Page 41 of The Way We Touch
The Mustangs did just fine, as I recall. My mind drifts to Dylan.
I thought about her all last night as I lay awake in my bed. Now I’m thinking of her fears for her brothers and the risks of being a professional quarterback.
“Pretty sure he had his reasons.”
“I’m not interested in your theories. Listeners want to hear it from the horse’s mouth. Maybe he can hop on a zoom with Mario. See what he says.”
My brow lowers. “You know I graduated with honors in communications from UT, right?”
“You’re saying you want to interview him?” The scoff in his tone bristles my skin. “Let’s leave that to the professional talent. Your place is in the boardroom with me.”
The last place I’d ever want to be.
My jaw tightens, and I gaze at the bay from the back porch of Garrett’s brother’s house. They’re inside sharing a beer, breaking down the game, discussing the team, but I stepped out when my dad’s name appeared on the face of my phone.
We spent another long day today at camp, but I feel energized. Jack had Garrett and me talk to the young players, and I was impressed by their mature, thoughtful questions.
They wanted to know if we still thought a college degree was as important as going straight to the draft once they had a name.
The answer from me was an obvious yes, get your degree. Garrett’s answer was a little more nuanced. I didn’t know he’d struggled with dyslexia, and his grades in school were bad. That got several of the guys’ attention.
His point was, if you’re not a strong student, but you’re a big strong athlete like he is, perhaps it’s better to make the most of your good years and bank as much money as you can before retirement.
“It’s your year,” my dad continues, drawing me back into the conversation. “You’re going to win that trophy, and then you can retire and take over for me.”
“Or maybe I’ll keep playing.” The words are out before I can stop them.
I usually keep my thoughts to myself. I’ve been around this rodeo long enough to know where it leads if I don’t.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Here we go.
“It means I’ve still got a few good years left in me, and I’m not ready to trade it all in for a suit and tie in a sterile office all day.” With you.
He exhales heavily. “You said when you started this barbaric endeavor it would only be for five years. Now you’re up to eight. Win the damn trophy and walk away while you still can.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Every time you go onto that field, there’s a chance something could go wrong. You saw what happened to Jack’s brother, the kicker.”
Zane. I think about the broody fellow who lurks around the house and keeps mostly to himself or his room. I think about Dylan. Again.
Beautiful Dylan who gave me a peek behind her dark curtain last night. Funny how we only think about ourselves when it comes to career-ending injuries. Ballet is a beautiful sport, and she was amazing.
She is amazing.
Her full lips and soft skin haunted me as I tried, and failed, to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her pretty amber ones burning with passion, laced with sadness. I should’ve kissed her.
“Did you hear me?”
“Sorry, what?”
Another impatient noise. “Let me know when you’re back in New York. I’ll see about making the trip there and we can talk business.”
“Yeah, I’ll do that.”
We disconnect, and I lean against the post on Jack’s porch. It’s hot as fuck, but at least there’s a breeze. It’s always moving, keeping the stagnation at bay and carrying the scent of possibility.