“Because you screwed up royally. That little filly you were talking to—well, we caught her leaving your property with a camera full of pictures and some kind of recording device that got everything you said to her, combined with everything your teammates said about you.”
“Let me guess,” Mack mumbles. I can tell he’s sobering up, but it sounds like he’s intentionally slurring his words to get out of talking with us. “They all love me. They love me so much.”
“Not exactly,” Wingate says, fuming. “It’s a lot more than that.” He glances at me, and I detect a hint of nervousness in his eyes. I know that Wingate might have his differences with his cousin, but there’s love there that defies all understanding. And what he has to say to Mack right now isn’t pretty. “Get up, cuzzo. Let’s go inside and get you in the shower before we talk about this. You smell like a frat house.”
Wingate’s right about that. Even though the industrial cleaning team has been through here and removed every bit of garbage while Mack was sleeping off his hangover, Mack himself still smells like the inside of a keg. His cousin assured me he’s not usually like this, that he’s a little more subdued at his parties. But if what I read is true, this version of Mack makes an appearance more often than not these days.
Man-child, I think. Get ahold of yourself, Renata. This is clearly not the man you grew up with—and he’s not the man you fell in love with either. He’s something else entirely.
I cross my arms and watch, my gut twisting and wringing itself out as Wingate picks up his hungover cousin from the overly expensive teak lounge chair where he’s stretched out in all of his gigantic glory. The two walk ahead of me into the house, and I thank my lucky stars that Mack’s never been a belligerent drunk. Instead, he’s often extra agreeable, extra gullible, and extra friendly.
That’s probably why we have an SD card full of pictures of him surrounded by mostly naked women and a recording of him talking about how parties are the most important thing he could do for his career.
Perhaps against my better judgment, I walk into the replica of the house that seemed like it was designed out of my brain. I silently curse Wingate for “needing” me on this day, for dragging me into the talking-sense-into-Mack portion of our plan. But with a confirmed paparazzo sneaking in to do a tell-all piece on Mack’s decline in the league, I can’t deny that Wingate is probably in over his head. And I can’t deny that Mack does need some kind of intervention, with a person besides his cousin orchestrating the thing. After all, he hears Wingate’s voice every day, telling him he’s screwing up, telling him he’s headed into a deep downward spiral. To Mack, it’s probably just background noise.
I sit down on Mack’s leather couch and put my head in my hands as Wingate shoves his cousin toward the shower at the back of the house. I hear some cursing and bumping, but then the shower turns on, and Wingate reappears in the main living room.
He looks at me and shakes his head sadly. “He’s not what he used to be, Renata.”
“He’s not. I was just thinking that.” I kick off my sandals and smooth out my skirt, leaning back in one of the reclining chairs on Mack’s sofa. “I’ve seen this before in other NFL players. They start out strong and hold steady for a number of years, and then it’s like their maturity gets sucked out of them. Once they get too big for their britches, they end up shooting themselves in the foot. It’s not pretty.”
Wingate paces, looking like he’s lost in thought. After a few rounds of stomping over the hardwood floor, he comes and sits down next to me. “I’ve seen a lot of this type of thing too, Ren. But this is almost different. It’s like he doesn’t have anything to hold onto.”
I sigh heavily and shake my head to try and clear it out. I keep wanting to think of Mack as the man I used to know, the one who took his studies just as seriously as football, the one who prioritized practice over everything, even leaving me and Wingate to drink by ourselves in college when he felt he’d had enough for the evening. Right now, I need to think of Mack as just another NFL player, one with a particularly bad attitude. He’s nothing to me now, isn’t that right? So I need to treat him that way and put my plan into high gear.
“It doesn’t matter the cause of it, Wingate,” I say, searching my brain and recalling the different things I’ve done to help wayward NBA and NFL players. “It just matters that we fix it. And we need to fix it as soon as possible—before the pre-season starts up, before he starts making appearances on TV and getting interviews in the magazines.”