AllFreeNovel
Share Us
One
Lee
BEEP! I honk my horn and shine my brights at the car in front of me, but instead, the windshield wipers run back and forth on the windshield.
“Shit.” I scour the steering wheel of my new Denali for the damn brights, but the car in front of me moves to the right-hand lane just as I figure out how to stop the wipers.
Thank god for tinted windows, because if a fan saw me being a prick on the US101 toward Santa Clara, they’d tweet, post, and share it with the world. And then I’d be cast as an asshole in the gossip blogs. But I cannot be late on the first day of training camp, especially during a contract year.
My phone rings through my Bluetooth, so I glance at the screen. Joran, my agent, surely has a checklist of players he needs to talk to this morning, since calling the first morning of training camp is a yearly ritual for him. In truth, the guy is a pain in the ass, but he gets shit done with a line of zeros on my contracts, so I can’t complain.
I hit the accept button on my steering wheel. “Hey, Joran.”
“How’s my favorite Canadian football player?”
“I’m youronlyclient from Canada who plays football.” I check my blind spot over my shoulder and change lanes, pushing down on the accelerator. Coach doesn’t accept tardiness, not even from his number one guy—me.
“Semantics,” he says before I hear his muffled voice, his hand over the receiver, talking to his assistant.
I chuckle. At least he owns his shit lines.
There’s no way Joran enjoys his life. I could see him stopping midorgasm with a panting woman under him to take a call. That’s also what makes him the best in the business.
“Wanted to check in and see how you’re feeling about today.”
“Same as every year. Got some nerves, but nothing I can’t stifle.” I veer into the right lane to pass another guy who thinks he should be in the left lane.
“Attaboy. The better you do this season, the bigger the contract.”
It’s unlike Joran to say something so obvious. Usually, he’s balls to the wall, telling you how great you are and nerves are for the weak.
He’s not wrong though. My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. My contract with the San Francisco Kingsmen ends after this season, so I can’t afford any injuries. If the choice is mine, I want to remain with the Kingsmen, but if they do release me, I don’t want to give another team a reason to lowball me.
I love the life I’ve built in San Francisco. The city, my teammates, and the coaching staff are awesome. I’ve got a good thing going here, and I’m not ready for it to end. My childhood taught me what it feels like when a good thing ends and I’m not a fan, nor do I want to repeat it.
“Yeah, I know, Joran. Don’t worry, I’ve worked extra hard this off-season. I’m primed and ready and focused.” I’m eager to get off the phone and listen to my music that will pump me up.
“Glad to hear it. All right, well, just wanted to wish you luck. We’ll touch base later this week to see how things are developing.”
“Sounds good.” I hit end call, beating Joran because he never says goodbye. On to the next paycheck for him.
The sign for my exit comes up and I pull off the interstate toward the performance facility situated right next to the Kingsmen stadium.
After I park my car, gather my shit, and go inside, it doesn’t take long before I’m met with the familiar faces of my teammates and coaching staff in the hallways. I say a quick hello to all of them but continue on my way, anxious to get the first day of training camp over with. My nerves always dissipate after my first throw. As long as it’s a good one and lands in the hands of one of our receivers.
I walk into the locker room to my locker.
“You ready to do this?” My teammate and best friend, Miles Cavanaugh, stands in front of his locker next to me.
Miles and I played together at University of Michigan and somehow were lucky enough to end up on the same team a couple years ago.
“Ready as ever.”
He pulls me in for a brief hug before I drop my bag in front of my locker. All my gear neatly hangs in its designated spots. Along with my helmet, my locker holds all the team shorts and shirts emblazoned with my number and name for upcoming days like today, when I guarantee we’ll find out who sat on their ass all off-season versus those who didn’t. I never tire of seeing my name on the back of an NFL jersey, and I try to never take for granted that my dream has come true.
“Fuck, Cavanaugh, it’s too early in the season to smell that shit.” Darius Jones, one of our defensive ends, steps into the locker room and covers his nose with his shirt. “How can you sit next to him while he drinks that, Burrows?”
“I think I’ve grown immune to it over the years,” I say.
