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There have been times when I’ve thought it might be nice to live by myself or with another person, but I’ve never been able to afford that kind of luxury. The more people there are to share rent with, the easier it is to make the money I earn over the summer stretch throughout the year. My athletic and academic scholarships cover tuition, room and board but not much else. So, I have to be careful. Once I make it to the NFL, life will be so much easier. Not only for me but my mom as well. I’ve worked damn hard to make sure those dreams become a reality. I have to make this season the best of my college career and see what happens in the spring.
“Hey, Michaels, grab a cold one and join us. It’s been a while since I kicked your ass in Madden.”
“Please, Kendricks. I don’t think you’ve ever kicked my ass unless it was in your dreams. And I told you before, I don’t swing that way. So keep me out of them.”
When he snorts and gives me the finger, letting me know that I’m number one, I blow him a kiss.
“Yo, Michaels!”
My gaze slides to Asher Stevens. “Yeah?” He’s a tight end—one of the best to come through Western’s program in a good decade. There’s no way he won’t be a first-round draft pick. The funny thing is that he could be even better, but the guy parties like it’s his job in life.
We finished practice a little less than an hour ago, and already he looks three sheets to the wind. Nothing unusual there. This is a guy who likes to burn the candle at both ends. I keep waiting for him to crash and burn but he continues to surprise me by breaking records on the field and staying academically compliant.
The girl straddling his lap is wearing a thong and nothing else.
Upon closer inspection, I realize she’s not the only one who has already shed her clothing. Looks like shit is about to get wild around here, which only makes me wish for the umpteenth time that I had my own place. When I agreed to live with these guys, I’d figured most would be over all the drinking, partying, and fucking.
Turns out that’s not the case.
Hell, some are more into it now than ever before. Kind of like it’s their final hoorah. Every damn night. Even in the middle of our season. If I thought for one moment that it affected our level of play or the outcome of games, I’d put the kibosh on it. But we’re doing pretty well. If that changes, I’ll be the first one on their asses.
“A letter came for you in the mail.” He points to the dilapidated table in the dining room. “It’s over there.”
A letter?
Weird. Since I change addresses almost every year, most of my mail goes to my mom’s apartment.
“Thanks.” I turn away from the orgy that’s about to break loose and head into the dining room to sift through a pile of mostly advertisements and junk before finding a plain white envelope with my name and address scrawled across the front of it.
Even though there’s no return address in the top left-hand corner, my muscles tense, recognizing the handwriting. Everything stills inside me as I stare at the correspondence in my hands. I don’t realize they’re shaking until my name blurs. It takes a concerted effort to still them. This is stupid. I need to open it and see what the motherfucker wants. Or...maybe I should toss it in the trash where it belongs, and pretend I never saw it.
Except that’s not how I tackle problems. I meet them head-on. I learned at an early age that it’s the only way to deal with shit. And make no mistake, that would be an accurate description of my father.
Always has been.
Always will be.
Thank fuck there’s no return address. I glance uneasily at my teammates, who are laughing and screwing around in the living room. None of them are aware that my father is a current resident of the state penitentiary. I’ve done everything in my power to keep my past separate from the life I created for myself at Western University. And if I have my way, that’s how it’ll stay when I turn pro.
Fury surges through me as I stare blindly at the envelope.
Doesn’t this guy realize the best thing he can do is to leave me the hell alone? Apparently not. Every once in a while, he’ll send a letter asking me to visit. I can’t resist thinking that he has a lot of fucking nerve. Not once in the ten years that he’s been locked up have I ever bothered to respond. After reading it, I’ll rip the letter to shreds and toss it in the garbage. It usually takes a couple of days for the unease that settles in the pit of my belly to dissipate as I do my best to forget the man who spawned me until another unmarked letter arrives in the mail months later.
