“What, you stick to your team?”
“No, I don’t go out at all.”
“Ah. Well, that’ll change when you’re a Warrior.” He grins.
“Do you think … I mean … are the others …”
“Do I think the team is full of homophobic wankstains?”
“Nice word.” I laugh. “But yeah.”
“I’m not gonna lie. The chances of no one on the team having an issue is small, but I guarantee you’ll have backup from me and Miller.”
“Good to know.”
A voice calls from the tunnel. “What are ya doin’ standing around gossiping?”
We turn to Jimmy Caldwell, the head coach for the Warriors, as he makes his way toward us with a football. He’s as intimidating as he is impressively large. A two-time Super Bowl champion himself, he’s someone who knows what he’s talking about. He’d be a great coach to work with.
“Show us that arm is worth every penny.” He throws the ball at Talon. “Wouldn’t mind seeing Jackson in action either.”
“Testing out the merchandise before buying, huh?” Talon asks.
“If we had it our way, we’d have already bought this one off the shelves.” Jim gestures to me.
“I’m not a piece of stock,” I say, my tone light.
“Yeah. You are,” Talon says. “So am I. Should we show them how lowballing you could be a big mistake?” He takes off his sneakers and socks.
Barefoot football? As fast as I can, I strip off my suit jacket, roll my shirtsleeves up, and take off my shoes and socks.
The turf is soft beneath my feet, and while there’s pressure to do well—as well as I can do wearing a suit instead of pads—I lose myself in the feeling of home. Running toward the end zone, all the bullshit fades away. Being outed, contract negotiations, a fake relationship that doesn’t feel so fake anymore—it all disappears into a black hole of I don’t give a shit right now. I’m where I’m supposed to be.
Talon gives a yell that he’s about to hike the ball, and I turn, but he’s underestimated my stride length, and I have to backtrack. The ball sails into my arms for a perfect pass, and Talon gives a loud whoop.
When I jog back to them, the coach has a wide smile. “You’re fast for your size. We need that in a tight end. Our guys are all blockers.”
“I can do both.” I’m not boasting. It’s the truth.
“You don’t need to sell us on you, kid. We’re supposed to be getting you to sign. You ready to meet the big man?”
I nod even though I don’t need to meet him. They’ve already sold me.
“Hey, how did it go?” Noah’s voice elicits both dread and happiness.
I can’t tell him my decision yet. I want to live in our bubble for a little longer where we don’t know our exact expiration date. Before it was just something we knew was going to happen eventually. Not anymore. I’m moving to Chicago, which is eight hundred miles of distance between us.
“I think it went okay. I’m just waiting to board the plane and thought I’d check in.”
There’s a pause, and I can feel the question he wants to ask but won’t let himself. I don’t want to answer it, either.
This was part of the deal. I’d get a contract and leave. Yet, I can’t bring myself to say it aloud—as if that’ll make it real.
“How’d JJ go at Newport?”
“He, uh, umm …” His next words rush out of him like verbal diarrhea. “He liked Olmstead better.”
I grin. “It was hard for you to admit that, wasn’t it?”
“Yup.”
“So, you took him to OU after all?”
“Yeah, but good luck convincing him to apply to either. He doesn’t want to go to college.”
I sigh. “Then what’s he going to do with his life?”
“Isn’t that his decision?”
To me, he’ll always be the fourteen-year-old punk I left behind five years ago. “I guess.”
“He has his head screwed on pretty tight.”
Pride swells in my chest. “The flight’s being called. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“I’ll try to stay awake, but I’m exhausted.”
“I won’t wake you if you crash.”
“I want to hear how today went.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow. Night.”
“Night, babe.”
Halfway down the gangway, my phone vibrates with another call. It’s a New York area code but a number I don’t recognize. I’ve learned enough over the last few months not to answer. It’s most likely a reporter.
I switch my phone to airplane mode and forget about it, but when we land at JFK, there’s a voicemail waiting for me.
“Mr. Jackson.” The authoritative voice on the recording is both terrifying and confusing. “This is Noah Huntington.” Yeah, so not the Noah Huntington I know, but then I remember Noah is a number. He has numbers in his name when there should only be letters. “There’s something Rick Douglas would like to talk to you about. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you who that is. If you can call my assistant and organize a time to come into my offices here, I can make a meeting happen. Rick is an old friend of mine.” He rattles off a number to call and then the message cuts out.