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“I’m fine. You just stay focused. You know everything Vincent is going to run you through. You’ve done them all a hundred times in practice. And don’t worry, you’re going to be great,” I said sincerely, knowing it was true no matter the outcome.
“Thanks,” he said with one of his brilliant smiles. It was enough to make me think that everything would be alright.
Retreating to the sidelines, my stomach churned from nerves. Watching Claude and Vincent talk, I could barely breathe. As Claude ran through the routine, I looked up into the stands. The only ones in it were Papa, the general manager, and the team’s owner.
“Fuck!”
I guess it was naive of me to think that he wouldn’t be. Still, a boy could dream. It wasn’t like he would hold something against Claude because we had a history. The old man wouldn’t know anything about it. As long as Claude did what he was capable of and Papa endorsed him, Claude should be fine.
After an excruciating hour and a half, Vincent took his clipboard full of notes to the decision makers. Meeting Claude on the field, my heart thumped like a jackrabbit’s.
“What’d he say?” I asked him.
This was it. Either my career was over, and I was going to lose Claude forever, or I wasn’t. I struggled to breathe.
“He said, good job and wait here,” Claude said, still dripping with sweat.
“That’s better than ‘get the hell out,’” I joked, feeling a glimmer of hope.
“I guess.”
“How do you think you did?”
“I missed my split a couple of times. I also think my passing was a little off. I should have practiced more. I don’t know what I was thinking coming here. I’m not in NFL shape.
“Yeah, I’m good enough to throw the ball around with friends. But I don’t think I was ready for this,” he said, showing me more vulnerability than I had seen out of him in the three years we had been friends.
Without thinking, I grabbed his hand.
“Hey, look at me. You fuckin’ rocked. Do you hear me? Even two-thirds of you is better than 100% of others. You are the best quarterback I’ve ever seen, and if they can’t see that, fuck ’em,” I said, meaning it.
Claude looked up. His eyes were soft and gentle. I was seeing a side of him that I had never seen before. It made me weak in the knees.
“You are the best,” I told him. “Truly. I mean it. I’ve never met a better man than you.”
“Thanks,” he said sincerely.
Then I did something I shouldn’t have. On the field in front of whoever was watching, I gave him a hug. It wasn’t a bro-styled half-hug with our fists between our chests to make sure everyone knew we weren’t gay. It was a long, lingering hug that spoke of things unsaid.
It was intimate and warm. It made me think that maybe this wasn’t the end. Maybe it was just the beginning.
“Shit!” I heard someone behind me say.
I quickly let Claude go and turned around. It was the team’s owner, and he looked disgusted. Turning to the general manager, he said, “He’s another fuckin’ Mary, isn’t he? Get him out of here,” he ordered before walking away.
Panic hit me. “What?”
“Thanks for coming in,” the general manager said, approaching Claude.
“What just happened?” I asked, knowing something had changed. Everyone wouldn’t have come down to meet Claude if they didn’t think he had done well. Not letting this go, I ran past Papa and got in front of the owner.
“What’s going on? You know he was good.”
The owner looked at me with bitter, bloodshot, old man’s eyes and said, “This team doesn’t need another Mary,” and then pushed past me.
“What does that mean?” I asked before it hit me.
It was the hug. It was my non-bro hug.
