Infinity(72)

My worst nightmares, the ones that cause panic attacks, are coming true.

Is this what my ex-wife felt like when I told her I wanted a divorce? Was she this hurt and devastated? Maybe this is my karma. If so, I’ve paid the ultimate price. My daughter’s first word was to call another man “Da Da.” I scream out loud, and hit my chest while I’m running, “Fuck you, karma.”

I pound the streets of my subdivision, thinking things that I shouldn’t until I spot a restaurant and bar. I haven’t drank since I found out that I have Celiac Disease, and before that I hadn’t had more than a glass of wine since the night of the Clay South retirement dinner, when I poisoned myself to keep what’s-her-name from trying to fuck me. Turns out she didn’t care that I was sick and still made a play, setting in motion the events that led to the world knowing about my relationship with Charlie.

I pat my pockets, and find that I don’t have a credit card on me, but I’m Colin Fucking McKinney, the Brad Pitt of football. I brought this town a Super Bowl; surely the bartender will let me have a tab.

I walk in, huffing, trying to catch my breath as I grab a seat at the bar. The place is some chain brew-house. The name escapes me. I’ve never been in here before, but I’ve driven by it millions of times when I was a slave to fast-food row while Charlie was pregnant.

Immediately, the very pretty blonde bartender with giant fake boobs smiles and slides a glass of water in front of me. “What’ll it be?” She’s got enough makeup on that I’m sure it leaves smears on the sheets.

“Jack on ice, but hey, I don’t have my card on me. Can you start a tab, and I’ll settle it tomorrow?”

She winks a heavily-mascaraed eye. “It’s on the house, Colin.”

The first taste swishes around my mouth and burns like red-hot candy. I feel it sliding down my throat and into my stomach. The burn mixes with the battery acid, and begins to neutralize it.

The second sip lingers just inside my mouth for a moment. Then I swallow it, and feel the battery acid retreat a little more.

There’s a second of clarity when I question what the hell I’m doing here. I look around the restaurant and note that it’s painted a red color that matches my anger. There are a few other people sitting at the bar with me. One’s an older guy. He looks like he’d really like to talk to me so I ignore him, refusing to make eye contact. The pretty redhead, at the end of the bar, appears to be waiting for someone. She’s nervously tapping her foot and checking her watch. Then there’s the couple in love, practically dry-humping as they share a bar stool. It’s as if they’ve been sent by God to mock me.

I take another sip and don’t bother savoring it. I have no car, and it’s only about a three-mile walk/run/stagger/crawl back to my house. I’ve survived being hung over at practice many times before. It’s either I get shit-faced here, or I drive to Houston and take my daughter away from her mother, which will only end badly for all of us.

Slamming the glass down, I ask the Playboy-looking bartender for another. Here’s the pathetic thing: I have no alcohol tolerance. I’m feeling it, and I’ve only had one drink. Aiden would call me a pussy, and rag me like crazy if he were here. But if he were here, he wouldn’t let me do this, so I’m glad he’s in Los Angeles.

The older guy who’s been itching to get my attention finally grows a sac. “I really enjoy watching you play.”

I hold my glass up to him and say a polite “thanks,” hoping that he’ll now leave me the fuck alone.

“That play you made in the Super Bowl was unbelievable.” So much for him keeping his mouth shut.

“Yeah. I was just as stunned as everyone else.” I’m trying to sound humble here, and that this guy’s got to catch the clue and leave me alone.

“What’d you do to piss off Charlie?” He’s got a snide look on his old, wrinkled, smug face.

Just hearing her name come out of a stranger’s mouth makes me insane all over again. “Don’t say her name,” I growl as I grip the edge of the highly-polished wooden bar until my knuckles show white.

The old man holds his hands up as if he’s surrendering. “Sorry, I meant no harm. She’s hot. If she were mine, I’d make sure that I stayed on her good side.”

Before I know it, I’ve got the geezer pressed up against the bar, twisting his white, stained T-shirt tightly in my fist. He reeks of booze and fear. His watery eyes are bulging out of his head, and his mouth is hanging open like I’m choking him. “Don’t ever talk about my wife again,” I say through gritted teeth.