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I look down at myself. They should check his head for a concussion. While I clean up okay when I care to put in the effort, out here, on the job, I'm in faded mom jeans with holes in my knees, one of my dad's old concert t-shirts, and my boring blonde hair is up in a messy ponytail. I've got no make-up on, and I'm wearing my black-rimmed glasses because I forgot to put in my contacts today.
Drew can have any woman he wants and probably has. And yet he noticed me, even in his pain.
I let out a sigh, silencing my racing heart. He had to be hallucinating. But as I stumble back to my seat, I can't help but smile. And then I feel like an idiot because I don't get involved. Running down to the field when I realized he was hurt had nothing to do with him; it was just another opportunity for photos.
However, when the next morning, news comes that Drew will be out for at least four weeks due to a hip dislocation, I’m overwhelmed with a sense of sadness. For him? Or for me because I won’t get to see him play anytime soon?
Damn. That must be rough. Four weeks without playing? That would be devastating for someone who loves their sport so much. If I couldn't use my camera for four weeks, I'd go insane. At least it's early in the season. Maybe he'll heal quickly and return to the line-up sooner than expected.
Should I contact him?
I could call his agent, and get an update, for professional reasons, of course.
I haven't yet looked at the photos I took at the game. For the first time in my career, I'm torn. I don't know him, but I feel a connection. Is it because I have the whole thing on film?Because I took a picture of him at a weak point? Or possibly a career-ending one?
Or is it because he called me pretty while in a pain-infused delirium?
Chapter2
Drew
Since I was a kid, I only remember ever wanting to play football. I dreamed of making it to the big leagues while I watched games on the TV in the community center where I spent my afternoons after school. I never knew my dad, but my mom said he liked sports. In my mind, he was a pro sports hero. The greatest quarterback, the hockey player with the most goals, or the best hitter with the highest batting average and most home runs.
The other kids teased me. Said I was going nowhere. But I didn't care. I knew that one day, I'd prove them wrong.
And I wanted to play with Minnesota Mayhems. When that dream became a reality, I had nobody to celebrate with. Sure, there were champagne bottles, sparklers, expensive food, and shouting and clapping. But none of those people knew me. They had shown up to be seen; the arrangements made through the public relations team.
Feels like a lifetime ago.
Now look at me.
Yesterday, they took a bunch of x-rays and sent me home with painkillers, crutches, and instructions to rest. But I can't just lie around. Well, unless I'm with a gorgeous woman, then I can lie around for hours. Maybe not restful, but it would be pleasurable. I haven't spent time with a woman in weeks, though. When did that change?
Ah, yes, now I remember. I got tired of pretending she was into me for me, and not a photo-op.
Pretend is a game I excel at.
I did it as a kid.
I did it throughout school and college.
I still do it today every time I meet somebody new or have a mic or camera shoved in my face.
The only time I'm not pretending is when I'm out on the field.
Now I'll have to pretend I'm all better so I can get back to the game. Back to what I’m good at. Sitting around for the next four weeks will be torture. Out on the field is the only place I feel comfortable. Where I feel like me.
I drive slowly along the winding, sparsely populated dead end-street, feeling a strange sense of nostalgia as I pass old familiar buildings, a handful of homes, a few commercial businesses, and the corner with the big oak tree where the bus dropped me off after school.
The trees still have all their leaves, and this morning’s sun is shining through them. There's a chill in the air. So different than just twenty-four hours ago. Enough to warrant an extra layer.
Memories of my childhood come flooding back as my car rolls down the street—that lonely eight-year-old boy with a lonely mother and no father. The little boy with no friends. It was a hard life, but looking back, I can't help but feel a certain level of gratitude for having endured what I did. It shaped me into the man I am today; strong, determined, and relentless in achieving my goals and dreams.
There's about a block's worth of trees and other foliage, and then at the end is my destination. The perfect place to put a community center. Lots of parking and separation from the homes and businesses, so the kids can be as loud as they want. I remember the generous space behind the main building—room to play and just be kids. I spent hours back there tossing my scarred, worn second-hand football to nobody, perfecting my spin on that ball before winter took over. Then they'd build an ice rink, giving us used, scarred skates to wear.
As I pull up to the front of the building, vehicles are parked on both sides of the street, leaving a few spots directly available in front of the entrance. I slide my Porsche into an empty one, and after I turn off the engine, I sit there for a moment. The street itself may have mostly stayed the same over the years, but money has been spent to update the center itself. The building sports clean slate blue siding, the old dingy brown long gone. Gardens run along the front of the exterior, the colors not as bright at this time of year as they probably are during spring and summer. The grass is well-kept; it's not littered with abandoned toys or drug paraphernalia like I remember it.
My hip is throbbing, and climbing out of my low sports car is difficult.As I hobble up the sidewalk to the steps in front of the building, careful to avoid chalk drawings and a hopscotch outline, I feel a rush of uncertainty flow over me as more memories flood my brain. I haven't been inside this building since I was twelve. It had been my haven until I and everybody in the center learned a sad truth. On that last day, I promised myself I'd never step foot beyond the front doors again.
