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Work, not therapy.

“Do you know where you will play next season?”

“No.”

“Do you know whether San Antonio will offer?”

“No.”

“Do you want them to?”

“That one changes depending on the day.”

I look at the hand around his coffee, and the shoulder he rolls once before he settles, and the notebook with four columns in it.

“I thought your house was the safe part,” I say.

“Structurally?”

“In your proposal. House. School. Money. Insurance. You made it sound as though I could step into your life and everything would stop moving.”

The humor goes out of his face. “Yeah.”

“It was one of the reasons I said no.”

“I know.”

“I do not think I knew the whole reason.”

He waits, which is still new.

“The last practice called this morning. They will not sponsor me.”

His expression changes. “I’m sorry.”

The kindness nearly puts me back in the truck.

“My lawyer called afterward. There is nothing left for her to file through an employer.”

“Okay.”

“That leaves what we already talked about.”

He says nothing.

“You are being very quiet.”

“I was told I have a problem with finishing things for you.”

“You do.”

“I’m displaying growth.”

“I know a doctor at Baylor who works with players,” he says.

He hears it leave and stops himself, and looks at me. “No.”

“You may finish.”