“Um, okay. Good for them, I guess.”
Xavier Henry’s personal business is just that. Personal. Unless it affects his performance on the field, I don’t care who he’s married to. And until he officially gets traded to the Buzzards, none of it matters to me.
Across the room, through a sea of black suits, black dresses, and black waitstaff uniforms, something catches my eye.
Someone. A feeling of déjà vu.
I shake my head and blink, but then it’s gone. I check the room again, but nothing. I can’t even put my finger on who or what it was. Just ... something from the past. Suddenly, I’m thinking about college again. When the hallucinations start, it’s time to go.
“TJ, I’m out. You might want to think about it too. We’ve got to be at Logan by eight, and there’s nothing worse than flying hungover.”
We’ve all had that experience at one time or another. Zero out of ten, do not recommend.
I head to the coat check and give the girl my ticket. As I’m waiting for my coat, Xavier Henry and his bride approach.
My curiosity gets the best of me, and I have to know if they’re in talks for him to join us. “Taking off so soon?”
“Yes, well, I didn’t want the focus on us. It’s your night. You should be celebrating. Best of luck to you next week,” Henry answers.
That gives me nothing. Nothing except a little bit of respect for the man. He’s definitely not a spotlight grabber. He’s humble and hardworking. He would be an asset to the Buzzards. I should play it cool, but I have to know. “Are you really coming to us?”
Xavier shrugs. “Tryin’ to. I’d be happy to play for Janssen again.”
That’s right. He did play for Janssen before the pandemic shutdown. My gaze drifts to Henry’s companion. His wife.
He’s a lucky man.
“I hear congratulations are in order.”
If I’m not mistaken, Henry glares at me. “Yes, well, we’re going to go off and finish our celebration, if you don’t mind.”
I laugh. He’s a very lucky man, with a very lucky night ahead of him. “Yeah, big night. See you soon.”
My coat is ready, so I hand the girl a tip and head out into the cold November night. I consider ordering an Uber, but it’s only a three-block walk down Stuart Street to get to the Westin in Copley Square, where I’m staying for the night before we fly out in the morning.
It sure beats driving all the way back to Foxborough and then back up to Logan during the morning rush.
Not to mention the walk might help to clear my head. Something’s not sitting right with me, and I just can’t put my finger on it. I should be excited and exhilarated for the week that’s to come. I should have my eye on the prize—the literal national championship—and the doors that will open for me.
If we can win, then it’s practically a done deal for me. I’ll have everything I’ve ever wanted.
And then what?
