Page 4 of The Brotherly Shove
No. Not the name.
My name.
My college headshot fills the screen behind her, 'Breaker Lawson – San Francisco Redwoods' in bold letters underneath.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear Ma screaming. I feel her shake my shoulders, ruffle my hair, jump up and down behind me. I don't move from my seat. My eyes are wide as I watch the fans on TV in red and gold cheer, waving flags and taking pictures of my face. The announcers read off my stats. 31 wins, 13,170 passing yards, 85 career touchdowns.
Six feet tall. Two hundred and twelve pounds.
Breaker Lawson.
“Tough, quick, gritty, this kid is. He's got some issues in his passing game, he can hold on to the ball too long, takes a lot of sacks, but—” The announcer continues to go through my ups and downs, my accolades and weak spots, on and on.
I don't hear it.
I drown out the noise.
I shake my head and run a hand through my hair. Holy fucking shit.
I wasdrafted.
In true Philadelphia fashion, Ma is out on the lawn banging pots and pans like it's New Year's Eve. From the echoes, I can tell that at least half the neighborhood has joined her. The Flannigans next door wanted to host a 'Draft Party' in their basement bar, where I know they have at least three brews ready to go on tap.
"BOOGER DID IT! HE'S GOING TO THE BIG LEAGUES!" I hear her screaming, using the nickname I hate but wouldn't dareask her to stop because even at 5'2" and 100 pounds soaking wet, my mother scares the shit out of me.
Fuck. Once it all settles in—the fact that I was FUCKING drafted to the National fucking Football League—at least one bottle of Hennessy will be smashed after I finish it.
At least one car will be set on fire.
Okay…I probably won't set a car on fire. But I'll probably climb a light post.
I mean, fuck it, it's Philly.
My phone vibrates on the coffee table in front of me.Unknown Numberis flashing on the screen. Shit, this is it. It's gotta be Dan Elliot, the Redwood's head coach calling to congratulate me. Oh my god, the team just got a new owner, the tech billionaire who now teaches fitness classes on the Spin Sync platform. I've taken his rides before! James…something. I'm too excited to remember his last name right now. Maybe it's him? I steady my breath and swipe to answer the call.
"Hello?" I say in my most professional tone, praying that whoever is on the other end can't hear the ruckus going on outside.
"Breaker, my bro. Congrats, man." My stomach sinks when I recognize the familiar voice. I've been avoiding Lennon Griffith for months, ever since he was drafted and went on to play for the Knoxville Crushers as their starting center last spring. I've gotten really good at dodging my old friend, always too busy for more than a few check in texts. He must've gotten a new number, or maybe he'd assumed I wouldn't have answered if I saw his name on the screen and borrowed someone else's phone.
He would've been right.
"Ah, Lennon. Thanks man," I say, thankful he can't see me rubbing my hand nervously over the back of my neck.
"How do you feel?" he asks, and I can practically see him bouncing up and down the way he always does when he'sexcited. It's ridiculously endearing for a three hundred pound professional athlete.
"It's a trip," I answer. "I don't think I've processed it. The team hasn't even called yet."
"Hell yes! I knew I'd be first. I had your number up during the whole draft so I could call you the second I saw your face. You did it, dude."
“Yeah, thanks. Listen, I should probably keep the line clear for when the Elliot calls?—”
"Oh, for sure, for sure," he cuts me off. "I'll let you go, but first, you're never gonna believe it. It's still on the hush hush, but brother, I was traded. We're both gonna be suiting up in red and gold! Together, just like the old days. GO WOODIES!" He barks a few times and hangs up before either of us can say goodbye.
I was drafted by the San Francisco Redwoods.
Lennon Griffith was traded to the San Francisco Redwoods.
My dream came true. I get to play professional football. I should be ecstatic, but instead my stomach sinks.