“...but the thing is, I don't know if I want to go pro. It's more like, I'd do it because I couldn't think of anything else to do.” It sounded so lame. I was afraid to look at Clay—thinking he might slap me for a second there. But surprisingly, my friend did not seem judgmental.
“As your linebacker, I'm sorry to hear that,” he continued. Beyond our conversation, I could hear the swinging hinge of the locker room door and some hushed voices. We had to wrap up our little Oprah moment right quick, before the team walked in. “As your friend, I say—Godspeed. Find what makes you happy. Just maybe don't go out of your way to fuck up the rest of this season, think of your teammates bro.”
I leaned in for a dap, and felt for the first time a surge of adrenaline. The hunger for the game I'd been missing. Sometimes at the Super Bowl, you'd see players talk about how they dedicated their performance to God, or their parents—but I'd dedicate this game to my friends. Clay and the Longhorn hooligans. Ashleigh.
As I returned to my suiting up, I felt a harsh tap on my shoulder—and there they were, like some kind of fucked-up jury. Coach Wells, Coach Yeardley, Denny, some man I didn't recognize, and...improbably...Zora. What the fuck were they doing here?
“Son, could we talk to you for a second?” asked the man I didn't recognize. I looked to Yeardley and Wells for approval, and they nodded. I barely had time to pull a t-shirt over my head before I was being corralled into Wells' office—not unlike a prisoner, I thought.
The door slid shut behind us all and I was aware of how stuffy the office was, how rarely I had cause to come in here. Wells gestured that I take a seat, but everyone else remained standing.
“Am I in some kind of trouble, Coach?” I asked, swiveling my head around, unsure who to address. The new dude smiled—or, more like he leered. His teeth were spread far apart and he had a tight little buzz-cut. I thought I recognized him from somewhere, but figured it was also possible he just had one of those faces.
“Son, my name is Timbers. Alex Timbers,” the mystery man began. “I represent the San Francisco 49ers. We've been keeping a close watch on your football career, Mr. Sterling.” I felt a thrill of pride zip down my spine, then thought of Clay out in the locker room. I'd literally just told him I didn't care about being scouted. Why couldn't Mr. 49er be looking for a linebacker today, instead?
“I'm so flattered,” I said, hating how mealy I sounded. I stole a confused look at Zora, who made no facial concession to the fact that it was weird she was in here. Though I had no clue just how these meetings were supposed to go, I would've bet any bonus that ex-girlfriends and ex-friends usually weren't invited to contract signings.
“Thrilling. That's just thrilling. Because we've got an eye on you for the draft come April,” Shiver-me-Timbers continued. “The only thing that's really giving us pause is a little disciplinary matter, which has been brought to our attention by the coaches and your two good friends here.”
Fuck me.
I would never in a million years have figured that Denny would be right about the NFL's alleged “image overhaul.” Everything I'd ever learned about football supported the unpleasant fact that all sorts of creeps and criminals were above the law, if only they won Super Bowls. I fought the urge to grimace at Denny, all conspiratorial-like. Then I remembered the word Timbers had just used: friends.
Oh, no, no. These people were not my friends.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” I continued, angling to save face. Alas, I'd never been much of an actor.
“Is it not true that you were at Derby's Bar and Grill last night with a minor? By the name of Ashleigh Bennett?”
It had to be a dream. This was a pre-game nightmare. Any second, I would wake up in bed with a jolt and Ashleigh would soothe me back to sleep with sweet words and little kisses. Denny and Zora were refusing to make eye contact, and through the paneled glass in Coach's office, I could see most of the team was pretending to go about their business while they coyly watched my tribunal.
“Landon, we didn't want to ambush you like this. But we're all well aware of your potential in the NFL, and your largely spotless record with this team,” Coach Wells was saying. “Now, these fine young people have come forward with a pretty hefty accusation, that you've supplied liquor to a minor. This is bad business. The police could be involved. But in the interest of putting everything above board for Mr. Timbers here, we're all prepared to sign a statement and move forward with your career provided you stop seeing little miss jailbait.”
“First of all, she’s not a minor, let’s get that straight.” I tried.
“It's true, Landon,” Zora said, making her voice sound especially mousy and weak. “I was at Derby's last night with a girlfriend, and I saw you two. You guys know he's her step-sister, too, right? It's all pretty sick, in my opinion.”
I closed my eyes for a second, as if to tamp down the fury. Behind my lids, I saw my man Clay. Being a badass on the field, then going home to Victoria. I saw Anya, weeping beside my shithead father on their wedding day, pledging before God that she would trust him forever. I saw my mother, in one singular, strange flash—in a dress she'd been wearing on our Denver trip. In my memory, she was laughing with her full body, apparently at something the Pastor had said. They'd actually been happy, once. It was hard to believe. They'd been happy before everything had been ruined, and what good had that brief happiness done them?
Before I even opened my eyes, I'd made my choice.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Ash
Carson looked out of her element in a football stadium, to say the very least. Anya, for her part, was blending in with aplomb. My mother's face had healed entirely, and on the surface she seemed just about back to her gung-ho, pleasantly nutty self. She waved a big, borrowed foam finger in one hand—something she'd lifted from “the very nice man” in the row in front of us. Carson and I exchanged heavy eye rolls every time she tilted her head forward to laugh at one of the goober's Dad jokes—but we didn't really mean anything by it. It was mostly just nice to see her laughing again.
“Do we get to sing in football?” Carson asked me. “One, two, three strikes you’re out? Or is that tennis?” A few rows down, some incredulous-looking Longhorn fans turned to shoot us dirty looks. My half-sister just waved a bejeweled hand, high on her own dumb joke.
I'd been edgy for most of this family date so far. Though I was thrilled to be out and about with my motley crew (not to mention super surprised when Anya had suggested this morning that we all go see a UT game) I wasn't sure how well I'd be able to hide my feelings once Landon came out of his...dugout, or whatever they called it. Already, Carson had nearly caught me and the boy several times. I wasn't any good at lying to her face. And there was still the uncomfortable fact of poor, sweet Nate Dempsey, who I'd broken up with on her stoop that very morning, without offering anyone an explanation.
“Stop being weird,” my sis repeated now, elbowing me so some of my popcorn sloshed out of its red and white striped box. To my left and far left, Lotte and Melanie played with their phones, ignoring our family business. “You're doing it again. Everything's going to be fine, you know. The soon-to-be-ex-step-monster is doing his daily course of anger management as we speak. You've done all you can. Chips are falling where they may.”
“It's not that.”
“Then, what?”