He regards me with something akin to disdain. “You can’t afford to have second thoughts. Let me reiterate. You agreed to this. You took the profiles and picked out the candidate. You talked to her on Skype and said she seemed—in your words—‘real nice.’ And she’s coming here tonight for a high-class dinner that can be effectively documented by a photographer of our choice. It puts the ball back in our court—or on our field, what the hell ever. It gives us back the power, and that way, we can help mold the public perception of you—and your fellow players while we’re at it. Instead of thinking we’re some lazy podunk joint down in the Carolinas, they’ll start to see more of what we can be.” Wingate leans back on the sofa that faces the bed and then looks out of the window that faces the pool.
It’s a bad reminder of all the shit I’ve pulled, a reminder that I might be able to do better.
The late-night parties that made me and my teammates late to practice. The several eighteen year-old girls I was dating at the same time, the ones who probably caught Eddie Davidson’s eye and made him know for sure that I was no damn good. Why does Renata being here make me feel like this? All reflective and shit? Good God, that woman. That stare of hers, cutting me down to the bone and making me realize things I haven’t figured out in six years of playing professional football.
I crack my knuckles again and think of Renata, the last time I saw her at Brooks University. I didn’t know I’d never see her again, didn’t know that all the shit that happened would happen. I’ve wished a million times that I could go back in time, start all over again.
But I can’t. And now we’re stuck here. I’m waiting for my fake girlfriend to show up, to start a relationship with someone I don’t know for the sake of cameras, for the sake of popularity, for the sake of who knows what.
I get up and pace again, and then I stop, looking directly at Wingate. “Couldn’t Renata be that woman for me? Couldn’t she pretend to be my girlfriend? We did it once before...” My voice trails off, and my throat tightens. There’s an uncomfortable twist deep in the pit of my stomach.
Wingate’s blond eyebrows furrow. "I don’t know what kind of ideas you’re getting, here. I brought Renata here because she’s the best at this game, because she knows you so well. I didn’t bring her here to get her hurt or to give you some foolish notion that you get a do-over. You fucked up, boyo. A long time ago, I might add. And this woman’s here to straighten you out. I know you’re not used to having a woman around who’s looking out for you. She can see you’re going off the deep end better than anyone. And she’s here to fix it.”
Wingate’s voice reflects his anger—anger about the ways I’m messing up my career, and anger he hasn’t expressed in a long time. The anger that came when I hurt his friend.
“It just doesn’t feel right.” I sigh deeply, thinking again of that hole in the wall. In the past few days, all of it has started to sink in. I could lose my income, I could lose the job that I love, and I could lose the ability to help my brother take care of the farm back home. The very thought of my brother makes something tighten in my body, an old guilt that I haven’t faced in a long time. That day. Renata. The tremendous weight of leaving her.
Wingate gives me a stern look. “You don’t have the luxury of thinking something doesn’t feel right, man. You know what a regular man working at a bank would get from pulling all this shit?”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Fired, probably last year. And without severance. One thing we know about the NFL, they’re not going to give you a fat severance package. They’ll leave you high and dry, and before long, you’ll be homeless or working as a damn football coach at the local high school. That’s if you’re lucky. When it comes to you, Mack, I think the homeless thing might be a little more likely.”
I can’t do this when the woman I loved is right out there in the guest house.
I should say it, but I don’t. Wingate doesn’t know about my brother, about my mother and father. About the farm. There’s so much shame tied up with all of that that I can’t bear even thinking about it, let alone saying it aloud. The deal still stands, my brother reminded me when Renata got up here. As long as her old man is living.
“I don’t want that. I don’t.” It’s all I can say. I’ve already agreed to this party with Kinley, already met her over the computer and talked to her and signed the forms. She’s showing up within the next ten minutes, and she’s depending on me, too.