Page 31

The next morning disappears beneath a blur of movers, paperwork, and cardboard boxes until the apartment no longer looks like the place I brought her home to after the bar. I answer questions, sign where they tell me to sign, and watch strangers carry the last pieces of my life out the front door while my mind never quite catches up with everything my hands are doing. When the truck finally pulls away, there’s nothing left inside to prove she was ever here except the ring in my pocket.

The transport company picked up my truck yesterday, leaving me with nothing but my suitcase when I lock the front door for the last time and slide it into the back of the Uber to head for the airport. The drive gives me too much time to think and not nearly enough answers. Every mile puts more distance between me and the house, yet I can’t shake the feeling that I’m leaving something behind that has nothing to do with furniture or moving boxes.

Checking my bag, making it through security, and following the signs toward my gate should be enough to keep my attention where it belongs. For a while, it is. I let the rhythm of the terminal carry me from one line to the next until a woman steps out of the coffee shop ahead of me, dark braided hair slipping over one shoulder as she adjusts the strap of her bag.

My steps slow before she ever turns around because I want one more chance to ask her the question I should’ve asked before she walked out my front door. I want her name. I want to know where she’s headed, but most of all, I want one more conversation before we disappear from each other’s lives. The woman turns toward me, smiling at someone behind me before disappearing into the crowd. I stand there for another second before forcing myself to keep walking, wondering when one night became enough to make me wish it hadn’t ended at all.

The overhead announcement for boarding cuts through the noise around me, pulling my attention back to the present. They’re already calling my group. I hand over my boarding pass and step onto the jet bridge with everyone else. The steady line of passengers carries me forward before I have the chance to linger on anything I’ve left behind.

A flight attendant offers me a serene smile as I pass, and I return it automatically before making my way toward my seat. I slide my backpack under the seat in front of me, settle into the window seat, and rest my forearms on the armrests while the remaining passengers file past. I catch myself looking up every time someone stops beside my row. Each time, I tell myself it’s because they’re trying to figure out where they belong, but I know I’m lying.

The seat beside me stays empty longer than most, giving that hope just enough room to grow before the man who finally drops into the aisle seat breaks it apart. He’s somewhere in his sixties, dressed in a charcoal suit, with reading glasses tucked into the front pocket of his jacket. He offers me a polite nod before pulling a newspaper from his briefcase, and I find myself looking toward the aisle one last time for someone who was never coming.

The cabin door closes behind the last flight attendant with a quiet thud. Seat belts click into place around me as conversations fade beneath the safety demonstration, and for the first time since I woke up alone this morning, I stop wondering if I’m going to see her again before I leave Houston.

I lean my head back against the seat and look out the window as the plane eases away from the gate. Houston drifts past beyond the glass, every turn of the taxiway carrying me farther from the city I thought I’d be calling home for the rest of my career. I came here believing football was enough to build a life around. I don’t know when I stopped believing it.

My hand slips into my pocket before I think better of it, my fingers finding the ring as naturally as they once found the laces of a football. I roll it slowly between my thumb and forefinger, feeling the smooth edge of the band press against my skin. I still don’t know her name or whether she’s searching every pocket of her bag, trying to remember where she left it. I don’t know if she’s still in Houston or already halfway home herself. All I know is that someday, I’m going to put this ring back into her hand.

The engines surge beneath us, pressing me into my seat as the plane races down the runway. Houston falls away a heartbeat later, the streets shrinking into ribbons of gray before disappearing beneath a blanket of white clouds. I keep my eyes on the window until the city is gone.

“Bye, Houston,” I murmur, closing my fingers around the ring as the clouds swallow everything I’ve left behind.

Chapter Nine

Jubal

The gold-and-black Valor logo stretches across the glass doors ahead of me, catching the morning sun as I cross the nearly empty parking lot. I saw the same logo yesterday on the paperwork waiting at the condo the team secured for me, but it looks different across the entrance of a building where people expect me to become their quarterback.

I’ve only ever had one first day in the NFL. Eleven years later, I find myself living through another one. The building and faces are different, but the feeling isn’t. Every first day begins with people deciding whether the quarterback they traded for looks enough like the one they hoped they were getting.

My hand rises toward the chain beneath my shirt as I reach for the door instead. The ring feels cool through the thin cotton undershirt, where I secured it after deciding my pocket wasn’t safe enough for something I couldn’t replace. Until I find her, keeping it close is the only promise I can make her.

Cool air meets me as I step inside, carrying the faint smell of coffee and whatever industrial cleaner every professional football facility seems to buy from the same supplier. A security desk sits beyond the turnstiles, but the older man behind it is already reaching for a clipboard before I make it halfway across the lobby.

“Morning, Mr. Duvall.” He says my name without checking the badge at my waist, and I slow down beside the desk.

“Morning.”

“I’m Harold.” He offers his hand across the counter. “You’ll forget that by Monday. Everybody does.”

A laugh slips out before I can stop it. “I’ll do my best not to.”

“That’s what the last quarterback said.” His mouth twitches, but there’s no edge beneath the joke. He checks my name off the list, then points toward a set of double doors beyond the elevators. “Coach Quinn asked me to send you straight back when you got here. His assistant is waiting.”

“Appreciate it.”

“Welcome to Charlotte, Mr. Duvall.”

I step through the turnstile before I can make the words mean anything larger than Harold intended. The hallway to Coach Quinn’s office is lined with framed photographs.

“Mr. Duvall?”

I turn toward the voice and find a woman stepping out of an office with a tablet held against her chest. She’s somewhere in her forties, dressed in black slacks and a Valor quarter-zip, with glasses pushed on top of her head.

“I’m Denise, Coach Quinn’s assistant. He’s finishing a call but said you could go on in. There’s coffee if you want it, and breakfast is still set up in the staff kitchen.”

“I’m good, thank you.”