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Bryant Sr: Traded again. And you didn’t even have the balls to tell me yourself. I had to hear it from a contact in the league. You’re forgetting who built you. Who paved the way for you. I am the ONLY reason you have a career. The damn water boy could perform better than you played in Seattle. Get your act together, T.J. Don’t make me intervene.
The text from my father still burned my fingertips. While Wren explored the study and took measurements with that little laser box she carried around in her purse, I paused to check my phone. All I meant to do was shoot Gideon a text before I saw him on my first day of training camp tomorrow. But there it was: another text reminding me that no matter how well I played, how much I scored, or many zeros were tacked onto the end of my contract, I would never live up to him.
Fuck him.
And fuck his records. Fuck his trophies and rings.
Fuck it all.
I wasn’t usually this sour, and Wren didn’t deserve the brunt of my mood. I excused myself to the balcony while she finished poking around the place.
I needed the fresh air.
But then she joined me on the balcony. I sensed her behind me before she made a peep.
I tried to make polite small talk, asking if she thought she’d be able to make something of the condo. Instead of a canned, professional answer, she opened her mouth and said, “Less of what you’re supposed to want and more of what you do want.”
I didn’t know what the fuck I wanted.
Maybe that’s why football and I had always gotten along so well. I knew what I was supposed to do when my cleats hit the turf. I had a clear job. Measurable goals.
But outside the sixty minutes on the game clock, I didn’t know what the hell I wanted.
The press wanted me to be T.J.Bryant Jr.
The fans wanted me to catch the ball and run it into the end zone.
The coaches wanted me to win games and teach some hot-headed rookie not to be a dickwad.
For years, I had played their game. I was tired.
Instead of grappling with my own issues, I turned my attention and the line of questioning to the enchanting woman curled up beside me.
“What do you think we’re gonna find at the bottom of that bottle?” she asked quietly, tilting her head into my hand. I tangled my fingers in the back of her soft hair.
“The truth.”
A coy smile toyed at the corner of her mouth as she watched an airplane fly overhead. “The truth of what?”
“Maybe what I want,” I said, taking a fortifying drink from my glass. “Maybe who you want to be.”
She laughed. “Who says I don’t know who I want to be?”
“Since when do RISD grads install cabinet doors and decorate homes?”
That piqued her interest. “You Googled me?” Her question was more of an accusation.
“No. Sam gave me some highlights so I wouldn’t make a fool out of myself during dinner.” I drained the rest of my wine glass. “Too bad you spent the whole time being professional, and I didn’t get to use any of those fun facts.”
Wren arched an eyebrow. “Fun facts.”
“Mhmm.”
“And what, pray tell, were those fun facts?”
“You did your undergrad at the Rhode Island School of Design. You got an internship with Colette James Design right out of college even though your degree had something to do with architecture. Now you’re a senior designer with the firm and have a key to my house.”
