Six Point Bombshell

VII

Coco took them across-field with an end run; they rehearsed 90 on the other side with Coddington catching. Dan laid the oval in there, right across Coddy’s chest.

In scrimmage, it hadn’t gone that smoothly. It wasn’t the fool-proof, surefire ground gainer the professionals pulled off. But it would do, in a pinch. And that’s the only place Stoney wanted them to use it.

“The defensive half knows you can’t get past him,” the head coach had told Ship. “He’s got you pinned to the sideline so you can’t get loose. Out of habit, he’ll let you make that small gain rather than risk another receiver’s racing in from nowhere and grabbing a pass behind him, for a score. But don’t use it too often… or he’ll get out of the habit of letting you get away with it.”

They’d need 90 against Stanford, he’d warned them. The White Indians were coming down from Palo Alto with a line that could break up a herd of stampeding buffalo, an overhead attack that was spectacular, and a sweet total of 89 points against 14 for their opponents in the first three games.

Stanford’s It for you, Dan told himself. You’re in here, signal-drilling with the first team. Stoney wouldn’t be whipping you to a pulp this aft, unless he meant to start you tomorrow. One big chance, coming up!

Off-tackle buck. Buttonhook to right half. Guard smash. Flat pass. Wide reverse. Speed it up! Get in there! Drive!

His tongue was hanging out, his knees were melted butter, by the time Stoney called for a halt… and twice around the cinder track!

At the first turn, Coco jogged up beside him.

“Frankie gave me couple ducats to Sunday’s game.”

“Yuh?” Dan had no breath to waste.

“Gilmore Stadium… Pitts Burgers…. wanna go?”

“Can’t, Coco… beach party… Santa Monica,” he panted an excuse. There was no place on the West Coast he’d avoid more carefully than Gilmore Stadium. Sunday!

“Hell! Ditch your date…”

“Like to,” Dan lied. “No can do.”

They finished the second lap, dragged themselves wearily to the ramp.

“How’s about bustin’ out to Frankie’s tonight?” Coco asked. “Bunch of the pro joes’ll be whoopin’ it up.”

“Ask me again, I’ll say sure. But I have to work tonight, Coco.”

“A job? Doin’ what!” The quarterback was surprised.

“Baby sittin’. Got to sit up with baby, long as trainin’ rules allow.”

It was cool enough for coats by the time the jeep reached Malibu. He got out to help her into the camelhair shorty. He took his time about it.

Presently she said: “Let’s sit this one out, Dan. There’s no moon, but—”

“There’s you. Who wants the moon!”

The beach houses of the glamour names in Movieland were dark, gabled shadows against faintly luminous sea. Lights twinkled offshore; a freighter bound up the coast for San Francisco or Seattle.

“Wonderful country,” he sighed contentedly. “First month here I was so homesick I thought I’d never stick it out. Now I’m beginning to love it.”

“Enough to live here?”

“Sure. If you want to.” He watched the white line of surf against black, glistening rocks. “Only I’d like you to visit home with me, just to see how you like that!” He hummed the tune, softly:

“Tell me about Petosky,” she murmured.

“There’s one grand town! We don’t really live in Petosky, — my folks, that is, — our place is in Bay View, few miles out—”

“Ha!” Marla straightened exultantly. “I knew it! That explains it!”

“What?” He was baffled.

“Oh! That nosey Lin Hollet! And the high school principal… and everything!”

“Relax,” he soothed her. “You’re among friends. What’s it all about?”

She told him. At length.

He sat silently until she finished. “So that droopy goop of a Hollet is trying to make out there’s something strange about you, Dan. Something that might make you ineligible. And of course your living out of Petosky clears everything up — except… why did the people at Ann Arbor write that they knew nothing about you?”

This was the psychological moment to break down and Tell All. He realized it very well. He wanted to, too. But the words kept hammering his mind, the words he couldn’t forget, no matter how hard he tried: Don’t ever tell anybody!

“Listen, chiquita. You trust me?”

She indicated she did.

“No lurking suspicions that I’ve deserted a wife and three starving children back on the Upper Peninsula somewhere?”

“Don’t be a dope, mope!”

“Kayo, then. We’ll just have to let it ride at that, time being. I can’t put my cards face up on the table, because…” He tried to get as close to the truth as possible… “well, you might say I’m playing somebody else’s hand.”

Marla moved away from him a little.

“I don’t care what it is, Dan, or whether you want to tell anyone else, but I think I have a right to know all about you, with things the way they are, between us.”

He made no attempt to draw her closer. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it, baby. I hate to act like one of those ‘So y’won’t talk’ muggs in the movies but I can’t tell you.”

“I don’t think you’re being fair!” She was annoyed at what she thought was stubbornness.

“If it’ll help any, I did go to high school in Petosky. I did go to U. of M.”

“Then why—”

“My name isn’t Webb, Marla.” He was beginning to be irritated at the way she was dragging it out of him. Don’t ever tell anybody. Al-l-l right. He’d told her all he was going to!

She stared, frowning. “You mean to tell me I was engaged to marry a boy when I didn’t even know his right name!” Marla laughed, but there was nothing humorous about the sound.

He stared out over the ocean, moodily. “Was engaged?”

She shrugged, pulling the coat up around her neck. “Here I’ve been dreaming about how perfectly marvelous it would be to have people call me Marla Webb! Now I find out you’re just crazy to have me become Mrs.-Something-or-other, whenever you get around to telling me what your name is!”

“Aw, shugie!”

“I’m getting cold, Dan. We’d better be driving back.”

He tried to square himself, but she drew away with an irritated: “Really, Dan!”

It was chilly in the convertible all the way to Santa Monica. When he swung left on Wilshire, she made the only attempt at conversation:

“I don’t know whether it interests you, because I can’t figure out how your mind works about such things. But I suppose you ought to know Lin Hollet says you won’t play against Stanford tomorrow unless the eligibility angle is cleared up!”

“That’ll be just ducky!” he said bitterly and knew before the words were out of his mouth that she’d misunderstand him.

She didn’t wait for him to help her out of the car, at the Kappa house, but slid out hurriedly and ran up the steps without looking back.

He guessed she was crying; he didn’t run after her or call goodnight or anything.

Maybe a milkshake would take the bad taste out of his mouth. He drove to the University Drug Store, parked.

But a trio of bobby-soxers hailed him: “Hi, Webbie.” The name grated on his nerves. And in the window was a poster. A jerseyed figure lunging ahead to drive past a tackler:

He went glumly back to the car.