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“When do they want to launch?”
“When you sign.” His answer is quick and enthusiastic.
“Well, let’s make some money then.”
When I was in high school, hundreds seemed large. When I signed my NFL contract, thousands seemed huge. Now, we talk in millions, and I’m supposed to pretend this is normal.
Maybe one day it will be, but I don’t know that I want it to be.
I never ever wished to be a rancher like Pop and my brother, Braxton. I was brought up in the life. I got out at eighteen and never went back.I’m so very okay with never seeing that anywhere but in my rearview mirror.
That said, some of the conversations I have in life are surreal. Case in point, a company wants to pay me six million dollars a year to wear their clothes.
To wear their clothes.
I’d wear horse shit decorated in butterflies for way, way less.
“Layton?”
“I’m here. Just spaced a second.”
“You not okay with the deal? Do you want me to see if I can get them to go higher?”
“Shit. Ask them. If they want to give more, I’ll take it. You’ve always wanted a bigger boat.”
“Not about me, man. You know that.”
“See what you can do. Let’s get you that boat.”
The silence that follows is a beat too long.
“George?”
“I’m here, Layton.”
“I know and I appreciate it.” I click off. I drive down into the condo parking. I’d lose the call here anyway. Concrete and metal don’t make for great reception.
Riding the elevator up to my place, I take it in with fresh eyes. It’s too stark, too white. Too much like a magazine layout. I try to visualize my nephew, Colt, here and can’t picture him anywhere. Everything is sharp edges and cold marble.
In all fairness, I can’t imagine Colt, Brax, and Emberleigh heading this way anyway. It’s so much easier for me to go home than for people to come visit. But it’s the point.
Screw this. This self-contemplation can be fixed quickly and easily.
I toss on my running shoes and head back out into the sunshine.
I run the city streets, not stopping until the endorphins have taken all the emo-boy from my system and replaced it with testosterone.
I grab my phone and find the group thread.
Me:Interested in grabbing a drink at Tiki?
Carlson:I’m game.
Marshall:Hell yeah. Name the time and I’m there.
Reed:I’m out. Christi wants to go furniture shopping.
Marshall:You have fun with that. Sounds like the fifth circle of hell if you ask me.
