8
Zeke
The bus pulled into the Vipers’ stadium and parked in the parking lot. A few of the guys grabbed the materials we’d brought with us off the bus, and the team assistants and ref grabbed them from there and brought them back inside the stadium. I climbed off the bus, lifted my jersey over my head, and yanked my pads from around my shoulders. An assistant had stayed back to collect them, and I nearly took his head off when tossing mine at him.
“Careful,” Coach Tyler grumbled. “Just because you’re in a bad mood doesn’t mean you can kill my assistant.”
I didn’t respond. I shoved my jersey at the same assistant and dug out my keys, starting toward my car. To say that I was fuming would be an understatement. After her grand display at the game I watched and all that trash-talking Quinn did, her team didn’t even scratch mine. I thought I’d at least be mildly entertained, but that game turned out to be a complete waste of my and my team’s time.
The only silver lining I had was that she did seem to be sufficiently embarrassed by the game. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that she’d be withdrawing her application after that shit show. I told her to wait until tomorrow, but I fully expected she was doing it at that exact moment. Someone who suffers that sort of crushing defeat doesn’t wait to wave the white flag, at least, not if they have a shred of integrity left.
“Whoa, there.”
I was so lost in my irritation that I barely noticed a looming figure standing between me and my car. He was six-foot-five and solidly built, with wide shoulders and tree-trunk arms. Even his legs looked like if he were to reach out and kick me without much effort, I’d go flying fifty yards back. He had cocoa-colored skin and round, walnut-shaped eyes with brown irises hidden behind a pair of thin, rectangular spectacles. He had a short cut afro of black hair and was dressed in a light gray suit and black tie. I couldn’t tell if he was going to try and sell me a car, offer me a job, or present me with a summons. For as imposing as he was, it was a shock that I didn’t see him there.
He held out his hand. “Zeke Matheson, I’m a big fan.”
I looked down at it with suspicion and then back up at him. He didn’t withdraw his hand but slapped on a big, fake-looking smile. “That’s fair, I suppose. My name is Wright Johnson. I am the commissioner of the Idaho Athletics Board. I handle everything from baseball to basketball, from the pros down to the shows. How are you?”
I couldn’t quite get a read on him, but such a big name in sports probably wouldn’t be good to snub. I took his hand, and his grip around mine was borderline painful. I was relieved when he gave it a single firm shake and then let go.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” I responded. “What can I help you with?”
He pointed across the street at a stadium bar that I generally avoided. “Let’s grab a drink. A victory drink, on me.”
“Victory?” I thought of our game against Minnesota the week before and turned up my nose.
“Against the Black Widows,” he replied.
I’d forgotten about it that quickly. It didn’t register as a game in my mind. I wouldn’t even consider it a scrimmage. It was a practice at best, and one I’d be lecturing my team on for their mistakes.
“Right.” I crossed my arms. “You sure you wanna go there? Usually where the die-hards go. They can be rough.”
He chuckled and headed in that direction, anyway. I unlocked my car, tossed my bag in the back seat, and followed after him. We walked inside, and, to my shock, the entire place was totally empty. I looked around, searching for any sign of life in the usually packed and suffocating establishment, but there wasn’t a single customer. All of the bartenders were behind the bar, and when we cleared the entrance wall, they all stared at us in anticipation.
“That’s odd,” I said, finally. “This place is usually packed.”
Wright picked a table in the dead center of the bar and sat down. “Yeah, I kindly asked management if they’d be willing to clear the place out. We couldn’t rightfully have the Zeke Matheson trying to enjoy a drink with the layman hanging around, could we?”
I wasn’t an idiot. Semi-pro was nothing like being pro. I could go to the grocery store or the park and not be recognized, and those who did recognize me typically had no problem approaching to ask how my day was going and then going about their day. I’d signed the passing autograph or two, but unless there were end-all-be-all football fans around, I wasn’t what someone would consider a celebrity. I knew I was a name that floated around the households of people in the industry—that was a given—and I was once a top pick to go pro, but clearing out a bar for me seemed a bit excessive.
Wright motioned to the chair across from him at the table. “Have a seat.”
He held a hand up, and the bartenders sprang to life behind the bar. Despite being weirded out, I did as I was told. I pulled the chair he motioned to away from the table and settled into it. He let out a small noise of satisfaction as I sat, and a few seconds later, a bartender brought over a couple bottles of beer. Wright lifted his and tilted the bottom out.
“Cheers,” he said.
“Cheers.” I clinked my bottle against his and took a drink. “So. What can I do for you, Mr. Johnson?”
“Wright is fine.” He’d already taken out half his beer before he set it back down on the table. “First things first, congratulations on your win.”
“With all due respect, congratulations aren’t needed. I considered that a practice, at most.” I took a sip of my own beer, mostly to keep the swell of anger rising up inside of me at bay. “I appreciate the notion, though.”
He crossed his arms. His ever-prevalent grin was haughty and difficult to take seriously. “I saw that it wasn’t too much of a trial for you.”
“You saw it?” I asked.
He knocked back the rest of his beer and held it up in the air, and bartenders quickly jumped to replace it with a full one. “I did, and I was impressed with your performance. You appear to be the glue that holds your team together.”
Well, that was true. “I do my best, sir.”
He laughed. “And humble. What more could you want?” He leaned forward a bit. “You know, I’ve been following your career for some time. All the way until you disappeared after college. Who knew you were right here in my pasture?”
We spent the next thirty minutes talking about nothing in particular. He asked about my family, my career up to that point, and how I felt about Idaho. I didn’t know what Wright’s angle was. He didn’t seem to be the kind of guy who drove into the sticks to have a beer with a semi-pro quarterback, but he hadn’t asked for anything specific or steered the conversation in any one direction. Still, it was my dream to go pro, so I wasn’t about to turn down the company or friendship of such a powerful contact. He ran in the same circles I was hoping to travel into one day, hopefully, one day soon. So he could ask me my blood type, and I’d answer him.
Wright was starting his fourth beer and powering through like he was still stark sober when he finally raised an eyebrow and asked, “All right, level with me, Zeke. Why were you out there playing around with those amateurs? Charity? One of them have cancer or something?”