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“I think ‘fired’ is too strong of a word. More like laid-off. We no longer need your services is what I’m trying to say.”
“This is not about your professional skills,” he adds. He tries to smile, but I’m not buying it for one second.
“So why are you fi—” I stop myself. “So why don’t you need me here anymore?”
“Oh, boy.” Coach McGoy sighs. “It’s not you. It’s Brady. I was nervous about taking him on, but he’s proven to be an invaluable asset.”
What, and I’m not?
“Our plays are better executed, we’re getting more wins, and the fans love him. His only problem is that damn morality clause. He’s managed to get his act together in a lot of ways, but when it comes to you, he…” Coach looks at me expectantly. “Well, you know.”
“No, I don’t. Like you said, I’m good at what I do. Whatever Brady’s problems with me may be, they have nothing to do with my ability to perform my job. Or for him to perform his.”
Coach seems to mull over what I’m saying, but I can tell by his deepening frown that the decision has already been made.
“If you list me as a reference on your resume, I’ll be happy to give you a glowing recommendation,” he finally tells me. “There are plenty of teams who would love to have you.”
Yeah, right. In other cities. Or other states.
How will Liam react if we have to move? Texas is the only home he’s ever known.
And where does that leave him and Brady? He’s really upset with me, I know, but Liam shouldn’t have to suffer as a result. Doesn’t he see that?
“Check in with HR before you leave. They’re putting together a very generous severance package for you.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. I gather my purse and sweater.
When he stands up to show me the door, I shake his hand to show him—perhaps for the last time—that I can be a professional even in the face of wildly unprofessional behavior.
Because I know this couldn’t have been Coach McGoy’s idea. It must have been Brady’s. How could he be so self-centered?
I’m beginning to see why my sister never told him about Liam. Football means everything to him. He’s so obsessed with winning, he can’t even coexist with the guardian of his child—the one who feeds him and takes care of him—if it means throwing off his game even a little bit.
I’m halfway out of the stadium when it occurs to me that I’ve never really sat down and enjoyed one of the games as a spectator. I’m not expected at home right away, so why not blow off some steam before I hit the job boards?
I haven’t checked in with HR yet, so I can still use my badge to get in.
Despite everything that’s happened, I’m a little excited when I settle in near the fifty-yard line. My buddy at the souvenir stand gave me one of those silly foam cowboy hats the fans like to wear, and it really does keep my ears warm.
I’ve got a hotdog in one hand, a beer in the other, and I don’t even care that I’m setting a bad example for the players by eating junk food. That’s someone else’s problem now.
When the country singer belts out the national anthem, I sing along. Why not?
The game commences with a kickoff, and the players prepare to wrestle their way to the end zone. With the ball in his possession, Brady calls out the play to the teammate in front of him.
I can’t quite hear what he’s saying—the crowd is cheering too loudly for that—but I imagine that he’s telling the other player to make better life choices than he is right now.
Why does he have to look so confident and strong on the field? It’s making it really hard for me to stay mad at him.
The other player bends forward and shoots the ball through his legs, delivering it swiftly and safely into Brady’s waiting hands. I’m envying the ball right now, because I know how it feels to be caught in those big, strong hands.
Brady is winding his arm back, ready to throw the ball, when he looks out of the corner of his eye and sees me in the bleachers with my giant foam hat. His jaw drops, his eyes widen, and before he can finish his pass, a member of the opposing team knocks him down, sending the ball flying into the air and bouncing on the grass.
The referee blows his whistle.Oh no. I try to sneak out of my seat and slink away before things get any worse, but there’s a line forming on the steps where the other spectators have gotten up to get another beer or go to the bathroom.
I’m stuck. I’ve thrown Brady off his game, and now all I can do is watch.
