Page 9 of Provoking the Punter
His father wouldn’t ask where he was living.
“There’s a lot been written.”
Garrett sighed. “Yeah… I’ve read some of it.”
He’d made himself look on Saturday night, because a few of the guys had asked after training. He kept repeating the same line: it had been an alcohol-fueled argument that happened off the field and away from training. He made a joke about no longer drinking. Except it wasn’t a joke. Not to him.
No alcohol.
No hookups.
He would not make the same mistake twice.
He’d gotten too comfortable, too relaxed, and it was the wake up call he needed.
“I’m surprised another team wanted you.”
Fuck you, too, Dad.
Garrett had bitten his tongue and played nice with everyone for the last week, even as they pulled out the rug and slammed the door in his face. “Most parents would be proud of their kid for even reaching the NFL. Most parents would ask how I was coping with the stress of?—”
“You only have one parent and that’s me.”
And that was his fault, too.
It had already been a long day, and with the upcoming bathtub duty, it wouldn’t be over for several more hours. He’d been instructed to attend for a minimum of two hours, and that they expected him to write a check for the charity. If it would’ve got him out of the dinner, he’d tripled the donation without blinking.
He stood under the shower in the locker room, eyes closed. He hadn’t played on Sunday, but he’d run through every error. He’d spent time with Hulme, catching the snap, dropping and stepping, before finally booting it down the field.
There’d been a bunch of other drills, and the coaches had rotated him through.
James had seethed, and he wasn’t even hiding it.
Garrett had figured out pretty early on it didn’t pay to make enemies because next season they might be your teammates. His job relied on getting on well with the kicker and the long snapper.
He turned off the shower and grabbed his towel.
“Nice ink…what’s it mean?” Ashley Sanders asked.
Garrett glanced at his shoulder, even though he knew what was there. A bit of her handwriting, her favorite flower, a Celtic cross, and the date of the car accident and her death. “It’s in memory of my mother.”
“Sorry, man. It’s a cool tribute though.”
“Thanks.” He gave Sanders a tight smile. If he hadn’t spoken to his father this morning, the question wouldn’t have stung as much as it did.
He dried off and dressed and was almost out the door when James stopped him.
“We haven’t officially met.” James stuck out his hand.
That’s because you’ve avoided speaking to me, but Garrett gave him a grin and shook his hand. What was that saying about never meeting your heroes? “I’ve been following your career since I was in college.”
James glared at him. “Maybe you’re following it a bit too closely.”
Garrett laughed, James didn’t.
Right, he hadn’t been imagining the animosity, and if he felt it, he was sure others did, too. “It wasn’t my choice, mate. You know how it works.”
James stepped in. He was three inches shorter, so had to look up at Garrett. He lowered his voice. “I know you fucked up. And whatever you did, I’m going to find out and I’m going to make sure everyone knows.”