Page 7 of Shattered Dreams

“We should order room service,” I say.

Paul glances at me and grins. “You read my mind.”

I call in to order, and even though Paul offers me his card, I tell them to charge it to the room since we left my card for incidentals. We get every appetizer they have and plan to share them all, and a bunch of water because after all this fried food, we’re going to need some hydration.

The food comes a short time later, and we spread it all out on the bed and keep watching the soap opera with pretty cars, and I start to feel a little better. Maybe not completely, but enough that I can relax and enjoy sitting here, watching a movie and eating food that’s way too bad for me with my best friend. An hour passes. Then another. The food is gone. The TV is still going. I’m starting to get tired.

“I think I’m going to sleep,” I mutter. “Especially if we have to go see that show in the morning.”

Paul grins again, shifting wordlessly so he can slide his legs under the blankets. I do the same and fall asleep almost immediately to the sound of the tv and the heat of Paul’s body next to mine.

We wake up early. Go for breakfast. Get in line early for the show. It’s good. Entertaining. Not worth the money or waiting eight years, but Paul was thrilled. We grab lunch from a food truck in the park, have a beer, and walk around a little bit before we head back to the hotel to grab our bags and get on the road to head home.

“Back to the grind tomorrow, right?”

He groans. “Why’d you have to remind me? I thoroughly enjoyed sleeping in this weekend.”

“Sorry.” I laugh.

“Speaking of work… you figure out what you’re doing yet?”

Now I groan. “No. I can’t decide what I want to do. Or what the right thing is to do.”

“Then do whatever’s easier,” he says with a shrug. “Flip a coin or something.”

Choices should be simple. Paul always helps when it comes to simplifying things, but I don’t feel better.

I don’t even have to think about the answer; not with Paul. I can say whatever I feel and he won’t judge me. Not like my parents, or the league, or even my daughter. The words fall out of my mouth too easily, despite the fact that I haven’t said them out loud to anyone else, not even myself.

“Quitting would be easier.”

Paul doesn’t miss a beat. “Then quit. Take some time for yourself. You deserve that, at least right now. I will fully support you if walking away is what you need to do.”

Of course he would. Though I’m not sure if anyone else would. Sure, my parents will say they support whatever I do, but that’s what parents are supposed to say. But my parents, especially my dad, didn’t raise a quitter, and leaving my dream job definitely feels like a failure. I was lucky to get the job in the first place, so leaving isn’t a small thing. I might never get a job coaching like this again. But leaving means spending more time with my daughter, who needs me. Though, what I’d do back in Ohio is beyond me. I haven’t had to think about getting a job or changing careers since before I left for college.

“What do you even do after coaching an NFL team? How do I manage being there for my kid all the time and still go to work?” I look at him, his expression deadpan and unbothered, and I realize how privileged I must sound. That’s precisely what he does. Every day. Though split custody isn’t easy to balance with teaching and coaching the basketball team and everything else he does, somehow he makes it work, and I can’t say it’s not inspiring as hell. I don’t know how the fuck he does it and makes it look so easy.

His expression shifts, and he sighs, the sound almost remorseful.

“No one can be there for their kid all the time, Dre. You just have to do the best you can, and be there when it matters.”

He’s right. I know he’s right. But not being there all the time for Rylee doesn’t feel right; not with Victoria gone.

“Yeah.” It’s all I can manage to say so I don’t spiral into those thoughts again. The ones that keep attacking me no matter how much I try to ignore them.

“You have options. You could coach at any of the nearby schools.” He gives me a half-smile. “Maybe go into PT like Mack.”

I give him a light laugh. “Yeah, because he’s such a ray of sunshine.”

Paul chuckles. “Okay, maybe not, but you could come to Rockridge and coach for one of our teams. We’re always looking for people. I bet the school would be over the moon to have a former NFL coach on their roster,” he says with a smirk.

I know what he’s trying to do. He’s trying to help, but it feels unsettling. I shouldn’t even be here in Ohio, debating what to do with my life. I run a hand through my hair, pursing my lips as he continues, not giving me a chance to respond.

“People will understand why you’re doing it. There will be a lot of talk, I’m sure, but leaving so you can take care of your kid after losing your wife? So you can heal your own heart? Who can say something bad about that?”

“You’d be surprised,” I mutter.

I’ve seen the things the media takes and spins. It’s gross and fucking depressing. It’s also worrisome. I don’t need Rylee’s face all over news articles because of my decisions. It’s the one thing Victoria and I were adamant about—keeping Rylee out of the spotlight until she was old enough to handle the shit that comes with it. Victoria and I willingly walked into it because we knew what we were getting into. And still, neither of us were prepared for all the negative comments or rumors, or all around bullshit that comes with being known. We just wanted Rylee to be a normal kid for as long as possible.