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Therearealotof things I am grateful for in my life that have come my way because of my career in the NFL. But at the top of that list is how I was able to move Ma out of our old, crappy apartment in Canaryville and bought her and my stepdad, Julian, a place more deserving of them in Lincoln Park. For the first fifteen years of my life, it had just been Ma and me after my biological father ditched us when I was around a month and a half old. She worked two, sometimes three, jobs at a time to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. And when I got into football, she’d been there at every game; whether it was youth football or a game in middle school, high school, and college. My number one supporter, always.
When I was around fifteen, she met Julian, and a few years later they got married. He already had two kids of his own, twin daughters a few years younger than me, but soon came to treat me like his own son. One of my step sisters lives in London with her family, and the other in Seattle with her own. Holly, who lives in Seattle, comes to the games whenever we’re playing there, and always wears a Rebels shirt instead of one for Seattle’s home team. And Jessica attends a game whenever she visits Chicago during the season. Despite being an only child for fifteen years, I got along well with my step sisters—probably because I was close with their dad.
My parents haven’t been able to attend the last few weeks’ worth of games because they were in London visiting Jessica after she just gave birth, and they wanted to be there to help out. I’d made sure to send a suitcase and a half worth of the best baby supplies and clothes since I couldn’t be there.
“You boys are looking good this season,” Dad comments as sits in the living room, the TV playing an old game from two other teams. We do this often, me and him. Sit together and watch other teams play, and talk about my performance. It was something I enjoyed in high school and college, after he and Ma got together, because for the longest time, the only male figures I had in my life who I could talk to about the game were my coaches. “Austin’s got you on a tight leash, huh?”
I let out a wry chuckle as I take a sip of my beer. “He’s a drill sergeant during practice,” I say. Coach Scott isn’t that much older than I am, probably one of the few coaches in the NFL who fall on the relatively younger side, but he’s likely more of a hard ass than most coaches. I have no complaints, though; being this far into the season, being top contenders for the Super Bowl—I take his practice drills in stride, as does the rest of the team. It’s the reason why we have been doing so well this season.
“What about the Miami game?” Dad asks. “Are you ready for that?”
I nod. “I think we’ve got a good chance at beating them. But they’re good, so it’s going to be an intense game either way.”
We won by the skin of our teeth in last season’s divisional round, so everyone’s head needs to be in the game when we fly to Florida to play them in a few days. Dad and I talk about the upcoming schedule, and eventually Ma joins us with a cup of green tea. “We watched your interviews while we were in London,” she tells me as she sits next to Dad. “That reporter is new, right?”
I suck in my lower lip between my teeth after taking a sip of my drink, feeling more than a little disconcerted at Ma for bringing up Willow, of all people. It’s proven to be difficult not to think about her, especially after talking to her at the bar. But ever since that night, I haven’t seen much of her; her schedule has her interviewing other members of the team, but even when we’re in the same vicinity, I’ve noticed she doesn’t look my way. In fact, she avoids doing just that.
“Yeah,” I answer, voice going gruff without meaning to. “She’s taking over for Vivian for the rest of the season.”
Ma hums in acknowledgement. “I like the questions she asks. She looks genuinely interested and excited to be there.”
Oh, the fucking irony. I snort quietly. The same thing Ma just complimented Willow on—didn’t I insult her on it during our first meeting? “She is. Except when she has to talk to me,” I grunt.
“That’s because you have an attitude problem most of the time,” Ma quips with a grin, her smile widening when I throw her a flat expression. “It won’t kill you to smile every now and then.”
Sliding my gaze to Dad, I deadpan, “Your wife’s hilarious.”
As Dad snorts out a laugh, Ma sighs dramatically and says, “It’s a shame you didn’t get my sense of humor.” Ma sips her tea and looks at me over the rim before asking, “Is she single?”
Before I can respond, Dad says, “Come on, Fi. She looks a little young for Reed.”
I purse my lips. I think Willow is around ten years younger than me, maybe a little less. I never really thought about her age before. Ma waves her hand dismissively. “Reed’s got the personality of an eighty-year-old. Someone younger would be good for him.”
The fuck?My face twists. “Ma—”
“You’re thirty-four years old, Reed,” she cuts me off. “You can talk about your love life with your own mother.”
I’d rather fucking not. “There’s no love life for us to talk about,” I say, running my tongue along my teeth. “It would be unprofessional if something happened between us.” The words taste bitter on my tongue, like they aren’t my own. And they aren’t, are they? I’m just spitting out the same excuses disguised as reasons at my parents that Willow said to me. Still, I raise my eyebrows at my parents and force out, “So can we drop it and move on?”
The words come out harsher than I intend for them to, but my parents don’t blink twice. Instead, Ma switches gears in stride and tucks her legs beneath her and asks me, “How are your migraines?”
The topic isn’t one I want to talk about, either, but it’s better than talking about Willow and letting my mind run free with thoughts of her. “They’re fine. Haven’t had a bad one recently,” I truthfully tell them.
I have been dealing with migraines for most of my football career, and I know it worries Ma more than she lets on. I’m not the first football player to deal with migraines, and I sure as hell won’t be the last. But, unlike other athletes who have openly spoken about their issues, I tend to keep them to myself. The only people who know about them are Coach Scott, my teammates Leo, Caden, and JJ, and my close family. I don’t advertise my migraines because I’d rather people focus on my skills as a football player, not label me as one of the guys who has health issues.
There’s a huge fucking stigma around migraines in male athletes. For some ridiculous reason I can’t comprehend, it’s seen as a “female issue”, whatever the fuck that means, as if men are invulnerable to migraines. Which is bullshit—especially for football players who constantly deal with head injuries. Getting concussions aggravates migraines, something I have had to deal with a couple of times, but I have been lucky so far. I’ve seen athletes having to walk off the field and stay benched because their pain is so bad that they can’t play. Fortunately, it has only happened to me maybe once or twice, and when I’ve had to walk off the field, people are either told some other reason why I had to sit down or basically told to fuck off—which is what I prefer.
I take my medication and I go to my routine checkups with my doctor without fail. I’m not stupid enough to think I can just sleep or walk it off. If I want to make the most out of my career, then I know I need to take care of myself, which I do religiously, and I’m sure that’s why Ma can breathe easier. God knows how she would be if I didn’t take my migraines seriously.
“Really?” Ma asks, a little doubtful but also a little hopeful. “No flare ups?”
I finish off my beer, raising an eyebrow at her. “Don’t I always tell you when I get one?”
She rolls her eyes as Dad snickers quietly. “I’m your mother. I don’t expect you to tell meeverything.”
I shoot her a look. “I wouldn’t hide anything about this.”
Ma may be a worrier, but I would feel worse keeping important things from her—especially when they have to do with my health. My grandmother had died a few years back from cancer, and while to us it felt like it had come out of nowhere, it had turned out that Grandma had known about her cancer for a lot longer. She just didn’t tell anyone because she didn’t want to worry us, or burden us with her health problems. It had devastated Ma, so I refuse to do what Grandma did. Putting Ma through something like that again isn’t something I ever want to do.
