Page 108 of These Secret Years

“Was that subject change on purpose?” he asks.

“I thought we were talking about your book.”

“I was talking about my draft.”

I give him a wary glance. “What about it?”

He’s all sunlit sincerity and kind eyes. “I hadn’t realized until I was writing about it how scared I was that week.”

“Hm.”

“At the time, obviously I had to project all this confidence, and I kind of had an idea about where I’d be going, but I remember thinking everything was totally out of my hands. I couldn’t call the play. I couldn’t dodge or weave—I was on a collision course with a future that I had no idea what it would look like outside of what I’d seen on TV. It was terrifying.”

“But it was what you wanted, right? To play ball?”

“I didn’t know if I was gonna get to play ball. If I’d gone to New York, I would have been third string. I didn’t know how much I’d get passed around, ride the bench. I didn’t know if I’d gel with the team, or what the coaches would be like. A lot of unknowns.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you still planning to play out your eligibility before entering the draft?” he asks.

“It depends.”

“On what?”

Honestly—on what that motherfucker Blake does. I can finish my degree in two more years, and I have a feeling he’ll bail on his last year of eligibility and go straight for the NFL. It was something he mentioned a few times when we used to talk. Going up against him is part of my new revenge fantasy, but I’m not about to try and explain all that to my dad.

“On whether I can wrap up my degree plan first.”

“I think that’s smart.”

“Of course you do,” I mutter.

“Hey,” he says admonishingly. “Don’t go there. You know I’ve only ever wanted you to have a strong backup plan. Shit happens. Injuries happen.”

“That’s what this is about?” I whip a glare his way. “Whether I get injured or not?” I gesture in the general direction of the stairs. “Have you met my O-line? The twins literally puke in the locker room after a game if they let anyone sack me. They’re ridiculous.”

He makes a displeased face. “Why do you get so touchy whenever I try to talk to you about your future?”

“Because I feel like you want me to quit the team and get a job in middle management. You weren’t like this with Kora and Kat. You let them follow their dreams. You think Kat can’t get hurt with what she does? If she rolls her ankle, she’s out for two weeks. Are you breathing down her neck about getting a degree in something else?”

His brow furrows like he’s never thought about it that way. I’m glad I could shed some light on how much of a hypocrite he is when it comes to me. Or maybe he just doesn’t think I’m good enough and doesn’t have the balls to say it. “I’m just saying I’ve been where you are, and I do wish I’d finished college. I do wish I’d had something in my life besides football. When I look back, I think how much of what I have was just dumb fucking luck.”

That’s bullshit. He was a great player, on and off the field. “But you don’t think I’ll get lucky.”

“No—that’s not what I’m saying.”

“Then why don’t you just say what you want to say.”

He winces, uncrossing his arms to run his hands through his dark hair before recrossing them. “I’m saying it’s a tough life, and if I’d had the chance to bail after five years, I might have taken it, but I couldn’t.”

Well, this is fucking new. “Why bail? Five years in, you were a starter. They built a whole team around you. You won the Super Bowl the next year.”

“And a few years later, I almost lost my wife.”

I shrug. “The way I heard it, that was your fault.”

“The way I remember it, I was crumbling under the pressure, and I made some really dumb fucking decisions that could have gotten me fired and divorced.”