Chapter 1
1746 Words
one
Lee
BEEP! I honk my horn and shine my brights at the car in front of me, but instead, the windshield wipers run back and forth on the windshield.
“Shit.” I scour the steering wheel of my new Denali for the damn brights, but the car in front of me moves to the right-hand lane just as I figure out how to stop the wipers.
Thank god for tinted windows, because if a fan saw me being a prick on the US101 toward Santa Clara, they’d tweet, post, and share it with the world. And then I’d be cast as an asshole in the gossip blogs. But I cannot be late on the first day of training camp, especially during a contract year.
My phone rings through my Bluetooth, so I glance at the screen. Joran, my agent, surely has a checklist of players he needs to talk to this morning, since calling the first morning of training camp is a yearly ritual for him. In truth, the guy is a pain in the ass, but he gets s**t done with a line of zeros on my contracts, so I can’t complain.
I hit the accept button on my steering wheel. “Hey, Joran.”
“How’s my favorite Canadian football player?”
“I’m your only client from Canada who plays football.” I check my blind spot over my shoulder and change lanes, pushing down on the accelerator. Coach doesn’t accept tardiness, not even from his number one guy—me.
“Semantics,” he says before I hear his muffled voice, his hand over the receiver, talking to his assistant.
I chuckle. At least he owns his s**t lines.
There’s no way Joran enjoys his life. I could see him stopping midorgasm with a panting woman under him to take a call. That’s also what makes him the best in the business.
“Wanted to check in and see how you’re feeling about today.”
“Same as every year. Got some nerves, but nothing I can’t stifle.” I veer into the right lane to pass another guy who thinks he should be in the left lane.
“Attaboy. The better you do this season, the bigger the contract.”
It’s unlike Joran to say something so obvious. Usually, he’s balls to the wall, telling you how great you are and nerves are for the weak.
He’s not wrong though. My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. My contract with the San Francisco Kingsmen ends after this season, so I can’t afford any injuries. If the choice is mine, I want to remain with the Kingsmen, but if they do release me, I don’t want to give another team a reason to lowball me.
I love the life I’ve built in San Francisco. The city, my teammates, and the coaching staff are awesome. I’ve got a good thing going here, and I’m not ready for it to end. My childhood taught me what it feels like when a good thing ends and I’m not a fan, nor do I want to repeat it.
“Yeah, I know, Joran. Don’t worry, I’ve worked extra hard this off-season. I’m primed and ready and focused.” I’m eager to get off the phone and listen to my music that will pump me up.
“Glad to hear it. All right, well, just wanted to wish you luck. We’ll touch base later this week to see how things are developing.”
“Sounds good.” I hit end call, beating Joran because he never says goodbye. On to the next paycheck for him.
The sign for my exit comes up and I pull off the interstate toward the performance facility situated right next to the Kingsmen stadium.
After I park my car, gather my s**t, and go inside, it doesn’t take long before I’m met with the familiar faces of my teammates and coaching staff in the hallways. I say a quick hello to all of them but continue on my way, anxious to get the first day of training camp over with. My nerves always dissipate after my first throw. As long as it’s a good one and lands in the hands of one of our receivers.
I walk into the locker room to my locker.
“You ready to do this?” My teammate and best friend, Miles Cavanaugh, stands in front of his locker next to me.
Miles and I played together at University of Michigan and somehow were lucky enough to end up on the same team a couple years ago.
“Ready as ever.”
He pulls me in for a brief hug before I drop my bag in front of my locker. All my gear neatly hangs in its designated spots. Along with my helmet, my locker holds all the team shorts and shirts emblazoned with my number and name for upcoming days like today, when I guarantee we’ll find out who sat on their ass all off-season versus those who didn’t. I never tire of seeing my name on the back of an NFL jersey, and I try to never take for granted that my dream has come true.
“f**k, Cavanaugh, it’s too early in the season to smell that shit.” Darius Jones, one of our defensive ends, steps into the locker room and covers his nose with his shirt. “How can you sit next to him while he drinks that, Burrows?”
“I think I’ve grown immune to it over the years,” I say.
Miles is known for his juice cleanses and any new healthy fad. I swear every single one of them should have a warning, may need nose plug to consume.
“What happened to the dreads?” I ask Darius. His hair is cropped close to his rich brown skin.
“Had to make myself less appealing. Too many ladies wanted a piece of me.”
The locker breaks into laughter, easing some of the tension. Some of the guys are shoo-ins for this season, but some are still chasing the dream. Unfortunately, by the end of training camp, the roughly ninety players in this locker room will be cut to fifty-three.
“I gotta take a piss. I’ll catch you at the meeting,” Miles says and leaves.
I chitchat with a few guys as I change into Kingsmen’s athletic gear. Now things get real.
When it’s time, I walk into the auditorium and sit next to Miles.
“We’re going to have a good season. I can feel it,” he says, rubbing his hands together.
I whip my head in his direction. “Jesus Christ, Miles. You’re tempting fate!”
His forehead wrinkles. “I don’t believe in that bullshit.”
“Everyone knows that’s the kiss of death.”
He shakes his head at me. “You honestly don’t think we can do this?”
I’m superstitious, while Miles is the only player I’ve ever met who has never reworn socks, stopped shaving, or had some routine at every game for fear of losing a winning streak. “I didn’t say that. But it’s not something you say like it’s a sure thing.”
“We have everything we need. Hell, Brady Banks at receiver and you at quarterback.” He puts his hands in the air. “Dream Team.” And he shrugs like the cocky asshole he isn’t. “You’ve got me at safety on defensive. Pick sixes all day long.” He pretends to catch a ball and run.
I can’t stop laughing at my best friend. He’s really not conceited, so when he pretends to be, I enjoy every minute of it.
He turns to me, seeing I’m still not convinced he just put a spell on us. “Whether we say it or not doesn’t change the outcome. It’s our hard work, our confidence, and our attitude that will get us to the Super Bowl.” He smacks my shoulder. “And that big contract you’re looking for.”
I shake my head, not wanting to think about my contract at this moment even if it looms above me like a dark cloud.
Thankfully, Coach Baker walks through the side door, the rest of the coaching staff following him like little baby ducks crossing a road. “What is this, kindergarten? Quiet the f**k down!”
His booming voice grabs everyone’s attention and it turns dead silent.
He smiles, happy he still has the authority to get us to do anything he wants. “Welcome.”
The room laughs. Coach Baker isn’t a hard-ass, but he is someone to fear. He’s all about hard work and dedication.
“Okay, for you newbies, I’m Coach Baker…” He continues down the line, introducing all our coaches and staff. Lastly, he signals to Dr. Carlisle, our head athletic trainer. “And when you get injured, here is the man you see.”
Dr. Carlisle steps forward, shaking hands with Coach Baker as though they didn’t talk to one another minutes earlier. His short light-brown hair is perfectly gelled, and he’s dressed in the Kingsmen polo and khaki shorts as if he’s ready for his endorsement deal. I think the guy is kind of a d**k—he thinks he’s a celebrity, bragging about his ** following—but he’s kept me healthy all these years, so who am I to judge.
“Thanks.” He turns to us in the stands. “I’m Doctor Carlisle, Head Athletic Director. I look forward to having a great season with you all and doing our department’s part to keep you healthy. I’ll start by introducing our staff members. For you veterans, we only have one new addition this year.”
The group of athletic trainers comes out and I’m busy cracking my neck from my shitty sleep last night, so I don’t bother looking as he says the names I’m already familiar with.
“Oh s**t,” Miles whispers.
“What?” I ask, looking down right as she emerges from the group. All the air in my lungs seizes as though I’ve been sacked by a three-hundred-pound nose tackle.
“It’s her, right?” Miles turns to me. “Shayna—”
“Kudrow,” I finish for him, my eyes locked on her.
It’s her, the woman I screwed over in college.
The same woman I’ve never stopped thinking about.
- Writer
