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Tyson snorted. “Not if you don’t hurry your lard ass up and sign the damn papers. You’re a week behind in training camp already.”
Our palms clapped together before I pulled him into a backslapping hug. “Not my fault the organization was being cheap.”
He laughed, tossing his head so far back I thought his Red Cocks ball cap would fall off. “Not my fault Ms.Fuller here drives a hard bargain.”
Sam huffed. “Well? Are we gonna stand around and braid each other’s hair, or are we gonna sign a damn contract? Let’s get a move on, ladies.” She led the way, breezing through the automatic doors like she owned the four-billion-dollar stadium.
An arctic blast of air conditioning hit me like a wall, and I welcomed the reprieve. Coach Tyson edged in front of Sam and took the lead. He punched an elevator button that took us down to a glass-walled conference room overlooking the practice field.
Contrary to popular belief, we didn’t do things like this surrounded by reporters. Especially last-minute trades like mine. A stack of papers approved by Sam waited for me on the table. I gave them my John Hancock and tossed the pen on top of the pile.
A fresh-faced kid with a smartphone and a Red Cocks media team badge snapped a roll of photos for the canned press release. My old team would have probably just broken the news I had been officially released from training camp in a tweet. These things were timed. Planned. Honed for optics.
While Sam worked the room, greasing wheels for future meetings, I wandered over to the glass walls that offered a full view of the bright green turf. New England weather during football season was unreliable. Between snow and rain, grass fields stayed too muddy through the winter.
“Follow me,” a voice clipped, brushing past me.
I turned to find Coach Tyson already heading out. I caught Sam’s eye and tilted my head toward the door. She nodded and turned her attention back to the conversation she was in with a lawyer on the team’s legal counsel.
“You ready to do work this season?” Coach said as he jogged down a set of stairs.
“You think I’d take the contract if I wasn’t all in?”
He shoved a door open and fist-bumped a mural of the team mascot as we entered the locker room. “Just making sure your head is on straight.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You talk to your old man lately?”
I shook my head.
“Is he gonna be a problem with you coming back east?”
I shook my head. “Can’t be a problem if I don’t let him in my head.”
We turned another corner and landed at a cubicle with 69 emblazoned in red and black above it. Shiny new gear was stacked, hung, and neatly folded—waiting to be put to work. Another box of Red Cocks merch had my name on it. Couldn’t be seen wearing a former team’s apparel.
Shit. That dinner Sam wrangled me into with my interior designer would be a media circus. Maybe she’d settle for a video call instead.
Coach Tyson sat on a slick red bench that separated rows of cubicles. “You talked to Gid or Theo yet?”
I gave him a look that said nondisclosure agreement. Coach laughed.
“We might break the news to the team at the end of practice. Might let you surprise them on the field tomorrow. If you want to hang out today, you’re welcome to stick around and meet the boys.”
I glanced at the time. “I gotta get settled. I’ll be ready to suit up tomorrow.”
“Fair enough.” Coach rose to his feet. “But a word of warning. I’ve got a hot-headed rookie who thinks his shit doesn’t stink.”
I stopped pawing through the gear in my cubicle and eyed him warily. “You got McBride in the draft, right?” I asked as I snagged a Reds ball cap out of a box and swapped it with the nondescript gray one I had been wearing since landing in the postage stamp state. I spun the bill around backward and adjusted the tension around my head. “Second-round pick?”
Seth McBride was a rookie receiver who had hands that could draw a pigskin in like a magnet. Unfortunately, his attitude left a lot to be desired. From what the rumor mill had been churning out, he was still playing like he was in college. But that’s not how the pros worked. College ball was about making a splash. Getting noticed. Setting records. The pros were about longevity. It was about smart plays, not just raw talent.
“I want you, Gid, and Theo locked in tight. On and off the field,” Coach said. He was referring to the weekly tradition the three of us had started when we played college ball together.
Derek Tyson, now the offensive coordinator for the Rhode Island Reds, started as our college coach. Back in the day, the four of us—Coach, Gideon, Theo, and me—operated like a hive mind. A collective. Now I hoped to make it through the season without tanking the team.
Coach opened his hands in a benevolent gesture. “Just like old times. But I want Seth in on it, too. He’s a hot head off the field, too, and he’s been making stupid choices ever since the draft. I need y’all to wrangle him. Get him on the straight and narrow.” Being in Rhode Island for the last ten years couldn’t change the fact that Coach Tyson was an Alabama boy through and through. Apparently, red was his color.
I let a caustic laugh slip and chucked my old ball cap at the wall. “So, I just signed a multimillion-dollar contract to babysit your prodigy. Is that it?”
Some season this would be. I should have retired.
Coach headed back to the practice field. He’d wasted too much time with my sorry ass anyway. Always something newer and shinier coming out of the draft.
Fuck that shit.
My phone vibrated as I slid into the car and headed home. I pulled it out of my pocket, half-expecting it to be Gideon taking advantage of a water break to tell me he heard the news. Whether it was good news was up for debate. But that’s not what the caller ID said. It didn’t matter if the Reds’ media team had sent out the statement about my trade. Loose lips had already blabbered to Boston. It was the only reason he’d be calling.
T.J. Bryant Sr.
