“If the Devils lose and that loss knocks them out of the playoffs,” one NFL analyst had warned, “he’s going to be blamed for it, and not just outside the team. It’s team first. That’s what he’s paid for, and that’s the way it has to be.” Since Major League Baseball was still the only league that offered paternity leave, and every player knew it.
He knew what everybody had said, because Annabelle had told him. Looking worried about it. She’d said, “What if they cut you, or you lose your starting position?”
He’d said, “Hey, now, Bug. You know somebody’s always saying something. Everybody’s always saying something. I can’t worry about that. I’ll keep my job if I’m the best and the coach thinks he needs me in order to win, and that’s it. Nobody owes me a thing. It’s sports. But I owe Jennifer and Nick something, and it’s not always team first, whatever the NFL says. It’s our first baby, and I’m going to be there for it. It’s the right thing to do, and it doesn’t matter if nobody else knows it. It matters that I know it, and I do it.”
In fact, if Jennifer hadn’t delivered by Halloween, her due date, they were going to induce.
“It’ll be less comfortable,” she’d said, “but it’s not going to be comfortable anyway, so who cares. I’m not going to be comfortable if you aren’t there with me, I’ll tell you that. So, yeah. I’m all in.” She’d pulled his head down, kissed him hard, and smiled at him, even though they’d been in the doctor’s office. Jennifer had come a long way, embarrassment-wise, though he could still make her blush when he tried, and he loved trying.
One more thing didn’t matter. That his father had been sentenced last week. Harlan hadn’t been there, because he’d been in Miami, and Jennifer hadn’t been there, because she was too pregnant to travel, but everybody else had gone. Vanessa, he was sure, had held Annabelle’s hand, and they’d all made statements. Vanessa’s had been scorched-earth, and their grandmother’s had made everybody cry. Vanessa had read his in court, too. It had hurt him as much to write it as if the words were stabbing into his heart, sharp as daggers, but he’d gone on and dug it all up from the bottom of his soul anyway, because he owed his mom that. And because it might be another step you needed to take if you wanted to live all the way, not just on the field.
Ten years for manslaughter. That was what his dad had gotten, because that was the maximum sentence. It felt cruel, and it felt wrong, but life could be cruel and wrong, and at least there was no chance now of his dad escaping justice. The evidence, the prosecutor had explained, had all been circumstantial, and the time lapse had been too long for anybody to remember much. “And you never know what a jury’s going to do.” But his father had been led out of the courtroom by a bailiff, and he was in the state penitentiary now.
“And,” Jennifer had told him on Monday, when he’d been holding her close in the sweet aftermath of gentle nine-months-pregnant love, “I think ten years alone, with no visitors, no phone calls, and no money deposited in your account by your loving family, would be hell. If you want hell for him—knowing that your children hate you, that your parents have disowned you, that your friends have shunned you, that you’re alone, and that you’ve earned being alone—I can’t think of anything worse.”
“I’m not going to feel sorry for him,” he’d said. “I can’t. I can’t forgive. He wrecked too many lives. Maybe I should be able to forgive, but I can’t.”
“You don’t have to,” she’d answered. “He’s never told you he’s sorry. He’s never taken responsibility. How can you forgive that? Maybe someday, he will, and you can decide. You don’t have to do it now.”
None of that mattered right now, though, because they were about to run out there. It mattered that he was prepared, that he’d trained at a hundred percent, and that he’d leave everything on the field today. Just like he did every time.
He was here now, and he was ready to do his job.
Annabelle said, “The smashmouth spread is really working for them.”
Jennifer said, “Don’t say ‘smashmouth’ to me when Harlan’s out there, please.” And switched her massaging recliner to the yoga function. Harlan was out there being as physical as it was possible for a man to be, and she needed her chair to stretch for her.
He’d replaced one of the regular recliners in the media room with this thing. It was huge, it was horribly expensive, it was ridiculous, and it looked like a great chair for her grandpa, but she had to admit that she loved it. “Also,” she’d told him, “you can use it too, after games.”
“Yeah,” he’d said, “you tell yourself that.”
Annabelle glanced at her. “You OK? Need anything? A drink, or another snack?” Which was heroic of her, since the Devils offense was on the field, and Annabelle was normally glued to the screen for every second of that.
“Fine,” Jennifer said. “I’m just really achy. But you know what, during the commercial, could you make me a cup of tea?”
She wasn’t positive, but she thought so. By the next commercial, she thought so more, and as soon as Annabelle left the room, she grabbed her phone.
“Hey, maternal unit,” Dyma answered. “You watching Harlan? Did you see that great catch? How does he stretch that far and still keep his balance to run afterwards?”
“Yeah,” Jennifer said. “It was great.” She was gasping a little, because it wasn’t easy to talk when your abdomen was being squeezed like it was the part of her in that massager. “But … could you listen on the radio, do you think? In the car, on the way here?”
“Oh. Wow. Is it happening?”
“Yes. And I know you want to watch Owen and I said you didn’t need to come anyway, but Harlan won’t be home for four hours at the earliest, and you can get here in three. It won’t be faster than that, because you took fourteen hours, but I th—”
“Mom,” Dyma said, to the sound of some rustling. “Stop talking. I’m on my way.”
Two minutes to go. Out of timeouts. Hurry-up offense. Down by three.
On their own 32-yard-line.
Malik Jefferson, the QB, shouting out the play as they got back into formation, his arm drawing circles in the air like that would get them there faster. Owen, barking to the offensive line. All eleven men in the zone, focused all the way, and on the other side of the ball, the Patriots exactly the same. They saw the pass coming. They knew there was no other choice. Demarcus Williams, the cornerback, eyes wide behind the face mask, tracking every twitch of Harlan’s muscles, and Dante Francis, the free safety, tracking everybody.
Pass and catch and get out of bounds to stop the clock. Once. Twice. Three times, and this time, the ball came to Harlan. A bullet, thrown with all Jefferson’s arm strength, threading the needle through the defenders. Harlan caught it, the shock of the contact reverberating up his arms, and stretched for the sideline. Williams tackling him as he went, and Francis slamming into him from behind.
He kept his legs moving, even as he started going down. He stretched out with everything in him, and when he’d done all he could, he found a little more to give. And the ball touched the line. Still in his hands.