“I know. I’m sorry, Coach. I’ll get my head back in the game in no time.”
“You have no more time. And it’s not just your game I’m worried about. There are…trustissues,” he continues, eyes narrowing. You’ll be cleared in three months if you take it easy, but that doesn’t mean you walk back onto the pitch as captain. Not after everything you’ve put the organization through with your behavior recently.”
“I said I know,” I cut in, sharper than I mean to.
Coach raises a brow but lets it go. “Luca, this isn’t something you can charm yourself out of. We can’t give you a slap on the wrist. You’ve been reckless. Fighting with Croix in the locker room, mouthing off to reporters, skipping press briefings altogether. You’re better than this.”
I swallow hard and nod. “I’ll fix it. I’ll work my way back.”
“Good. Because the front office has already looped in Tatum from PR& Marketing. She’s meeting with your agent this week because, according to her, your image needs a full overhaul, and you’re not getting a vote on it.”
I sigh. “I understand.”
Coach sets his coffee cup down. “One more question.”
And here we go.
“How are you really feeling—now that the marriage is ending?”
I frown. “We’re not gabbing or gushing over my feelings, Coach.”
My phone buzzes on the counter. My dad.
“Look at that. Saved by the bell.”
Coach just shrugs. “Don’t think I won’t ask again.”
“What is this, the fucking Gilmore Girls? I don’t need group therapy, Coach.”
I swipe to answer. “Daddy. Kedu?”
I speak to my father at least twice a week, so I could have easily let it go to voicemail. But I’m so desperate to escape Coach’s crosshairs that I answer immediately. I barely get the greeting out before he blazes through my niceties, cutting straight to the heart of why he’s calling.
“Uzoma!” He always uses my Igbo name when he’s excited.Uzoma, or simplyUzo. It means “good path” or “beautiful road.”
In Nigeria, choosing a child’s name is a prophetic endeavor—a way to speak a destiny into existence and guide their feet before they even take their first steps. My path was supposed to be paved with wise decisions and a beautiful journey. I just don't think my parents’ vision for that road included camera crews and microphones.
“Did you see my posting on Facebook? I posted all of the names of the relatives who have given money to the birthday celebration already!”
“No, daddy. I’ve been quite busy.”
“Busy with your wife, I hope? How do you think she will fit in with your sisters and your mother’s family?”
I let out a sigh. Few people actually know what I’ve done. What yesterday meant for the future of my wife and me. The NDA I had to sign is basically a physical barrier. I’m barred fromdiscussing the show’s content or the specific brand of heartbreak currently crushing me. Not even with my best friend—My father.
The only reason I was able to share any details with Coach Jones and the team owners was because they were forced to sign NDAs of their own. They needed to understand the situation, assessing the fallout for any potential liabilities that could damage the team’s reputation.
“Daddy, she will fit in fine because she is my wife. If people can’t accept her, they can’t accept me,” I say instead.
“Sometimes, I think you forget the mother who raised you.”
“I could never do that, daddy.”
He huffs, then quickly changes the subject. “Your mother says you are coming home for her birthday. You are coming, Uzo?”
I hesitate. “If I can.”
“Luca,” he warns, his voice dropping into a stern, ancestral register. “Your mother. Her birthday. Don’t embarrass this family further. Bring your wife home to greet us properly.”
