As one of the more senior players, I should make him feel welcome.I’ve been with the Buzzards since the beginning of my career.
"Alright, guys," Coach Janssen announces."As you know, we’re at home tomorrow and then in Las Vegas next weekend.The travel itinerary is being emailed to you today.We are taking the red-eye back on Sunday night to give you a little time off.While what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, please remember that we’re very much in contention for the championship this year, and every single point will help our standing going into the postseason.We have casinos right here in New England, so don’t think that this trip is an occasion to go wild.Do that on your own time after we beat the Renegades."
Coach’s speech echoes in my head throughout the rest of practice, but I can’t figure out why.We travel for half our games, so it’s not like this is new news.Maybe the warning about Vegas.Last time we were out there, Andy Bracer and Pressley Samson missed our flight home because they were MIA.The resultant social media posts solved that mystery, and both were stuck with a hefty conduct fine, and Pressley started marriage counseling.
It’s not until I’m on Oakland Street, about to make the left into my parking lot, when the sign for Rachel’s complex catches my eye, and everything clicks together.I’m so excited that I don’t even bother going inside before I shoot off my round of text messages.
Me: I’m playing in Vegas next week.
Me: You should come.
Me: You have to fly out there.
Me: We can go parasailing on Lake Mead.
I’m about to type another one when I make myself put my phone in my pocket and wait.This could be unwelcome.She could not want to talk about this.I haven’t heard from her since Monday, and it’s now Friday.I should be staying in the hotel with the rest of the team tonight, as we usually do before home games, but I convinced Coach Janssen that I’d get better sleep in my own bed.
So now, instead of bonding with a teammate, I’m by myself, cooking dinner for myself, and thinking about my brilliant—if I do say so myself—plan.
Me: Hello?Is this thing on?
Finally, my phone dings with a text.
Rachel: I don’t think so.
She can’t say no.She hasn’t even had time to think about it.It’s so perfect!
Me: You don’t think your phone is on?Then how are you responding?
I smile at my joke.At least I find myself funny.I can have a fan club of one.
Me: Come over so we can talk about it.I’m making dinner.
Rachel: I’m tired.My social battery is low.
Okay.My chest feels a little heavy with … disappointment.I totally thought she’d be all over this.Plus, all week I’ve wanted to talk to her, and I couldn’t think of a non-lame reason.I was so proud of myself for thinking that this would be a great way for her to get some of her list done.Like I could help her.
Like she’d want my help.
Obviously, that’s a big fat no.
Chapter 19: Rachel
I stare at my phone, not really believing what I’m seeing.I read and re-read the string of messages from TJ Doyle.Tyler.
I change the name in my contacts.I have to type it three times before I spell it right.Then I change it back to TJ.
I wasn’t lying.I am tired from the past two days, working remotely to get the new office up and running.I don’t like it one bit.There’s not one aspect of my life that seems familiar anymore.It’s as if I’m walking around in someone else’s shoes.Ones that are several sizes too large.
Also, I’m very deep into a bottle of pinot grigio, but that seems like a detail best kept to myself.I take another long drink.
Yes, this new life in this new apartment with a new workplace and a new superhot, super famous friend feels much too big for me.Any minute, I’m going to wake up, and this will all have been some kind of melatonin-induced fever dream.
But every day, I wake up and I’m still here.Richie is still dead, and I still have to go to work for CRAP #2.That’s the abbreviation for the Sharon office.Pretty fitting, if you ask me.What’s especially crappy is we haven’t been able to get into the building yet, so I’m doing everything remotely.
You’d think I’d like it, but I hate working remotely.It blurs the line between my safe haven and work.
And now today, there’s a string of text messages asking me to go to Vegas and watch TJ Doyle play soccer again.It’s actually a solid plan—if I intended to carry out any more of Richie’s list.Which I don’t, because the more I thought about it, the more I realized it wasn’t ever achievable.
