Wingate turns and looks at me, his face deadly cold. It’s a little hard to take him seriously with that tidy haircut of his all mussed up, and the button-down shirt he’s wearing that’s just a little too short in the sleeves. “Let me repeat myself and make it very clear what’s happening during this particular offseason, cuz. Eddie Davidson, the owner of the team that pays you millions of dollars each year to throw a ball around—”
“I do more than throw balls around,” I say, reaching forward for the remote. Wingate gets up and lifts his foot up table-height to kick the remote across the room.
“I’m not done,” he says. “Listen before you turn that idiot box back on and pick up your phone to answer the twenty-two different texts from the twenty-two different girls banging on your door.”
“There are twenty-two texts?” I grin at Wingate.
“It’s an educated guess. And don’t you reach for your phone if you know what’s good for you. I’m liable to kick that damn thing across the floor too, as much time as you spend glued to it.”
“Okay, fine. I’ll attempt to listen for once.” I meet his cold gaze and start to tune myself out, thinking about the party tomorrow. I’ll get that shipment of kegs from the usual place, get the catering from New York—they freeze that shit and put it on a plane these days, so that’ll be a damn fine plan. I click down the list of details in my head from the very beginning of the time Wingate opens his mouth. He rambles on about how I’m giving up my career, about how Eddie’s a lot more conservative than the old owner, about what I used to be capable of when I was playing for Brooks. And there’s more stuff about my image, too. Image this and image that, and what would my mother and father think if they were still around, and what will my aunt and uncle say when we go home for their birthdays at the end of August, and all sorts of bullshit that doesn’t make a damn bit of difference regarding how I play ball.
It’s all stuff I’ve heard before, and it turns into an incessant drone that beats against my eardrums in the most horrible way possible. Instead of trying to absorb the repeated words and phrases, I go back to organizing the party in my head. Last time, I had girls wrestle in inflatable kiddie pools full of baby oil, and one thing led to another and... well, that was a fun night. I barely had enough energy for all three of them, but I managed. I give Wingate a lopsided grin thinking about that night and the switching off between girls I had to do to make sure everyone was appropriately satisfied. But Wingate doesn’t notice. He just keeps on keeping on.
And then he does it. He mentions a name that I’ve forbidden in this house. That snaps me back to reality. Any thought of her snaps me out of whatever I’m thinking about if I’m being perfectly honest.
The thought of her comes up a lot more often than I ever intended, but her name—Wingate knows not to cross that line.
But he keeps on.
I wonder if we’ll be testing out that headlock real soon here, because I don’t want to hear that woman’s name, think about the cascade of her pitch black hair, the curve of her deep-red come-hither smile, or the curve-to-muscle ratio of her astoundingly perfect body.
But he continues, talking about her and what she thought of me when I was in school, what she noticed about me when I played, what I’m doing now that’s utterly different—and goddamn, he’s right about some of it, though I wouldn’t remember it. She had a better mind for sports than me and Wingate put together.
“... what would Renata say about all this, huh, Mack? She had this vision of you as this football superhero, and damned if I didn’t believe every word that woman said. She was right about everything. She was a better influence on you than anyone else ever managed to be. She made you into a better player, a better person. And now look at you, sinking down every season, further and further. I’m seeing it now. What will it be in a year? Drugs? Marrying some eighteen year-old girl to get attention when your plays go to shit? Renata was—”
“You don’t mention her, Wingate. Ever.” My voice is as cool as Wingate’s eyes.
My cousin looks directly at me and does it again. “Renata. You’re going to have to get used to that name again, cuzzo. I’m not pussy-footing around a grown-ass man with hurt feelings. I’m saying Renata was right. She was right that you’re a god when it comes to everything that matters in this godforsaken, dangerous sport you love so much. But you’re not treating football like you love it anymore.”
Now I’m listening. Scowling, growing hotter and hotter. I undo the recliner and bring myself to standing, eye to eye with Wingate.