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Every throw I complete gives me confidence, and every throw I miss makes me question myself. Will this season be the beginning of my comeback? Or will it be the end?
What about next year?
Nobody knows—not even me.
One night when I get back from the facility, I shovel dinner into my mouth while I talk to Ellie over the phone. Calling her at the end of the day has become a part of my routine.
“Did you have anyone to throw to today?” she asks.
Since technically it’s still the offseason, players aren’t required to be at the facilities. Some guys—like me—are there every day, but others won’t show up until mandatory workouts start.
“Yep,” I say between mouthfuls. “The rookies are still coming in most days, and some of the veteran receivers have started stopping by.”
They’re showing up because Randy asked them to. He wants me to be ready, so he’s been around frequently, giving me tips and helping me settle in.
“Why do you seem surprised?” she asks.
“The other teams I’ve played for don’t gather until they have to.”
“You sound happy,” she observes, and I’m startled to realize she’s correct.
“It’s too soon to know how the season will progress, but I’m optimistic.”
I hear her yawn as she says, “I’m glad.”
It’s after ten on the East Coast and she has to work in the morning. I know I should let her go, but I want to talk to her a little longer. “What about you?”
“Work is great. It’s hard listening to some of the kids. Their situation usually sucks, and they’re hurting. But it’s also kind of lovely because when they walk out of my office, I think they’re slightly less burdened. I feel like I’m making a difference, you know?”
I don’t. I’m not sure I’ve ever been a mentor or a support system for anyone—which is a depressing realization. I vow to myself that if I make it big, I’ll be like Randy and always have time for the new guys.
When she starts telling me about one of her kids, I refocus on her.
“He doesn’t have siblings. And his parents are fighting over custody. He doesn’t get to choose where he spends his nights, and he won’t until he turns eighteen. He thought he was powerless,” she tells me. “And so did I—but when I encouraged him to talk to them, he did. An eight-year-old boy sat down and told his mother and father they were making him miserable. They asked him what he wanted, and they listened to what he told them. They stopped fighting over him and filed the custody papers today.” She pauses, and I can hear the smile in her voice when she says, “I know it isn’t always that easy, but it felt good—knowing I helped him find the courage to fight for himself.”
Every time she tells me one of these stories, it reminds me that my struggles are small in comparison. I’m fighting to play the game I love, and it matters to me, but if I fail, I’m not ruining anyone’s life—not even my own. I appreciate the perspective more than I can say. “You should feel good. You are making a difference.”
“It’s nice we’re both happy,” she says, and then, before I can respond, she yawns again. “I’m tired. I’m going to head to bed. ’Night, Slater.”
I tell her goodnight and hang up.
I’m glad she’s happy. But I miss seeing her. I miss touching her. I miss sleeping next to her.
I try not to think about how much I’d like to be in the same city, because what’s the point? She has a new job that she loves. I have zero job stability and can’t offer much more than I’m already offering.
TWENTY-SIX
ELLIE
The months pass. April. May. June. July. August.
Slater keeps calling. I keep answering.
We talk about everything except what we mean to each other.
My feelings don’t fade. If anything, they become stronger. The physical ache grows. I miss him. Sometimes I try to imagine what I’d sacrifice to be wrapped in his arms. Sleep. Caffeine. A tidy apartment.
I wonder if I’d move to Sacramento if he asked.
