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“Meaning?” He takes the lid off of his cup and finishes his shake.
I’ve had about ten percent of the one he got for me. It’s good, but I’m not finishing a calorie-packed protein shake so close to lunch, so I push it across the table.
“You sure?” he asks.
I nod, and then I ask him something I’ve been wondering since we met. “What happened in that game?”
His entire body tenses, and I regret the question. I like talking to him, and he seems to like talking to me, but I don’t want to make him uncomfortable.
He picks up my shake and takes a sip. “I played poorly. Eight interceptions.”
“I know. I’ve seen the highlights.” Or the lowlights, as they were. It was painful to watch. It was as if he were cursed. Plays that should have been easy went wrong. And somehow, the defenders seemed to know exactly what was going to happen when he threw the ball.
He doesn’t say anything—just stares at the shake.
I shouldn’t push, but something in his expression makes me ask, “Have you ever talked about it?” My voice is soft and as unthreatening as I can make it. “You don’t have to talk about it with me. But maybe you should talk about it with Cam or someone else you trust.”
I lapse into silence, but he still doesn’t speak. He doesn’t even look at me. I know better than anyone that bottling shit inside does not make it go away.
“You had a bad game. As far as I can tell, it was the turning point. It separated your career into two halves, the before and the after.” I know this isn’t news to him. He’s aware those interceptions changed everything. “What happened?” I ask again.
The silence stretches. I wait without showing a bit of impatience. If there’s anything I’ve learned over the years, it’s that silence can be more powerful than words. I pushed a little, but I know when to pull back. If he wants to, he’ll tell me, and if he doesn’t, I’ll let it go.
He still doesn’t look at me. Instead, he lifts his gaze to focus on the wall over my shoulder. “I trust you.”
“Oh.” I exhale. That is not what I expected.
“I was unstoppable my rookie season…and then I was stopped.” He shakes his head. “I’ve lost before. I’ve played poorly before, but that night was special. And not in a good way.”
Throwing eight interceptions wrecked that season for him. It makes sense that he’s sensitive about it, but I still don’t understand why he played so poorly.
He toys with his straw. “I think I got swept up in the hype. I didn’t prepare like I should have. I didn’t study the tape or go over the playbook. I went through the motions at practice. I thought I was invincible.”
It’s hard to believe he wasn’t prepared. It’s even harder to believe he’s being so honest about it. I’m good at getting people to talk to me, but not this good. “And now you can’t focus on anything else?”
“My future is precarious. The respect I garnered is gone. That game became a punchline, and I became a joke.”
He leans back and loops his arm over his chair. If he’s trying to look relaxed, he’s failing miserably.
“But it’s the offseason. Aren’t you waiting for a new contract? What do you have to focus on now?”
“Training. Preparation. Studying. The offseason matters as much as the regular season.”
Isn’t he going to burn out if he thinks about nothing but football until he starts playing again? “Since the season ended, what have you done for fun? Just simply for the pleasure of it?” I ask.
He says nothing.
“You don’t go out in public. You don’t go out with your buddies. It isn’t even clear if you have buddies. You hardly leave the house.”
“I’m out of the house right now.”
Technically, he’s right. “Going out for a protein shake with me barely counts.”
“I’m going to see Amber’s show this weekend.”
“Yes, but”—I can’t believe I’m going to say this—“you should take someone else. A date. A friend. Celeste. Not me.”
“You want to go,” he grinds out through clenched teeth.
