden’s strategy almost works. Bridgewater throws a pass that tips off Stone’s hands and out of bounds. The next play, Lucas jumps a route the same way, only to have Stefon Diggs take off behind him. Lucas trips in the grass, leaving Diggs wide open. The pass is underthrown, but Diggs has enough time to catch it and pick up speed en route to the end zone for the game’s first score. Walsh’s extra point wobbles low, bouncing off the left post and back into the end zone, though players don’t feel any momentum from the good fortune. Harden says nothing as defenders sit back down on the bench, offering Lucas vocal support while exchanging nervous looks with one another. A strange offensive day has led to Bishop being the team’s leading receiver for the first time this year, an honor he’s far from comfortable with today. After another disappointing drive, Bishop seeks out Maverick on the sideline, sitting next to him after McKenzie has thoroughly yelled at everyone again. “Talk to D-Jam,” Bishop says. “Talk? To him? Why?” “He needs it.” “He needs the sun to come out. He’s always been a bitch about bad weather.” “It’s not the rain, Mav. It’s the reading thing. He’s—” “It was you, right?” Bishop pauses, not sure if he should respond to that or just keep going with his argument. “I mean, that’s what he’s been saying. Personally, I’m not too hip on him ratting you out, but—” “Yeah, it was.” Maverick’s eyes widen, surprised Bishop admitted it so quickly. “I was trying to help him, so sue me. He won’t listen to me for a while. But he’ll listen to you.” “Like he and I are Bert and Ernie? You’ve been on this team how long?” “He does, Mav, when you’re not busting his balls. When you’re talking football, he listens to you.” Maverick shakes his head and gets up from the bench for a drink of water. He debates the proposition of coaching up his best receiver (Isn’t that what the coaches are for?), but a punt returns him and the offense to the game. Two Jameson runs and a missed pass for Larkhill bring out the punt teams again, and Maverick finds himself back on the bench. Bishop shoots him a look, and he gives up. Fuck you, Logan. Wilkes puts the coat on again, only to have someone peel it back from his face seconds later. So much for that. “Hey, sunshine,” Maverick says, taking a seat next to him. “Suck my dick.” “I didn’t want to bring this up, but I guess there’s no choice. I don’t give a fuck if you can read or not.” Wilkes grinds his teeth, determined not to show any reaction. “What do I care? You can get open, you can catch the ball. On that field, that’s all I care about. And I need you to do that if we’re gonna win this game.” “You ain’t slingin’ bullets in this shit.” “No, definitely not. But sooner or later a pass is gonna come your way, and when it does…” Maverick gets up. “…you better fucking catch it.” Wilkes stays under his coat, grateful to be alone again. The Knights offense retakes the field in the fourth quarter, and McKenzie gets creative with the running attack, incorporating reverses and double reverses with all kinds of misdirection. After Watson takes a reverse for twenty yards, the Vikings defense spreads out. This allows Jameson to find more room between the tackles, and the Knights put together their best drive of the day, entering field goal range (which is irrelevant). Maverick drops back as pressure comes up the middle. He throws one up off his back foot just as Bishop breaks on a corner. Bishop runs through a hole in coverage, but Harrison Smith closes the cap. Both players jump for it, get their hands on the ball, and land in the end zone, sliding through the mud. They fight for possession, but Bishop outmuscles him, and officials rule a touchdown. “Extra point, coach?” the special teams coach asks Harden, seeing him hold two fingers in the air. “No way. Noah misses enough in good weather.” Maverick lines up under center, then audibles to shotgun, sizing up the defense. He takes the snap and rolls right. Nobody breaks open. He stops, slips in the grass, gets back up, and runs the other way, narrowly escaping outstretched arms of defenders. He has a clear path to the goal line, but someone trips him up. Stumbling, Maverick realizes he won’t make it and looks towards Wilkes, who’s blanketed by a corner—with his back turned. Maverick shovels it just as his knee hits the ground. Wilkes, shocked to see the ball coming his way, slips as he reaches for it. The ball hits his left hand, and he pulls it towards his chest as the corner brings him down. Somehow, he clutches the ball and hangs on, unsure if he’s in bounds until he hears a thunderous cheer from the crowd. Players mob Wilkes in the end zone, and the receiver finally cracks a smile. The Knights have a strange looking 8-6 lead, and moments later, it feels more secure. Coaches feel a few raindrops, then a torrential downpour. The home team’s sideline celebrates, knowing the Vikings will struggle to score in this. “Thank you, Jesus!” someone yells. The Vikings take over with 8:46 left, forced to stick to a run-heavy attack. Bridgewater somehow completes a few passes as the downpour slows into a steady rain, and Knights players are sure the defense is about to blow it. The clock crosses the five-minute mark as Peterson breaks through the front seven and into the secondary. Schwinn and Martin latch on, slowing him down. Flash runs in and punches as violently as he can, and the ball squirts loose. A pile of muddy bodies forms, an awful mess for the officials to sort through. By the time they do, Julian Stone has the football, and the Knights take over. This proves to be the game-winning turnover, as Jameson runs out most of the clock, taking the Knights to first and goal, where a few kneeldowns end the game. On the surface, the locker room is a festive, humorous gathering of sweaty men in wet jerseys, a celebration of a hard fought football game that ended in victory. Deep down, however, players are worried. As much as everyone would like to celebrate the win and move on, they can’t help but wonder what today’s game would have been like in sunny weather. For whatever reason, Wayne Schneider joins the locker room and shakes hands with the players, one by one. Nobody knows why he’s here; it’s not like today’s win was particularly monumental, but players think nothing of it—except for Bishop, who gets an idea. Randall has been more sensitive to the growing locker room divide than anyone, but Bishop is close behind. He has felt it the last few weeks, like everyone else has. And, as evidenced by the last two games, winning won’t necessarily make it go away. “Fantastic win, Logan,” Schneider says, reaching Bishop’s locker and shaking hands with the tight end. “And great job on that touchdown catch. Outstanding effort.” “Thank you, Mr. Schneider. Actually, could I ask you something?” “Of course. What’s on your mind?” “It’s just something I’d like to throw out there and get your opinion on, an idea I had that I think might be good for the team. For the organization, really.” “I’m listening.” “Our annual holiday party, the one we always have at the MedComm Center and about half the team shows? I’m thinking we could do it a little differently this year.” Edited September 29, 2016 by SteVo 6 Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Vin+ 3,121 Posted September 16, 2016 (edited) Shenanigans are afoot. Edited September 16, 2016 by Vin 1 Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Sarge+ 3,436 Posted September 16, 2016 Fantastic chapter, Stevo. The parts with Wilkes and the coat were very well-written. Also I am looking forward to what happens with Phillips and Javad. 1 Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
RazorStar 4,025 Posted September 16, 2016 It feels like everyone is looting the building and Logan is the only guy with a hammer and nails. 3 Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Sarge+ 3,436 Posted September 16, 2016 If he builds it, they will cum come. Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
theMileHighGuy 656 Posted September 18, 2016 Awesome chapter. That got damn leach Uncle Lincoln... Could really visualize this muddy game The cliffhanger on party talk threw me a bit lol 1 Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
SteVo+ 3,702 Posted September 21, 2016 If he builds it, they will cum come. Hump Day Bump Day! Share this post Link to post Share on other sites
Zack_of_Steel+ 3,014 Posted March 25, 2017 (edited) We're hanging on for dear life, just seems like a letdown is eminent and we miss the playoffs or some shit. Flash, for all his bullshit, keeps creating turnovers and has been instrumental. Hope he has a change of heart. Also, I'm out of rep after catching up on like 3 weeks of the Trump thread. Edited March 25, 2017 by Zack_of_Steel Share this post Link to post Share on other sites