Page 35 of Free Agent

Against the Blackwood Behemoths.

Monty’s team.

That wildcard status had been hard won, and making it to the divisional rounds had been… shit, a miracle. Even though my personal stats were already impeccable—on the field for damn near every snap, not a single sack on my watch, only two penalties—it wasn’t time to slack.

I had to keep that exact same energy.

We were the lowest seed in our conference, which meant playing the highest, the Behemoths. I couldn’t even front. They’d been dominating the whole time, and were the apparent favorite to win the championship.

The Kings weren’t to be counted out quite yet though.

Which was why I had preparation, conditioning, and training on the brain.

It had to be at forefront, especially since the season, like it did every year, was wearing on me. The physicality of the football wasn’t benign. It was hard on the body, and I felt that shit more and more every year.

I had to stay on top of it, if I didn’t want to be paying for it in lost mobility post-retirement.

I made my way to the team facility to get a massage and some heat therapy, checked in with Coach Underwood, and watched some film from the Behemoths’ last game. I fielded calls from nosy asses in my phone trying to get some inside scoop about Rori, kept hydrated, fixed myself a dinner packed with clean protein. I’d load up on the carbs in the morning, before hitting the field.

It wasn’t until I was full, showered, and ready to head to bed at a time that supported waking up early as fuck that I navigated back to my text thread with Kevion to snag Rori’s number.

My thumb was poised to save it when a message popped up from an unknown number.

A voice note.

Frowning, I switched gears, going into the message to tap the play button beside the soundwave indicating the length of the message.

I recognized the voice immediately.

“Tatum… hi. Um… this is Aurora Mitchell, from last night. I… shit, I’m sure you know who… I didn’t have to… shit. Okay. Um… I’m calling to… well, this isn’t a phone call, actually, but… you know what I’m saying. I just… I wanted to apologize. I do apologize for dragging you into my drama. I wasn’t thinking about your tattoos being super distinctive, just keeping your face out of it, which clearly didn’t work. Which is such a violation of your privacy. You didn’t ask for, or agree to being put on blast on the internet. I mean, who the hell does, right? Well… I guess some people do, but that doesn’t seem like you. Not that I know you that well to say one way or the other. And it’s fine if you do like that kind of attention, I’m not saying it makes you a bad person or anything, I just… shit. I feel like I’m making it worse. Um… I just… I’m sorry. For real. And I totally get it if you’re pissed at me, but I needed you to at least know that. That I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t do anything, but still. Uh… if there’s anything I can do, to... I guess make it up to you? Let me know. But don’t be weird. I… I don’t know why I said that. Like, the gall to tell you not to be weird, after what I did? Audacity is just running around rampant, huh? I… whew. Um… yeah. I think that’s all. I think it’s getting weird now, so it should probably be all. Bye.”

When the message was over, I just sat there a moment, stunned, before I chuckled.

Un-fucking-hinged.

I listened to the voice note again, making sure it was as chaotic as I thought.

Yes.

Yes it was.

Maybe more.

Then I checked the number the voice note had come from, confirming it was the same as what Kevion had given me before saving it to my contacts. From there, I debated texting or calling, but ultimately decided on just hitting the button to call.

I preferred to do my caking in real time.

That was, if somebody was on the other end of the line.

I waited and waited for the call to be picked up, ready to leave a voicemail if it wasn’t. I was choosing what lane of chaos I would follow to match her energy when suddenly, the call connected.

“Tatum! Hi,” she huffed into the phone, her voice high with strain, clearly out of breath. “Um… I guess you got my message?”

“A full two minutes of bedlam? Yeah, I got it,” I laughed, grinning at the quiet groan she let out. “Apology not accepted.”

“Oh!” she yelped. “I… um… that’s completely understandable.”

“Stop trying to be so damn nice,” I said, shaking my head as I dropped to a seat on the couch in the sitting area of my bedroom. “I don’t accept your apology because I don’t need it. I hope the picture made your nigga shit, throw up, pass out, cry, all that.”