Chapters:
1. Circling the WagonsIt was warm and clear the morning after Monday's storm blew through. Which was too bad, really. He wouldn't mind a little more snow. Maybe some hail. A tornado or two might help his mood: dark and cold, with a hint of bitter malice.
Admittedly, his mood was often dark and cold this early in the day. Randy wasn't a morning person. But this team had given him another chance, a chance to win, a chance to be respected... all he had to do was be the perfect player. On and off the field.
And he had been. Early to training camp, respectful to reporters, he'd vowed reform. Quiet during the week, focused on the game, amused by the "humble pie" sweatshirts even if he refused to wear one. His stats were through the roof, and it turned out that good behavior could yield press conference rewards.
Now his perfect season was threatened by someone he'd tried to help, and getting to practice on time seemed less important every day.
Tom was leaning against his car. He stopped and scowled at the sight, because no one leaned on his car and it was too early for this shit. And because, what the hell was Tom doing here? On time, maybe. Barely. But they weren't going to be early today.
Coat hanging open, light blue sweatshirt showing through, Tom lifted his coffee cup in wordless salute. He was blocking the driver's door. He didn't make any move to straighten up or get out of the way.
Randy tried a glare along with the scowl. "What're you doing here?"
"Circling the wagons," Tom said cryptically. He took another sip of coffee and gestured with his free hand. "Give me your keys."
Randy snorted. "It's my car, man."
"And you won't be starting on Sunday if you hit another cop," Tom returned. "I know that mood. Give me your keys."
"He was just a guy directing traffic," Randy complained, for the hundredth time. "And I didn't hit him. He wouldn't get out of the damn way." He traded his keys for the coffee and it didn't dawn on him until he was halfway around the front of the car.
Eyeing Tom suspiciously, he demanded, "Is that my hoodie?"
"Get in the car," Tom told him.
The coffee helped a little, and he'd started to feel less like a colossal fuck-up by the time they reached Gillette. Their quarterback had earned the VIP spot during the off season--again, he was told--and he parked Randy's car in the space marked "Reserved for Tom Brady" without a word. Randy took the empty coffee cup with him when he got out of the car.
They weren't the first to arrive, of course, and it would have drawn heckling on any other day. But everyone knew about the restraining order by now. From Florida, and fuck, when was the next time he was gonna be in Florida? The mocking was oddly absent.
Until Tom peeled off that ridiculous powder blue hoodie and stuffed it into Randy's locker, claiming that it could cause an international incident if seen in his own. That got them going, on reporters and Japan's love for Randy's fashion and whether Coach would take away his press conference privileges for interrupting Tom's after the last game.
When Coach finally appeared, muttering something about hype that they were probably supposed to overhear, it was almost a normal morning. Except for the way he singled Randy out with a sideways glance. "You want to talk to them?"
Randy straightened, surprised by the question, by the implication that his opinion would matter. "I always want to talk to 'em," he said.
Coach nodded, or flinched in a way that could have been a nod, and grumbled, "Tomorrow morning. Keep it short." Casing an eye over the entire group, he added, "All of you."
That could only mean one thing, and Tom asked before he could. "Locker room, Coach?"
He grunted, actual words to follow. "We have a game to get ready for," he said, like they could have forgotten. "We're not adding another press conference."
But they were letting him speak, and that kind of trust was almost encouraging. The fact that Coach was letting them all speak was more daunting. He wasn't sure he wanted to hear what his teammates really thought.
The next morning, though, he came in early to find Tom already at the locker beside his. Like always. Charming the reporters with his hair and his smile, like always.
They swamped him the second he walked in the door. But Tom wasn't the only one who could grin and make nice. And if Tom could pretend to talk street, then he could pretend to talk sweet. He'd never been good at the keeping it short part, though.
He deliberately didn't watch the news. Partly because Coach didn't want them to, and partly because he knew it would only make him mad. He had worked hard for this, and this was what it came down to? A-plus for effort, and a big fat F for fucking screwed in the eleventh hour?
He didn't watch the news... so the digital recorder on the seat of his car that afternoon came as a surprise. He knew perfectly well who would dare to touch his car. What he didn't know was what his teammates had been telling the reporters while he'd been trying to keep his cool that morning.
"I don't think any of that situation is going to be on the field for us on Sunday," Kevin's voice said, when he found the "play" button. "So it doesn't bother me.
"He's our teammate," Kevin added, clear as anything. "He's our brother."
Staticky noise, a skipping sound as the recorder caught another one being rewound, or fast-forwarded, or whatever.
"--the situation," Tedy's voice said, when the words were intelligible again. "He's a teammate of mine. So by me saying he's a teammate of mine, it's almost me saying he's a family member."
He tossed the thing back on the seat without turning it off and pulled out his pager. "What'd you do," he typed, "steal some guy's thing? Reporters are your friends, Tommy."
Then he just sat there, in the driver's seat, waiting.
He was rewarded a minute later. She won't miss it, Tom's text page said.
That was all. That was enough. That was a guy who'd risk Coach's wrath to keep him out of trouble, on an even keel, and in the championship game they were going to win.
Randy shook his head, smirking to himself as he started the car.
That was Tommy.
He'd gotten a lot of practice at going from full pads to street wear over the years. Not as many years as his teammate, though, already fitting iPod earbuds in and cranking the little G5 to drown out the celebration going on behind him. Tedy and Junior were whooping it up, and in between shouts Tom could hear those headphones screaming good good good to go, gotta get away...
Randy yanked a sweatshirt on over his head, mostly covering up the iPod, and kicked his bag into reach. He grinned at congratulations for his reverse play, he laughed when everyone else did, but he didn't meet anyone's eye and he wasn't talking. He almost yanked the zipper off his bag closing it up.
wanna run away, wanna ditch my life, 'cause all of my mistakes keep me awake at night--
Loud as it was, Tom wouldn't be able to pick out the words if he hadn't heard it a dozen times in the car. There was no way Randy was hearing anything that was going on around him right now. And maybe that was a good thing, since most of what was going on included dibs on press conferences and mocking the guys who weren't getting dressed fast enough to participate.
Coach was already out there. Tom was supposed to be up after him, smile for the cameras, talk about how great it was. That was the plan, that was their routine, and it was great. It was competitive in and of itself. Randy, their inconstant satellite, jumped in when Tom wasn't fast enough or followed after when Coach let him.
Not today. They would eat him alive, and Coach wanted him out of the locker room before the media was allowed in. No podium, no microphones, let the other guys get the glory for a change. It just now hit me this is more than just a setback, the way you spell it out, well I guess I didn't get that--
Matt yelled in his ear and Tom shoved him away with a laugh, but his mind filled in and every trace of momentum is gone...
He'd touched the ball once tonight.
Quarterbacks weren't supposed to care. The guy who was open was the guy who was open, and there wasn't a team in the league that would let Randy Moss get open during the playoffs. But on this team, they cared. It mattered. If you did the work, you got the reward.
On this team, the guy who carried the ball to the end zone got the TD, whether he broke the plane on the first try or not. They handed it back to him until he did. The guy who played through the pain got the best protection, the guy who worked the hardest in the off-season got the best parking space, and the guy who came out of retirement for a ring got his ring. The guy who turned his career around got to stand up in front of the cameras and take questions if he wanted to.
Even in the crowded space, Randy's bag didn't so much as bump him when he swung it over his shoulder. Tom tried to catch his eye, resorted to whacking him on the shoulder when he turned away, but Randy slid his sunglasses on and gave him a half-grin. "Later, Tommy."
Randy disappeared. Tom managed to beat the reporters out too, but then, they weren't looking for him. They knew they'd get their chance in the press room.
He didn't head for the press room.
Coach found him surrounded by trainers and medical staff and, true to form, looked only mildly concerned. "You all right?" he asked gruffly.
"Yeah, no problem." Tom shrugged it off, but he was careful not to make light until he knew what reaction to expect. The ploy wasn't dependent on Coach's participation, but the man would make his life miserable with disapproval if he didn't like it.
"It's just, I've been hearing a lot about Florida recently," Tom said. "You'd think we could talk about something else for a while."
Coach folded his arms, staring at the air cast they were fitting for him. Then he snorted, lips twitching, and Tom relaxed minutely. "They'll follow you like a dog," he muttered.
"Yeah." Tom risked a grin. "That's the idea."
There was another moment of silence, and then Coach said, "Practice Thursday. Media's allowed in the locker room, fifteen minutes on the field, you know the drill." He lifted his head and caught Tom's eye. "You suit up somewhere else..." He trailed off, shrugging. "Probably take you an extra, what--twenty minutes?"
His grin widened, and he braced his hands on the edge of the exam chair. "Thanks, Coach."
He got a grunt in return.
He didn't wear it to the conference. He knew how to make it look like he was trying not to draw attention. He was a little surprised they fell for the flowers--delivery had been invented for New England winters--but the limp was real and maybe that distracted them. The whole point of an air cast was to keep the ankle from bending, so he wouldn't have been able to walk normally if he'd tried.
The stairs, though. Those were killer.
He found a note from Gisele on the counter in her apartment. Hi Sweetie, it said. Hide out as long as you want. There's frozen pizza and beer, but if you stay the night, order in--something nice, ok? A girl has her reputation. Put it in the fridge for me if you don't want it.
She signed it Love, G, and added P.S. Don't open the curtains!
He smiled, tossing his sunglasses down beside her note and pulling off his bulky sweatshirt. Best girlfriend ever. Painstakingly removing the air cast, he made a mental note to have actual flowers delivered to wherever she was.
He even put the eye-catching whites in water. Whether the cold had burned the life out of them or not, they had served their purpose. Might as well give them a chance.
He was on the couch with half a lukewarm pizza abandoned nearby when his cell finally rang, and he glanced at the display automatically. He wasn't disappointed. Lifting it to his ear, he said, "Yeah."
It was, of course, Randy's voice. "I hate you, man."
Tom grinned, bracing his elbows on his knees and leaning forward to grab the beer he'd left on the floor. "You're welcome," he said, taking a long swallow. He didn't bother to hide his grimace, since there was no one there to see it. It was a blissfully media-free evening.
"You know what that was?" Randy's voice continued. "That was a diss, man. That was diss-gusting. That wasn't even ghetto, okay? That was nowhere near ghetto. No brother would be caught dead in that getup."
"Uh-huh," Tom agreed, swirling his beer around the bottom of the bottle. "I really want fashion advice from the guy in the janitor shirt, so. Go ahead."
He heard Randy snort. "Tell me what you're doing."
As with everything from Randy, it sounded more like an order than a request. But it was a request. Tom had learned to hear it in the utter sameness of his speech, in the very narrow range of expression: defensiveness. Not aggression.
"TV," he said, leaning back against the couch, beer still in hand. Bless Gisele and her curtains.
"You better not be watching the news," Randy declared. "Or so help me god, I'm coming over there."
It made no sense, but Tom had learned to hear through that too. Randy talked just to talk. He didn't like the quiet. Tom wondered sometimes if he heard too much in silence, if he had to talk over it to keep it from driving him crazy.
He felt like that sometimes.
He'd never asked, though, and he wasn't about to start now. Instead, he waved his beer in the direction of the TV like it might help. "Ghost Hunters," he said. "It's like the anti-hype."
There was a pause from the other end of the line. "You are one weird son of a bitch, Tommy."
Tom smiled. "You only say that because you understand me."
"Yeah, it's fucking contagious," Randy grumbled. "How do you deal with this shit, man? You try to be bad, they make you bad. You try to be good, they make you bad. How the hell do you win?"
He stared at the dark, jerky image on the screen, poorly edited and hard to follow and not nearly as frightening on camera as it sometimes seemed in real life. "You try to think of something you'd rather be doing," he said at last. "And if you can, you go do it. And if you can't..."
He shrugged, knowing Randy couldn't see it. "You keep playing the game."
He knocked on the door, and all he got was a, "Yeah." He waited to see if maybe the funk was superficial, if this was just childish rebellion or the backlash of having to be so polite for so long. But there weren't any more words, and the door didn't open.
So he banged on the door again. "It's me, Tommy," he said. "Open up."
He could hear footsteps this time, and the door was yanked open. All the way, against the wall, where Tom let it go and stalked back into the suite. Randy caught the door on his arm when it would have slammed in his face, figuring that was as much invitation as he was likely to get. Tom had been under the lens almost 24/7 for weeks, and the strain was starting to show.
It didn't keep him from asking, "How you doing?" as he followed Tom into the bedroom where he was packing.
"Lousy," Tom said flatly. Just like a white boy, not even trying to sound hip. And when Tom stopped trying, the world just wasn't right.
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and sat down on the edge of the bed. Tom didn't stop what he was doing, didn't even bother to avoid his gaze. He just didn't look. He was still in his podium clothes, like not changing would keep it from being over or something.
"I hear that," Randy said at last. They were all... hell, there wasn't even word for it. And it was everyone's fault. They won and they lost together, as a team. If he had never had a reason to think that before coming here, he believed it now.
Tom didn't say anything.
"I hate this game, man." He couldn't stand the quiet. "I forgot, right? I thought it'd be different if we made it all the way."
"We didn't," Tom interrupted. He still didn't look up.
"We did," Randy said, 'cause that wasn't what he meant. "We played through the last game of the season. But no matter how long you play, no matter how far you go... win or lose, the season still ends. There's no next week. I hate that, man."
Tom finally paused, staring down at his bag. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah. I hate that too."
Randy cracked a smile. Sweeping the pile of pillows from turn-down service up against the headboard, he settled back and tried to look cool. "Gonna wear your brain out, running over every play like that."
"Well." Tom seemed to make an actual decision not to snap at him. "Like you said. Not much else to do."
Yeah, and he got that. But they'd see the film soon enough, and they'd agonize over every tenth of a second, just like always. Randy had never seen the team lose, but he kind of doubted Coach could be any harder on them than he already was.
"There's Hawaii," he offered, crossing his ankles.
Tom stood there for a long moment. Then he lifted his gaze, looking just as bewildered as he never did in front of the cameras. "We lost, Randy."
There was really only one response to that. He put his hands behind his head and fixed Tom with a stare. "You know how many teams went into the playoffs undefeated?"
"How many teams finished the playoffs undefeated," Tom muttered.
"Hey." He didn't move. "There's a one in that loss column today. There's been a zero in it all season. Half the teams lost that the first day, and they carried it for sixteen weeks. We gotta carry it for one day."
He watched Tom try that out in his head, like a play, or a replay. Maybe both. Then he shook his head and came around the side of the bed, throwing himself down beside Randy. Doing a painful impression of a brother, that sprawl, but at least he'd tried.
Tom folded his arms, and Randy rolled his head to one side to watch him. Still got something running around in his head. Any number of things, all at once--everything, maybe. He'd do that to himself and figure he deserved it.
"Hey," Tom said suddenly. "You really think I jump down your throat?"
He did a double take on purpose, because he was already staring. So staring again was the only way to get attention. "Are you serious, man?"
Tom looked at him, and he repeated, "Are you kidding me?"
"Well, but it's--" He could see Tom going on the defensive, again, and hey. Still fighting. Not everything had changed tonight. Tommy was still in there. More ready to try again than he was willing to admit.
"I spent thirty minutes in that interview talking about the love," Randy interrupted. "Thirty minutes, Tommy. I mention the yelling for ten seconds--which you totally did not back me up on, and don't think I'm gonna forget that--and what do you remember? What do you remember!"
"But I'm not yelling!" Tom protested. "There's stuff we gotta fix; that's not... I mean, come on. There's things you expect out there--"
"You're yelling," Randy informed him. "We expect it, man. I expect it. We all do. That's what makes us the best."
"That's what made us the best," Tom grumbled, and Randy's fist clenched around the pillow behind his head. He whipped it out and smashed it into Tom's chest.
"Would you quit whining about our one fucking loss for two seconds?" he demanded. "Go back to the yelling. At least I can tune that out."
"Yeah, you and your mother," Tom muttered.
Randy snorted, deliberately lengthening his drawl. "You really gotta work on that one, Tommy. That ain't what you'd call appropriate usage."
"It's all the press," Tom said, flipping the pillow over. "I haven't had a lot of time to practice."
That made him grin. Look at Tommy, making jokes again. Bad ones, as usual, but there was hope for him yet.
He didn't follow up. When the silence stretched, Randy reached out and grabbed his pillow back. He didn't feel like holding his head up if he didn't have to.
Here, with Tom, he never had to.
"So, Hawaii," Tom said, after a long moment.
"Doesn't count." He shifted his shoulders, mashing the pillow back into place behind his head, and closed his eyes. "Season's over, Tommy. Practice thinking about other stuff. Start small. Try to work your way up to a whole second by the end of the week."
Tom didn't dignify that with an answer. "Think we could play no contact?"
Randy opened his eyes to stare at him. "What do you want? Flags?"
"Fewer sacks."
The admission was accompanied by the wry grin he used to soften complaints he meant but didn't want people to think he meant. Randy had stopped falling for that a long time ago. He had also stopped not caring when Tom went down, but Coach would never let him in front of a microphone again if he criticized the way the rest of the offensive line did its job.
"Should have played Flutie," he said, recrossing his ankles as he tried to get more comfortable. "They'll remember the name of your receiver."
He could hear the smirk he didn't see with his eyes trained on the ceiling. "Yeah," Tom teased. "Maybe I'll get lucky and they'll remember the name of your passer, too."
He had to smile, and he tried to downplay it by turning into it. "You know they actually asked me how I felt tonight, seeing you on your back?"
Okay, that wasn't downplaying it at all; that was the opposite of downplaying. But Tom just grinned at him, a happy look that did, for the first time, erase some of the frustration and anger left over from the game. "Shouldn't have spent so much time talking about the love," he said.
Randy chuckled, relaxing. "Man, I am not the one who said we don't gotta to be seen together in public to know what we're about! You're messing with them!"
"You're welcome," Tom replied. It was a by now familiar expression, and if it didn't make a lot of sense this time he let it go, because Tom was, at least momentarily, in a better mood.
"But seriously," Tom added. "Hawaii."
This time he got it. "You don't have to go, you know. It's an invitation, not a draft."
"They'll think I'm sulking if I don't put in an appearance."
"You been the media puppet for months," he said, recognizing his role and willing to play it for Tom's sake. The man needed to learn that, at the end of the day, reporters were just people with microphones. "You're allowed to take a week off."
Tom didn't answer, and Randy added, "Like I want to go to Hawaii again anyway. Man, you think it was hot in that dome..."
"I'm not--" Tom sounded startled, which was a funny sound for him. "You don't--"
"There's only one passer of mine they're gonna remember," Randy told him. "Brady to Moss: 50 TD passes, 23 TD receptions. I'm not kidding about that ball, either; your kid's gonna find half that in a birthday present someday."
"Randy, go to the Pro Bowl," Tom said, in that tone of voice he'd used to mean, you're gonna wear that to the press conference? the first couple times. Before he'd learned.
Randy just shrugged. "When you do."
It wasn't like he didn't see it coming. Tom really was stiffening up if he couldn't even reach over his head without grimacing. But he let Tom hit him with a pillow, and if the blow was half-hearted he managed to avoid any comparisons to the finer sex.
"Besides," he said, wrapping his arms around the pillow thoughtfully even as Tom tried to pull it back. "You have a great excuse. They already think you hurt your ankle."
Tom paused long enough for Randy to smirk at him. "You're welcome," he mimicked.
Tom let go of the pillow and slouched back against the remainder of his headrest. "You're not hurt," he pointed out. Randy triumphantly tossed Tom's pillow onto his pile.
"Like they expect an excuse from me," he said, flashing his best shit-eating grin. "I'm Randy Moss."
Tom scoffed. But he didn't protest again.
Win.
He wondered if Junior was surfing again.
No, he reminded himself, that was only for being cheated out of the big one. Not getting there and losing it. Chance on three, he'd said. We got a chance.
All we need in life is a chance.
Junior was probably parasailing by now.
He didn't expect the courier at his door--wasn't that what Sundays were good for? No mail, nothing to fall further behind on one day out of every seven during the regular season? No required contact at all during the offseason? The postseason didn't count, of course; it was a bubble.
But still. A courier.
He signed for the package, tipped the woman, and somehow wasn't surprised to open it up and find Randy's signature inside. His actual, personal signature, in black sharpie on a t-shirt that said Property of the Patriots across the front. Tom shook it out: no joke. It was an XL, clearly meant to be worn without pads.
He picked up his cell, glancing at the clock as he did so. Another hour. Give or take, depending on how lazy they were feeling in Hawaii this year.
Randy had to know it was him before the first ring even finished. Because that was how long it took him to pick up. "How's that day off going, Tommy?"
It wasn't a question, and Tom didn't bother to answer. "Property of who?"
He heard Randy laugh. "Got the idea from Tedy's kids," he said. "You seen 'em running around with those little, you know, the signed shirts and the logo and everything? He could sell that shit on e-bay; make a fortune for that team of his."
"Is that your plan?" Tom wanted to know, chucking the envelope in the trash. "Make me wear it, steal it back, and then sell it somewhere?"
"Tommy, if you wear that t-shirt, I'm taking a picture," Randy told him. "Which I will tape to the back of your locker as a reminder for the rest of your career."
He smiled at the vehemence, but he managed to keep it out of his voice as he asked, "A reminder of what, exactly?"
"You know why I'm here," came the reply. "You know why I'm staying. And I tell you, you so much as think about leaving and all that talk--that shit about me retiring a Patriot and all of it--that is off the table. You understand what I'm saying?"
Like he would ever leave. This team had made him, and this team would keep him. As long as they had a place. He'd always figured he would go out more like Troy than like Drew.
"Brett's a good guy," he said, smoothing the t-shirt absently on the counter. "You didn't talk to him with that mouth, did you?"
Randy was grinning. He could hear it through the phone. "Fuck you, Tommy."
"Uh-huh." A little less than an hour, give or take. "I think we should practice."
This time, he could hear Randy sputter. "What?"
He glanced out the window, where the absurdly large flakes of snow were falling thick and fast. "Come on," he said. "Snowbowl '09 will be here before we know it. It's not like we can practice for it during the summer."
"I hate you," Randy informed him, with maybe a little more venom than usual. "You're a freak, Tommy. Take a day off."
"I'll be there in half an hour," he told the phone, and he hung up.
He rifled through drawers until he found a permanent marker, stuffed it in his coat pocket, and headed out. He stopped to pick up beer and a t-shirt on his way over. It was all discounted now: the game shirts more than the player tees, but football season was officially through. He smiled at the clerk and put his hood back up before heading out into the snow again.
Randy met him at the door in sneakers and double-layered sweatshirts. They stood there for a moment, staring at each other, and Tom had to grin. "You'd really do it, wouldn't you."
"What?" Randy demanded, glaring at him.
Tom just shook his head. "Come on," he said, hefting the beer. "Turn on the Pro Bowl so we can make fun of everyone later. It's Mike's first time."
Mocking the Pro Bowlers was Randy's favorite post-season activity. He tivo'd the game even when he was in it so he'd have fodder for the following season. And this year, with six of their teammates at the game and a good chance that most of them would be coming back this summer, it was a thing to be enjoyed.
Randy moved out of the doorway grudgingly. He still looked suspicious. "I thought we were gonna practice."
"In this weather?" Tom shook the snow off his coat as best he could before stepping inside. "It's a blizzard out there; are you crazy?"
Randy snorted, closing the door behind him. "Putting up with you?" he retorted. "Yeah. I must be."