There’s a lingering, almost crushing weight that comes over me for an instant, and then it’s gone. If I had to identify it—and I don’t want to most of the time—it’s the thought that there’s a better manager out there. Not because Wingate is lacking in any way, but because there’s a manager who was supposed to be my partner in life, not just my partner in business. But there are debts I owed a long time back, things I got saddled with that I don’t even fully understand.
And that manager, the one I was supposed to have with me for every moment of my waking life—well, there ain’t a way in hell she’d want me now. Not how I am. I’m damn good at playing ball, but I don’t exactly have a pristine reputation with women.
Absently, I wonder if there’s another beer in the mini-fridge next to my bed. I could use a good wake up beer, or a joint if that young lady has one in her purse. All these girls, they got condoms—that’s one thing. And some of them have joints lying around. And since it’s the last game of the season, I don’t have to worry about getting tested much longer… If I have both the beer and the joint, it might drown out that thing I’m feeling. That thing that feels an awful lot like sadness, maybe tinged with regret. Well, not regret, not exactly. I looked her up the other day, and I know damn well if I hadn’t done what I did, she wouldn’t have an MBA from Berkeley, and she wouldn’t be out there, soaring to the top of her field and doing what she was meant to do.
I’d much rather have her doing all than saddled with me and all the things I had to take care of. She’s better off.
I reach over for the girl’s purse and open it up, leaning on one elbow.
“What the hell are you doing?” My cousin, college roommate, and constant companion looks at me with unbridled disdain, hands on his skinny hips. He sniffs the air as I pull out a thinly rolled joint from the girl’s clutch. And—without a split second of hesitation—he knocks it out of my hand and to the floor.
“What the hell you do that for, Wingate?” I sit up all the way, groaning. He doesn’t understand. I need something to make it go away, even if it’s just for fifteen or twenty minutes. That’s normally long enough to get my act together and make sure that I’m not going crazy, at least for a bit. “Game isn’t til seven tonight. I got plenty of time to do what I want and then sober up.”
“You need to make an appearance. You need to get out there and practice with your teammates. Be on time. Be sober. You’ve been plenty good at pretending on that last part for most of the season, Mack. But you’re not fooling me. And it’s beginning to become apparent to the rest of the players, the coach, and the owner. The one who writes your paycheck. Remember him?”
“He doesn’t write anything. He barely even shows his face for preseason. We just know he’s up in the stadium box, silently watching when we play home games.” I lean over and grab my last beer from the mini fridge before I hop out of my bed and pull on my boxers. There’s plenty of time between now and that game, and I need a little hair of the dog to get me back up to speed. And then I need coffee, a protein shake, and plenty of water. I’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time at all.
Or so I tell myself.
I shake off that last thought and crack open the beer, downing most of it before Wingate comes up to me and tries to knock it out of my hand. I twist my body just as he approaches and finish the rest of it. There was a time I didn’t like the taste of beer, a time when I was saving myself for the woman I was going to marry. A time when I was a good old country boy who didn’t get involved in a bunch of bullshit. Before the shame settles in, the beer takes effect, and I’m feeling quite a bit better. Wingate storms out and I hear the porch door clatter shut behind him. I shrug.
Typical. He’s no football player. He doesn’t know a damn bit about any of it. Doesn’t know what it’s like to train so hard your muscles feel like they’re going to burst. Doesn’t know what it’s like to be lonely, even though you’re surrounded by women. Doesn’t know what it’s like to do it all on your own, when that wasn’t the plan at all. I shake the last droplet of beer into my mouth and pull on a pair of basketball shorts for practice. I wish Wingate were already making coffee in the kitchen, but I’ve pissed him off good, and he’s probably driving back down the road to his house.
Figures. That’s how it goes when you employ your cousin. There will be disagreements. There will be spats. But he’s wrong. There’s nothing unusual about what I’m doing. There are a hundred football players out there right now doing the same thing, sleeping with the same number of women, and hosting the exact same number of parties as I am. Hell, maybe even more. I’m done with his bullshit. I’m going to do me, and I’ll be just fine. It’s the last game of the season, after all. What could go wrong before I start next season? Nothing at all. That’s what.