Linebacker’s Second Chance(13)

“Don’t say something you’re about to regret, man. You’ve said a lot of things this morning, each one of them more questionable than the last. I’m Big Mack, and if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have a job.”

“You’re not treating football like you love it. That’s what I said. It’s gotten to the point where you do need some re-branding, cuz.” He says the last word sarcastically like it’s a joke that I’m his cousin at all. “And when I think about it, it’s awfully funny. You loved Renata too, didn’t you?”

“Wingate. Stop.” My hands instinctively clench into fists.

“Yeah, you did. You were crazy about her. You were going to marry her.”

“Wingate—I told you.” I crack my knuckles, wondering what his perfectly coiffed hair would do if I punched him across his stupid face. My gut roils, and I get that feeling I get whenever I think of those last few weeks with Renata.

“You know what I think, man? You’re fickle as shit. You’re bored of football, just like you got bored of her.”

Blind, red rage pours through my mind, and I close my eyes, using one of the breathing exercises I looked up on Youtube.

Hands, Mack. Don’t waste your hands on your asshole cousin. It’s not worth it. One. Two. Don’t think of her name. Three. Cool down. Relaxing things. Saunas. Girls in baby oil. A good defensive run, moving like magic across the field.

“I told you not to talk about her,” I hiss, finally opening my eyes and unclenching my fists. “I don’t want to hear her name again.”

“Too bad, cuzzo. I told you I called in reinforcements to get you straight. An entire year you haven’t been listening to me. So I got the best there is.” Wingate’s grin is plastered from ear to ear. I’ve been too big and dumb to notice his backdoor machinations on my career, and this is what I get. Some master plan to bring in one of these PR people who come down like lifestyle police on football and basketball players who are getting into too much trouble.

I sneer and step away from him so I don’t bash in his pretty face. Like I want to. Like he deserves for tossing around stuff from the distant past. “You got someone, huh? Well I’m not listening to a word he says. Like I said, Carolina ain’t kicking me off their team if they know what’s good for them. Bring in whoever you want. I’ll make sure he leaves with his tail between his legs.”

Wingate puts his hands on his hips. “You’re not hearing me, are you bro? I didn’t hire a man since you don’t pay any attention to a single man in the universe since your Pa died.”

“A woman? What difference does it make? She’s still just some agent who won’t have anything revolutionary to say.” My gut pitches again, and I have an itching feeling like there’s something I’m missing.

“I didn’t hire just some agent. I hired the best PR agent in the business. Up and coming under thirty, Sports Illustrated said. She whips guys like you into shape, eats 'em for breakfast.”

“I don’t see how—”

“It took a lot of money to get her to come see you, but the plane lands this afternoon. I figured since you’ve gone down ever since the moment you ran away from that woman, that might be a factor in what you’re going through here. You know, I’ve racked my brain, Mack. I wondered what it was for so long. I still can’t quite put my finger on it. Was it guilt for leaving her? Shame for giving up the best thing you ever had? Or just a general lackadaisical attitude toward life since you hit it big and left your small town days behind? I might never figure it out.” He chuckles softly and pats me on the arm. “Coincidentally, that woman you left still has a hell of a mind for sports, and a finely tuned sense of marketing. She always was smarter than the two of us put together, wasn’t she?”

I bring my hand to my head and run it through my closely cropped, deep brown hair. I remember that Sports Illustrated article, and the picture too. She looked prettier than the day I left her, her hair long and sleek. She always did take pride in getting it pressed and growing it long, keeping it all her own natural hair. I liked it so much, her eyes deep, rich, and warm—and calculating in a way that you wouldn’t expect from such a gorgeous woman.

Fear and anger mix together with that sinking feeling I get when I think of her, when I think of all the things I did, and every bit of information she doesn’t know.

“Jesus, Wingate.” I have about three hundred other phrases running through my head, and enough rage at my cousin to lift my fists to him again. But suddenly it seems like all the wind has been knocked out of my blustery sails. I sit back down on the sectional.