Page 7 of Tangled with the Tight End

“Tomorrow, we’re focusing on red zone,” Coach says. “We’re close to showtime. Let’s keep it clean and focused.”

The film room fills with the sound of large bodies shifting, chairs scraping the floor and conversations picking up as we file out to go our separate ways.

On my way to my car, I shoot my brother a text. Despite me living in Waterford during training season, we don’t see enough of one another. I’m busy, and I’m wiped out by the end of most days. He has his crazy firefighter schedule. It’ll be nice to grab a meal with him and his friends.

Declan: Let’s do Fork & Fiddle.

Patrick: That’s kind of fancy for how we’re all dressed.

Declan: I’ll reserve the back room. They won’t mind us coming in casual.

Patrick: Sounds good. I’ll tell everyone to meet us there.

The drive down the rural two-lane road back into Waterford gives me time to think. I’m running plays in my head, and when that gets old, I turn on the radio and sing along. I’ve always loved singing. My mom’s a good singer. Dad has a deep voice. I bet he’d sing well if he ever tried. I’ve only heard him sing Happy Birthday to his three children and two grandkids. Otherwise, he’s far too proud to sing. That’s why I sing in my car, I guess. No one sees me. It’s not open for scrutiny. Just me, Ella Langley and Riley Green harmonizing on You Look Like You Love Me.

I pull into the parking lot of the Fork & Fiddle, killing the engine on my Lamborghini Temerario. It was a splurge to buy this car, but on my salary, what else am I going to spend my money on? I don’t do much traveling except for my occasional escape to St. Thomas or Vail. I stay out of relationships—avoiding dating for the most part. My life consists of football and family, and my extended family—the guys on my team.

I sink back into the leather seats and roll the window down. The heat of the day is subsiding and a breeze blows across the parking lot, moving the leaves in the surrounding trees.

I take in the familiar wood exterior of this local favorite. The sign over the door is weathered—the same one they’ve had for years with the words Fork & Fiddle hand carved into a hewn plank. A broad porch extends the whole front of the building, making it feel half home, half restaurant. Patrick called this place too fancy.

I almost envy him.

What must it be like to only have ever lived in this town—to think places like the Fork & Fiddle are the definition of fancy? I’ve traveled all over the country for work—to Europe and Hawaii for special games. Been to islands in the Caribbean and parts of South America and Asia with my teammates in the off-season when they pulled together a group trip for vacation.

Patrick’s world is Waterford. And he’s got a good life with friends, a job he loves, and a wife who adores him and his books.

A couple exits their pickup. The guy waves over to me. The woman’s eyes go wide. She obviously recognizes me. Not Declan. She sees number eighty-eight: O’Connell. Tight end for the Thunder. I wave back, sending them a smile. The man grabs her hand and they walk together into the restaurant.

Fame has its trade-offs. Even here I can’t hide out, pretending I’m just a local boy, home for a season while my work relocates to a facility on the outskirts of town. I’m always one glance away from being recognized, one accidental eye contact away from being asked to sign something—anything, even body parts. What do they do then? Never wash their forearm? People go nuts for pro players. I’m grateful for the good. But I occasionally grow weary of constantly being “on” every time I leave the house.

Patrick’s truck pulls up. He jogs around to let Daisy out of the passenger side and she smiles up at him. I sit in my driver’s seat, studying their interaction like a man visiting the zoo and seeing his first anteater in person. Something like curiosity swirls in my brain. Jealousy? Maybe a little. I’ve never been jealous of my baby brother. Probably because my dad made no secret of the fact that he plays favorites. I’ve always shown an interest in the development business he runs and I made the pros. Patrick’s a firefighter. Dad sees that as something just a little higher than a hobby. But now, watching Patrick smile down at Daisy with private affection, leaning in to place a soft kiss on her cheek before he interlaces their hands, an unfamiliar ache spreads through my chest.

I’m probably tired from practice—itching to get the season underway in a week.

That’s all this is: preseason restlessness.

I open my car door and shout over to my brother.

“Patrick!”

“Declan!” he turns, smiling broadly in my direction. Then he whistles low. “Nice ride.”

I have a few other cars in the garage at our childhood home. But this Lamborghini is my favorite of them all. I held off on buying her, feeling torn between spending so much and telling myself I earned it. Most of my teammates don’t blink at paying what some people spend on a house for a set of wheels. Even though I was raised with wealth, I held off.

Finally, Delaney pushed me, saying, “What do we work so hard for if we can’t buy ourselves a toy here and there? Your body has been worked over in ways most people will never understand. Get yourself the car, man.”

I look back at the blue sports car and smile.

The rest of Patrick’s friends show up: Dustin and Emberleigh, Carli and Cody, Greyson and a woman he introduces as his fiancée, Hallie. And then Cass and Winona.

It was interesting.

I wonder what Winona does for a living. Is it interesting?

Winona’s face warms with a smile I’d call a small-town smile. It’s open and friendly. Simple. She doesn’t want anything from me. She obviously couldn’t care less what I do for a living, how much money I make, or what cars I drive. She might not even know my jersey number.

I don’t know what comes over me. I walk right up to her.