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This is an arranged marriage where both sides benefit.
Me: I get to live to play another season.
Jayda: doesn’t remain a lonely cat lady—she has nine of them.
When I relayed to the Websters that I’m allergic, they promised a lifetime supply of antihistamines.
Magnus, Royal—heck, even CJ—would argue that I’m agrown man and can make this decision for myself. I could simply tell the coach that I’m out. Not going to do it.
But then I’d also be leaving behind my identity, my team, and my life.
Royal, ever logical, would also probably propose legal action for the blackmail, but there’s no proof other than what Webster said. My contract is due to renew this year and if I don’t sayI do, they’ll trade me to another team. I’ve only ever played for the Riptide, and moving this late in my career, with only a year or two left, feels like losing.
But I have to do something. Getting up from my seat and excusing myself from the table, I hurry outside and slide on my phone.
“Ryan, miss me already?” asks Brando, aka Brandon Owens.
“Ha ha. I’m in a bit of a bind.”
“Don’t tell me you and Harley had it out last night.” His tone tightens in defense of his cousin. We’ve been best friends since childhood, but he will protect her to the end.
“No, no. Nothing like that.”
“What, is she not good enough for you? I wouldn’t want you with her, anyway.” He may as well be her big and fearsome brother, theorizing what would happen if a guy like me ever broke her heart or didn’t show up on their wedding day. The guy is great, but very long-winded—verbose, one might say.
“Slow down. This doesn’t have anything to do with Harley. I tried to say hi. She avoided me. End of story. I’m at my bachelor party.”
“I may still be single, but as a rule, bachelor parties happen before the wedding and Royal got married yesterday, so...”
“I repeat. I’m atmybachelor party.”
“Shouldn’t our boy Royal be setting off on his honey—” Brando interrupts himself. “Whoa. Hold up. Did you say you’re atyourbachelor party?”
Once more, I repeat my statement.
“Why?”
“It’s a bit of a long story, but it’s to save my career.”
“I saw you save the game against the Arizona Thunderbirds during the Super Bowl. You were the MVP. Your name was in lights. You got the Gatorade shower. Got the ring. I’m not quite sure what you mean.”
I explain the situation to him as briefly as I can. Hehmmsevery few sentences, processing what I’m saying.
Given this is my first time explaining it out loud, it all sounds outlandish. The plot of a movie. Not my life. Certainly not something I’d stand for. Yet here I am outside a brunch joint at the start of the #RyanMcGregorBachDay of festivities with the party bus idling nearby.
“If you’re asking me what you should do, I can’t help you out there. If you want to know what I’d do, I’m not sure, given my career is on my terms and that’s on purpose. But this is what you should ask yourself: Do you want to live a life for the coming attractions or wait for the special feature?”
That’s deep. I probably need more coffee to fully grasp exactly what that means. However, I make a run for it. I’ll deal with the fallout later.
I’m not especially familiar with this part of Miami on foot, so I go a few blocks, make some hairpin turns like I’m evading a bad guy, and pull my ball cap low when I walk into a café and call Garrison.
“I’m out.”
“Outside?”
“Yeah. Well, inside. Um,” I look around, “I’m at the Busy Bean Bakery.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I know what I need to do, where to go.
“Where’s that?”
