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Instead of going back to the locker room, I order a car.
It’s a cowardly move, but I don’t care. The team buses are not an option.
When I slide into the car, the driver does a double take. “Holy shit. You’re Slater Jones.”
I give a little nod.
“Man, I was sure we were gonna lose.” He pumps his fist. “Go Hawks.”
Naturally, my driver is a fan of the home team.
I smile weakly, but otherwise don’t respond. There isn’t anything for me to say. I gave his team the win tonight. I could get free drinks from any bar in town. I’d probably get some drunken toasts, too. I’m a fan favorite, at least for today.
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I dread pulling it out. My mother. My father. My sisters. My agent. Anyone and everyone who loves me will be sending me their own brand of encouragement. Just once I’d like to make it through an entire season where I don’t require phone calls of support.
The phone vibrates again. This time I pull it out. No time like the present. I’ve already taken a fist to the face today, so a few messages should be easy.
My mother has called three times. The first time, she left a message.
“Slater, dear.” Her voice is as cheerful as it always is. “It’s just a game. There are people out in the world with real problems. They don’t care if you throw a touchdown or an interception. They are too busy worrying about how they are going to feed their kids. Think about that tonight instead of the game…I love you. You’re still my favorite son.”
I’m her only son. And she gives me a variation of this speech every time I lose. It’s her version of a pep talk. I appreciate it—I do—but I want to be sad that I lost. I don’t want to have to pretend that I have perspective. I don’t want to pick myself up and dust myself off right away.
Football is just a game.
But it’s also my life.
My job.
My career.
It’s hard to dedicate yourself to something and constantly come up short. I wonder, for the millionth time, if it’s too late. What will I do if my window for success has closed? What if I never become the player I thought I was destined to be?
I drop my head back against the seat and take shallow breaths. My emotions threaten to overwhelm me, but the back of a stranger’s car isn’t the right place for an infamous quarterback to cry, so I keep them locked away.
TWO
ELLIE
I turn off the television, take a sip of coffee, and look around for something to do.
Three days. It’s been three days of unemployment and I’m ready to climb the walls. I’ve cleaned out my pantry and my refrigerator. I’ve read three spicy novels. And I’ve scoured every surface in my small, already tidy, apartment.
I could run the vacuum again. There might be a crumb left next to the coffee table.
I start to get the vacuum when I remember my downstairs neighbor gave me a lecture yesterday about how loud it is, so no vacuuming for a day or two.
I turn the television back on. More than one hundred channels and nothing to watch. I flip slowly, each option worse than the last. Double murder on the local news. Drug addiction on the national news. Political infighting on cable news. Morning television is not cheerful. I finally pause on a commercial. It’s sad that a commercial about car insurance is my best option.
My phone rings and I pounce on it. Anything to save me from a morning of nothingness.
“Elle,” my little sister’s cheerful voice chimes.
“Want to have lunch?” I say, conveniently ignoring that we don’t live in the same city and can’t meet for lunch.
“Umm…no,” she replies. “I need a favor.”
I’d do anything for my sister, but the way she says it makes me hesitate. “A favor?”
