Bellamy winces like he’s just bit into a particularly sour lemon. “Why would I give a flying fuck if you could help Jeremy Calhoun or anyone else improve their game? No offense to Jeremy Calhoun specifically, but I don’t have a dog in that hunt. There’s a whole slew of middle linebacker hopefuls vying for that one open slot on the roster, and they’re all the same to me. May the best man win.”
Shoot.“Fair enough. Then how about you assign me some operational tasks over the next few weeks, like I’m your unofficial intern? That way, you can see what I’m capable of doing firsthand with zero risk to you.” I wring my hands. “Mr. Bellamy, the bottom line is I’ll do anything to get into the operations department, at any level.”
Bellamy shakes his head in a way that feels awfully final. “I’m way too busy to coddle you or anyone else like that. Also, to be perfectly candid with you, knowing you’ve got a background in numbers-crunching and analytics, I’m quite certain you wouldn’t be a good fit for my department, whether you’ve got the ‘equivalent’ of formal football experience or not.”
CHAPTER 6
Luca
FRESHLY CUT GRASS.
That’s the scent enveloping me as I’m led into the practice facility, along with a whole bunch of familiar sights and sounds. Players laughing and chatting as they stretch and warm up on the field before me. Fans buzzing as they watch excitedly from the viewing areas at the perimeters for the arrivals of their favorite players and new ones to watch.
The comfort of the scene reassures me as I walk onto the field, dressed in Mastodon-branded workout gear. Football is my religion. The field, my church. Even if I’m here to vie for a spot on the worst team in the NFL, this is nonetheless hallowed ground to me and every guy here.
“Maguire!” a booming voice calls out to my left.
When I look, it’s a fellow linebacker from my days at Nebraska—a middle LB, unlike me—who’s jogging toward me with a huge grin on his rugged face and his massive, tattooed arms outstretched.
“Calhoun!” I call out. “Hey, man! Wow!”
Jeremy reaches me and hugs me heartily, and we clap each other’s backs and laugh with glee at the unexpected reunion.
“I had no idea you were coming here!” Calhoun bellows in his deep grumble. “I thought you went to the Admirals.”
“I did, but it fell through at the last second.” I tell him the story and Calhoun shakes his head in sympathy.
“Keep your chin up, man,” he says. “Your time to shine will come again.”
His kind words mean more to me than he could ever know. “What have you been up to lately? Last I heard, you went to the Knights.”
Calhoun shrugs. “Yeah, they put me on the practice squad at the end of last season. I was super bummed but determined to kick ass and prove them wrong. I thought for sure they’d want to keep me around, but it didn’t pan out.” He lets out a huff of dejected air. “I don’t know, maybe it’s for the best. At my age, it’s probably better to be a big fish in a small pond. I want to get in the game, man. Give me some reps.”
Man, I can relate. I wasn’t on the practice squad last season, thankfully, but I sat on the bench more often than not, waiting to get the call. Not being a starter almost killed me, but even so, I’d much rather do that than play on a dreaded practice squad for anyone, which is a massive step below what I did last season.
“So, how’s Roman liking the Thunderbolts?” Calhoun asks, shaking off the bummer vibe. It’s what everyone’s been asking me, ever since Roman shocked the world by switching to a new team after so many years.
“So far, so good.”
I always keep things vague when talking about my famous big brother, unless I’m talking to someone in Roman’s small inner circle. Roman’s always been an insanely private person, but that’s especially true now that he’s got a new girlfriend living with him and part-time custody of his four-year-old, Maverick.
A group of players walks over, several of whom I’ve already met, either from playing with or against them at some point, and boisterous conversation ensues.
“Hey, can you still do your famous gymnastics routine?” a wide receiver from my first NFL team asks.
“Luca used to do that at Nebraska, too!” Calhoun bellows.
Immediately, all the guys standing around start goading me on, until finally, one of them says the magic words that flip a certain switch inside my brain: “Unless you’re too old and weak to pull it off now.”
“Too old and weak?” I shoot back. “Dude, I’m this close to quitting football to chase gymnastics gold at the next Olympics.”
All of a sudden, everyone starts shouting if they’re in or out on a bet—for or against me pulling it off—and their rowdy energy feels like a balm for my ragged soul.
Suddenly, Roman’s voice yells at me,No antics! No bullshit! You’re not in a sitcom, Luca!But fuck that. And fuck him. I’ve got to do it. They’re chanting my name, for fuck’s sake! And like I always say, fun is fuel.
“Prepare to be awestruck, gentlemen!” I shout, eliciting a whoop of celebration from the now large and raucous crowd. As they continue chanting my name, I bound over to the nearby goalpost at the end of the field and quickly perform a few exaggerated stretches and lunges under the uprights. Yes, I should warm up my muscles before performing this stunt to prevent injury. But also, it’s my experience as a lifelong entertainer you’ve gotta make the crowdanticipatein order to maximize the eventual payoff.
My brief stretching routine completed, I stand next to the large, perpendicular support beam, looking up at my destination and trying to envision my ascent. When I’ve got my mind right, I take a deep breath and scale the bar like a monkey, prompting the crowd to whoop and applaud like I’ve just gotten a game-winning sack in a playoff.
