Page 6 of Lessons in Lemonade

“Well, if we’re not having dinner together, tell me about this restaurant of yours. What kind of meal would you serve me?”

Oh brother.

Lemon Bars

“I SWEAR, PIE is one of the greatest foods of all time,” I mumble to Reid, who’s watching Bryan walk to the training room showers after announcing that he’s heading off to his childhood hometown to accept an award. Actually, it’s the key to the city.

How hilarious is that?

Bryan is our quarterback for the Tampa Tarpons, and he’s also one of my best friends. He’s the least flashy person I know in our profession, and yet in the last month he’s gone on the Paul Miller show for a one-on-one interview, which aired in primetime on National Sports Network, and now he’s doing this. Granted, it’s deserved—he’s donated a lot of money to the town and the youth sports programs they have there—but in general, the guy is all business, no pleasure. In fact, it’s like pulling teeth to get the dude to even smile. He has what we’ve officially dubbed as RDF—resting douchcanoe face.

Reid glances back at me and the fork hanging out of my mouth as he goes about packing his practice bag. “It doesn’t matter if it’s pie, cake, ice cream, cookies, doughnuts, whatever. As long as it’s in front of you, you’ll eat it—even though you shouldn’t.” He frowns.

“What do you mean? We practiced for an extra hour today—I’ve earned this,” I say as I shift the two pie boxes under my arm: grasshopper and cherry, both now my dates for dinner tonight.

Reid is my other best friend. When he transferred to Tampa, he moved in across the hall from me in our condo building. It’s made working out, commuting to practices and games, and life in general not so lonely.

“What do you mean what do I mean? You know as well as I do all that sugar is not good for you.” He eyes me knowingly while completely passing judgment.

Athletes tend to be very strict on the whole “my body is a temple” mentality, but I work hard daily, possibly harder than anyone else. Think about it: Bryan is just doing the three-step drop and then throwing the ball while I’m continuously sprinting out twenty, thirty, sixty yards. As such, I don’t feel guilty when something like pie lands in front of me, because the way I see it, I earned it.

“You’re just jealous because I got to them first.” I grin, licking the fork clean and dropping the boxes back on the bench to take a photo of them: me with the fork in my mouth, the team logo visible on the wall behind me.

His look is incredulous as he goes back to shoving things in his locker. “I can assure you, jealousy is the furthest thing from what I’m feeling. Are you ready? I need to get home—Camille is waiting for me.”

Camille is his wife. They recently got married—well, remarried—and much to my dismay, they are moving to Davis Islands, where they bought a home on the water.

“Yep, just gonna post this real quick to say thank you to all the fans.”

“You do realize they aren’t your fans, right? Those pies were for Bryan.” He throws his bag over his shoulder.

“Don’t care,” I tell him, because I don’t.

While Bryan was doing the interview, he did a round of this or that, and one of the questions was cake or pie. Clearly, the answer was pie, and I think it’s hilarious how many pies have been coming in to the front office. Staff loves it, players love it, everyone loves it, except maybe Reid and Bryan, and we all know Bryan isn’t going to say a word about them, so I will. I caption the picture and post it.

Reid rolls his eyes as I grab my things, and we head out to the parking lot to my brand-new black Ford F-150 Raptor, which I didn’t feel bad about buying at all. I’ve been very cautious with how I’ve spent my money. I know I can’t play football forever, but after many years of holding out, I finally gifted this truck to myself.

“How’s the packing going?” I ask, my arm draped over the steering wheel. We’ve been driving for ten minutes, and he’s been quiet while texting but looks up to answer me.

It sinks in that this is one of our last commutes together, and my happiness over the pies wanes. I’m sure another teammate will move in across the hall—the condo is owned by a former Tarpons player—but it won’t be the same. I’m going to miss him, and Camille, too.

“Well, Camille has done most of it. I feel bad, but she’s got it under control. Sunday she plans on being at her house in Savannah with the movers to direct what she wants moved, and then Monday morning they’ll be here to get the things from the condo. The goal is to have everything moved in by late Monday night.”

“That’s exciting, man. I’m happy for you guys.” And I really am. I’m sad for me, but they are awesome together, and the house they bought is incredible.

“Thanks. She’s happy, and right now that’s all I really care about.”

Reaching over, I slap him on the shoulder. “Such a good husband you are.”

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head.

“How can I help?” I ask, because there’s no way I’m going to sit back and just watch this happen. When you’re a friend of mine, you’re a friend, and I always try to go above and beyond when I can.

“I’m not sure. Like I said, she’s got people all lined up for each aspect, so I’m even wondering what I’m supposed to be doing. I appreciate you offering, though.”

“Food—I’ll bring the food. Oh, how about arroz con pollo?” I ask as we cross over the Hillsborough River, and I glance toward downtown. I love the view of the city, along with Spanish chicken and yellow rice, one of my favorites.

Reid chuckles and again shakes his head. “Are you going to make that?” He looks back at his phone in his lap and fires off another text.