Long Pass Chronicles 02 - Canning the Center by Tara Lain Page B

family that loves and accepts all of us just like we are.”
    That might be enough to make him sick with envy. “Did you get your degree in football? PhD in passing?” He smiled.
    “Centers don’t pass. Actually I have a degree in education.”
    “So you want to teach?”
    “Yeah. Or coach, maybe. Or both.”
    “So why are you playing football?”
    “I’ve played since I was six.”
    “Why?”
    “You do ask the damnedest questions. Doesn’t every man want to be a pro football player?”
    “No. I don’t.”
    “Seriously, you’d love it. The best football players have an intuitive mathematical understanding, especially of geometry. I got As in math in high school just by learning football statistics and analyzing plays.”
    Trevor nodded. “Of course, vector analysis coupled with Newton’s laws of trajectories explains the basics of where a football will land, while you would be learning differential equations in order to characterize the aerodynamics of the ball in flight.”
    Jamal grinned. “Yeah. What you said.”
    “So you’ll play football rather than teaching?”
    “You can only play a relatively short time. Too hard on your body. The guy I’m replacing is just thirty-six, which is ancient as a center, and he’s really beat-up.”
    “So back to my original question. Why do it?”
    Jamal grinned. “Simple answer. I love playing. There’s a huge adrenaline rush associated with being a lineman. You have to work yourself up to taking that kind of hit, that much impact. It makes some guys crazy and some mean. It just makes me feel high, like I’m floating on a carpet of joy.” He tossed the sugar packet. “Sorry. I do have this tendency to wax poetic.”
    Trevor smiled. “It’s delightfully unexpected.”
    “Yeah. I’m Ferdinand.”
    “What? Like the bull?”
    “Yep.”
    The waitress brought the food, and Trevor instantly took a sip of the float. Wow . “Amazing.”
    “Yeah, see what I told you? Best around.”
    He took a bite of hamburger and then went back to the float. “So, Ferdinand.”
    “My sister named me. Calls me Ferd.”
    “I like it. I—”
    A man stepped up beside the table. “Sorry to butt in, but aren’t you Jamal Jones?”
    The guy wore a windbreaker and a white baseball cap. Jamal nodded pleasantly, but he glanced toward Trevor. “Yes. I am.”
    “Wow. Told the wife it was you. We used to watch you in the SCU games, man. Can’t wait to see you start for the Diablos.” He leaned against the table, really settling in. “I saw you come in and told the wife, a guy that big’s gotta play football. And then she looks and says, ‘Honey, that’s Jamal. You should know Jamal.’ So she says I gotta come and get an autograph, or I’ll never forgive myself. I’m Hank, by the way.”
    Jamal extended a hand and shook Hank’s. He looked friendly, and it probably took a closer observer than Hank to see he wasn’t comfortable. “Glad to meet you, Hank.”
    “So, would you sign my hat?”
    “Sure. Got a pen?”
    “What we need’s a waterproof marker.” Hank turned toward the back of the diner, where a woman was leaning out of a booth, smiling. “Hey, honey, you got an indelible marker? Jamal’s gonna sign the hat.” The woman hopped out of the booth like she’d only been waiting for an excuse and hurried over beside Hank. Half the people in the diner had turned to look. The bunny appeared to want to run.
    “Hi. I’m Jeannie.” She dug through her purse.
    Another woman leaned out of her booth with a marker in her hand. “Here ya go, sweetie. This is what you need.”
    Jeannie took the marker and presented it with a flourish to Hank, who handed it to Jamal. Jeannie turned to Trevor. “Hi. I didn’t meet you. I’m Jeannie. I’ll bet you don’t play football.”
    He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. This was surreal. “I’m, uh, Trevor.”
    “You sure are pretty.”
    Was this happening? “Thank you.”
    “So, you work with Jamal?”
    “No,