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I’ve spent the past week going through everything my parents ever owned or accumulated. Which, as it turns out, was a fucking lot. My dad was a borderline hoarder.
“I offered to buy him a new house a few years ago,” I tell Bo. “After I got the Nike deal. I offered him three million dollars to buy any house he wanted. But he refused to leave my mother’s memories. That’s what he said.”
“You should be glad. If he’d had a ten bedroom house, he probably would have filled it with Wildcats merch.”
I laugh but there’s no humor in it. “True.”
Everything in that house was in some way related to me. Hundreds of newspaper clippings, all my childhood trophies, medals and certificates. School report cards. MVP awards dated all the way back to my Pop Warner days. My old baseball glove. Football helmets I wore in junior high. My old Hawks jersey. I wore the same number then as I do now. Every bookshelf was dedicated to showcasing all the early achievement of my life. A thousand photographs, mostly of me. Graduations. The day I became starting quarterback. The ones of my mother that have sat in their same positions for as long as I can remember, gathering dust.
I take a swig from the half-bottle of whiskey I found wedged into the chair my dad always sat in, which the removal company took away today, along with a truckload of other stuff I just don’t need to haul along with me through life.
But I feel weirdly untethered. Like all the ties that kept me grounded are suddenly gone.
“This is a lot to deal with at once, Elias. You’re allowed to take some time for this stuff.”
“I don’t need time.” Time, in some ways, has always been something to fight against. Or fight for, who the fuck knows.
I boxed up everything I wanted to keep. The pictures. Some of the trophies. But a lot of it was just stuff that’s lost its meaning without my dad’s die-hard enthusiasm.
Do I even want to play football anymore?
“Of course you do. You’ve always played just as much for yourself as you ever did for him.”
I didn’t even realize I’d said that out loud. Maybe because I’ve drunk my way through seven or eight shots of whiskey. Maybe nine.
Bo closes the attic window and turns off one of the lights. “Besides, your coach will probably come crawling back to you any minute. Your team just lost their second game without you, 37-3.”
Shit. Our QB2, Jared Clayton, just doesn’t have enough experience to handle the pressure. He has a long way to go when it comes to precision. He’s young, green and crumbles too often when he’s feeling the heat. Throwing him in at the deep end will help him learn, but it might take him all season to get there.
No doubt he’ll be taking it hard. And the rest of the guys will be seething with disappointment.
“Come on,” Bo says, “we’re done up here. I’ll put some steaks on the grill.”
Bo’s house is a modern mansion built on its own estate that’s surrounded by high stone walls. His parents, who both died six or seven years ago, were loaded. His dad was eccentric and extremely good at making money, and his mother was a designer and an artist. Bo’s oldest brother Gage lives in Chicago and his other brother Caleb recently got back from a tour of duty in Afghanistan. Caleb’s living in the other house on the property that’s down by the lake. So Bo had been living here alone, until Millie moved in with him. Tonight she’s visiting her roommate.
“Maybe I’ll buy a sailboat and sail around the world,” I mutter.
“You don’t know how to sail.”
“So? I could learn.”
“Have you heard from any other teams?” He’s careful with the question.
“Yeah. Five or six, last time I checked. And I’ve been offered a shitload of new endorsement deals. Why would they want me now?”
“You’ve all over the internet. They’re saying that if you were willing to sacrifice your career for love, it says something about your character.”
“Yeah. That I’m a fuck-up.”
“No. That you’re a romantic. People eat that shit up. Trust me, I know.”
Bo’s game room looks out over the Olympic-sized pool and a swanky patio. It’s got a pool table, pinball machines, a poker table, giant leather couches, a 98-inch flat screen and a full bar. He pours us both a beer from one of the taps. He’s wearing an old Hawks t-shirt and his hair’s a little longer than he used to wear it. We’re around the same height and lot of people used to tell us we look like brothers. “Have you talked to her?”
I told Bo about everything that happened with Zara. Well, most of it anyway. I told him because he gets it. He fell just as hard and fast for Millie. Luckily for Bo, he didn’t have to get kicked off his team to keep her.
“No.” I chug half my beer, setting up a game of pool. But there are double the number of balls. “You know what my coach told me?”
“What?”
