Page 92 of Hard Count
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Piper sat in the locker room and drank a Gatorade and didn’t listen to the coordinator.
The coordinator said they were going to open the second half with something unexpected. Piper nodded in place, completely failing to hear what the unexpected play even was. He was not there, Joan was not there. What remained was a numb abyss.
They opened the second half with the unexpected play that Piper failed to execute.
Atlanta ran the ball twelve times in the third quarter. Each one gained minimal yards, but kept Piper off the field.
By the time the fourth quarter started, the scoreboard said 28-0 and the Atlanta crowd had moved into the strange late-game politeness of a home crowd feeling sorry for the opposing team.
Piper took his final snap with six minutes left. Short pass. Complete for three. The drive died two plays later when he threw a ball to a receiver who was not there, not a misread, a miscount; he had released to a spot where Tank was supposed to be, he thought, but Tank was on the opposite side of the field waving for Piper to throw him the fucking ball.
The backup quarterback came in for the last three minutes. Piper sat on the bench with his helmet on the ground beside him and watched Atlanta kneel it out. Final score: Atlanta 28, L.A. 0.
Piper sleep walked to the handshake line.
He was crossing midfield on autopilot, helmet in one hand, getting ready to be destroyed by the media, when a player from the other team broke off from his own line and came toward Piper directly instead of drifting past in the usual way. It was Jordan Matthews.
Piper knew him as a first-round tight end out of Georgia the previous year, six-five, all solid muscle, one of the three or four guys in the league whose tape Piper had pulled because the film was so interesting. He had never talked to him, because they had never been on a field together before today. Jordan had caught eight balls for a hundred in Atlanta’s win against L.A. It was part of why the score was what it was. That and the ruin of Piper Ashton.
Piper figured he and Jordan won that game for Atlanta.
The eyes were the first thing anyone noticed on him, a startling beautiful green.
Jordan was smiling at Piper.
“Ashton.”
“Matthews.”
Jordan held his hand out as Piper approached to greet him.
“You looked off today,” Jordan said.
“I was off as fuck today, thanks for the confirmation.”
“I’ve watched you my whole career. That wasn’t you.”
“Well.” Piper pulled his hand back. “It was me today, possibly possessed by some demon who fucking sucks at football.”
Jordan laughed. “That’s funny, who knew you were funny?”
Players were moving past them on both sides, the line thinning, coaches starting to wave their guys toward the tunnel.
“Are you staying in town tonight?”
Piper looked at him.
“Team hotel.”
“Which one?”
“St. Regis.”
“You know...” Jordan was still smiling.
Joan is this dude fucking flirting with me? Piper’s hungover thoughts entered the field.
