The Pickup (Imperfect Love 1)

“You guys have lost your minds.” Killian laughs. “Party tonight at Jase’s new place. You down?”

“Hell yeah,” I tell him. Jase Crawford has been a friend of mine since high school. We played football for two years together at Piermont Academy and then another two years at NCU before he graduated last year.

“I’m down,” Celeste agrees, and Killian gives me a hard stare, telling me to shut it down.

“Not tonight,” I say apologetically to Celeste.

“Really?” She scoffs. “It’s like that?”

“Yeah, little girl, it is,” Killian says. “You might have a fake ID that says you’re older, but you’re still only sixteen, and we’re not going to be responsible for you. This is an adult party.”

“Whatever.” She stands. “I’ll catch you later. Have fun at your adult party.” She saunters out of the dorm room with an extra sway to her hips.

“That girl is nothing but trouble,” Killian says as we watch her close the door behind her.

“Don’t I know it.”

One

Nick

Nine Years Later

“It’s all going to come down to this final play. If Nick Shaw can pull off this touchdown, North Carolina will be the Super Bowl champions for the fourth time since Shaw was picked up eight years ago.”

“If anybody can do it, it’s Shaw.”

“And he has a lot on the line. This has been a rough season for Shaw, and with his contract up this year, I imagine this will make a difference when the owners reevaluate whether to sign him again.”

“It’s almost as if he’s a completely different guy out there. Now, I’m not saying he isn’t good. We all know he is. But his numbers have steadily declined this season, and with three interceptions during this game alone, Shaw is in the spotlight.”

“All right, here we go. With ten seconds on the clock, they’re on Pittsburgh’s ten-yard line—there’s no room for error. North Carolina either scores a touchdown or Pittsburgh will be the new Super Bowl champions.”

“They snap the ball…there’s nobody open! The pocket’s collapsing. Shaw better make a decision quick.”

“He’s scrambling toward the end zone!”

“He’s reaching toward the goal line…he’s been hit!”

“Did he get in?”

“I don’t know. It’s going to be close.”

“It appears Shaw is still down. He’s grabbing his arm, John. This can’t be good.”

“The ref is saying the touchdown is no good.”

“They have the trainers coming out. He’s still holding onto his arm.”

I cringe as I watch the replay over and over again. Even with a broken arm and a dislocated shoulder, another few feet before getting tackled and we would’ve been the Super Bowl champions. Instead, I not only let my team down but my parents as well.

Not able to watch the video for a fifth time, I put my phone away and turn on the television. Of course, every sports station is analyzing the game. They all have opinions, assumptions, and predictions. I stop on a station that has the headline: Will Nick Shaw be re-signed?

“It’s a tough loss, but Nick Shaw has earned them three championships. That’s more than most players ever get in a career. He deserves a chance to come back.”

“You’re ignoring the fact he just broke his throwing arm and dislocated his shoulder. That’s a lot to come back from. Plus, there’s the fact he was showing a decline this year with a career high of fifteen interceptions.”

Not able to take another second of listening to this shit, I turn the television off and toss the controller across the room. It hits the door and crashes down, the batteries spilling out and rolling across the floor.

The door opens and in walks my mother. Her heels clack across the tile as she flits across the hospital room like she owns it—and in her completely selfish, self-absorbed mind, she probably believes she does. Dressed impeccably in only designer labels—from her Chanel glasses to her Saint Laurent heels—you would think Victoria Shaw actually worked for a living. Well, I guess she does…if you count running my life and spending my dad’s money as a job.

“Throwing another hissy fit, Nicholas?” She comes to the side of my bed and pats my arm like I’m a fucking dog. “Stop watching those shows. They thrive on negativity.” One might think she’s trying to give me some motherly advice, a pep talk of sorts to help me stay positive during the most fucked up time of my life, but I know better. She’s trying to convince herself that her now imperfect son isn’t about to disgrace the family name by becoming unemployed at twenty-nine years old.

“Would it be so bad if I did get released?” The words come out before I can stop them, and my mother looks like I just told her I’m having a limb cut off. And I guess in her eyes, it would be the equivalent, since all I am to her is the golden-boy child who plays professional football. Without my career, what would she have to brag about? What would she say to her stuck up country club friends? And my dad, if I’m released, he’ll lose his twenty percent agent fee he makes off me. What would we even have to talk about? I mean, without football, what else is there?