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“I’m saying we all have complicated lives—ungrateful kids, neighbors who steal your cable, a bossy wife who critiques your lovemaking on an Excel spreadsheet because she’s an organizational freak. Really gets under my skin. But I have to leave that garbage at home, and you can’t bring an infant to practice.”
Shit. He’s sending me home.
“But I’ll allow it this once,” he adds.
The anxiety drains right out of me. “Seriously? Thank you, Coach. I’ll find accommodations for her by tomorrow.” Both Nina and Lara said they could sit for me in the evenings.
“Good. But, Norland, let’s get one thing straight: You’re on shaky ground for last year’s fuckup. If your heart’s not in the game, quit now. Because the chance you’re getting is taking up space.”
He means that someone is always waiting on the bench for their chance to be in the starting lineup. “I’ll figure it out, Coach.”
“Good. Now get your ass out there on the field.”
“What about Fia?” I ask.
“It’ll be a good exercise for the team. They can take turns holding her. Maybe for once they’ll learn a fucking thing about not crushing everything in their path. Sometimes winning takes a lighter touch.”
I chuckle nervously. “Let’s hope?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Practice goes like shit for the first twenty minutes. I mess up every single play because I’m too busy trying to keep an eye on Fia, who’s being passed around like a toy between my teammates on the bench.
Yes, they all got the basic rules first—support neck, no kissing, no squeezing, no throwing her around like a ball. But a few minutes into things, I see two guys, Jarod and Wendall, playing smoochie face and blowing raspberries on her belly and neck.
Fia’s squeals of delight echo across the field. Very distracting. Also, cute.
“Come on, guys. Stop slobbering on her, wuddja?” I yell. “She’s a baby, not a mouthguard.”
They all laugh, and Coach blows his whistle at me. “She’s fine, Norland. Head in the game!”
Shit. “I know. I know.” I hunker down, fist planted in the soft green sod, ready for the play to start.
“You can’t even handle your grown-ass junkie brother, man. What the fuck you doin’ with a baby?” says Daryl, my teammate to my right.
He’s never been a fan of mine, and I don’t expect him to be—not after my massive fuckup last year—but…
“Why you talking trash, D-bag? I’m here, aren’t I? I’m playing.”
“You call that playing?” he throws back.
The play is called, and I break away from this enlightening conversation to rush toward the sideline and make a sweep behind the skirmish team’s defense.
I’m almost to the second yard line, ready to receive the pass, when I’m hit with a blow to my memory bank. A flashback.
It’s that night. The lights are blinding. The fans are cheering. Every major sports channel is here broadcasting our game, and I know the world is watching, judging, hoping I’ll live up to the media hype. People get excited about new young players who promise to break records, bring the wins, and shake things up. I never felt like that guy, but the university’s PR team painted a picture of “Dean Norland.” Handsome, smart, determined. I even came fully equipped with a touching story about the kid who turned poverty into triumph.
They ate that shit up.
But the pressure, the fucking pressure was like having my balls in a vise.
Could I play well? Hell yes. Was I capable of competing in the NFL? Absolutely.
But that wasn’t the issue.
I think I didn’t know how to handle the spotlight. Remember, I was the guy who grew up eating white bread and peanut butter. On a good day. No one cared if I went hungry to make sure Flip ate first. No one cared if I cried myself to sleep every night until I was twelve. And, definitely, no one gave a shit when I stopped crying because I was too worn out to feel anything at all. Getting positive attention was never in my playbook.
As I’m running, I realize how that night eleven months ago was triggered by all the people cheering me on. And now, right now, my heart can’t take it—reliving that moment.
A sharp pain shoots through my chest. “Fuck!” I stumble and fall. The pass flies overhead, but I don’t care. The jabbing pain is unlike anything I’ve ever felt—a thousand kabob skewers through the heart. I like kabobs, so that’s a weird analogy. I mean, who doesn’t enjoy bite-sized meat and vegetable chunks served on giant toothpicks?
My teammates rush over, but I can’t see straight.
“Aaah!” I scream, pressing my hands over my heart.
Someone calls for our medic, who is always on standby. Coach is over me, trying to make me talk, but I can’t.
“My chest,” I groan, “hurts…”
“He’s having a heart attack,” Coach says. “Tell Chuck to bring the crash kit.”
Chuck is one of our EMTs.
