by Ginger Scott
“Sarah Perez, as my father and brother would say, you’ve knocked me on my ass…” Jason pauses just long enough for Sarah to understand what’s happening. My friend covers her mouth and looks around the room, crying hard when she sees her sister Calley and her parents now standing in the corner behind her. Her wide eyes swing to mine next, and I smile as she shakes her head in disbelief.
Jason pulls the ring from his back pocket and gets down on one knee, which only makes my best friend shake more.
I can’t believe I was ever against this happening. Seeing it here now, how he’s asking, the words he’s saying about her, and more than anything, how happy my friend is—this was meant to be. I’m sad it took so long.
“I love you so much that I’m willing to be whatever man it takes to be worthy of being yours. I’m done hiding how I feel—how I know we both feel. I want the world to see me kiss you and take your breath away. I want to know my home will be wherever you are. I want to have kids, and build a family, and learn how to make that amazing soup you make, and to worship you and brag about you to every single person I meet. Sarah Perez, I want you to be a Johnson. I want you to take me as your husband because breathing without you is hard…and it’s quickly becoming impossible.”
My eyes are tearing as I watch this guy—who I have seen fail and make an ass out of himself so often—bare himself raw for a woman I know is the best one there is left on the planet.
Jason’s hand trembles as he holds the ring forward and leans his face toward his bicep, running his sleeve along his damp eyes.
“Will you marry me?”
She answers in an instant, her voice gone and unable to make a sound but her emphatic head nod leaving nothing to question. In a blink, she’s being swung in Jason’s arms, clawing her legs around his waist while he kisses her like the princess she is. He slides the ring on her finger while their lips dust one another’s with words and kisses.
That’s love, the realest kind.
I squeeze my hand to feel Reed, to know he’s there. We have that. I know we do. I trust it more than I trust anything, and when the night is done, I’ll put that in the box about him, too.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Reed
Six weeks.
That’s what we said was the magic number.
I marked it off on the calendar a week ago, and I know Nolan’s keeping better track than I am. That six-week date came and went, and for whatever reason, I’m too chicken to ask her if she’s ready to tell everyone. Maybe I’m not ready to tell everyone.
I don’t know what I am.
“You ready?” Jason asks. I hold up two fingers while I walk back into my bedroom to find my phone. I left it charging because I’m obsessed with hearing from Nolan lately. I need to know she’s okay. I worry about her and the baby constantly. It’s literally wrapped up every synapsis in my brain.
It’s the last game of the year. It’s Baltimore, and they’re vicious. Neither of us has anything to play for or anything to lose. Our playoff hopes are gone, but barely. We were in it until the very end. Well, almost the very end. Last week the wrong teams won, making our six-game streak meaningless for the team. It means a lot for me, though.
The interviews have all been the same.
“Where are you finding this renewed energy?”
“How do you think you’ve been able to step into a role you’ve been away from for two years?”
“Why do you think the players respond to you?”
My answers are so memorized, I’m not sure they’re real anymore.
“I’ve always had the energy, but just not the opportunity. It’s what I’ve worked hard my whole life to be able to do—to lead a team. I’m honored to lead this one.”
And… "I just love the game. I think I’ve been lucky enough to find other players who love the game, too. We’ve been able to bond quickly here in OKC. There’s a real passion for what we do out on that field, and I think it’s less about me leading and more about what we do together as a unit, you know?”
I guess that last part is true. I’ve grown close to Waken. He’s going to be a Hall of Famer one day. He’s the Jerry Rice of now. I can see it in how fast he grows, how quickly he learns. He’s a different player by the end of every game. It’s a beautiful thing for a quarterback to find hands like his. He’s football purity—through and through.
I flop on my bed and reach over to the night table, my room still sparse of anything but the basics. I flip over my phone and wish for there to be a message from her. When there isn’t one, I send her a quick note.
Feeling ok?
She hates the doting. I don’t just sense it; she told me last night that she hates the doting. It makes her think about how she should be nervous, which only makes her nervous. But if I don’t ask, it builds up in my head to the very worst.
When she doesn’t write back right away, I shout out to Jason.
“Got it, be right there,” I say, pausing for a few more seconds, considering calling her.
I give up after a few more seconds and follow my brother out the door.
“Chicago wants to talk,” he says.
I bite my lip, mentally adding that to the sick game of Jenga indecision happening in my gut.
“That’s good, right?” Jason leans into me a little at the elevator bay.
“Oh, yeah…no…it is. I was just thinking about all of it. Hey…you hear from Noles today?” I’m not even hiding my preoccupation.
Jason rubs his palm over his face and sighs.
“I’ll ask Sar. I’m sure she’s fine. Dude, you need to tell me what you wanna do. How do you want to handle this? Because I’ve got interest, Reed. I’ve got a lot of interest. It won’t be here, unfortunately. And Arizona’s tied up. But you’ve got a two, maybe a three-year deal in the blueprint if you want it. A good deal, too. Like…ca-ching!”
Jason rubs his thumb to his fingers and I smirk.
“What if I’m a fluke?” I shift my eyes over to him in the elevator.
“Fuck that. You’re a Johnson.” He lets out a laugh and goes back to looking at something on his phone. He’s not just filling my head; that’s what Jason truly believes. I think half of me believes that, too. The other half is thinking about having another baby, and missing more of the other half of my life.
Jason’s smiling with tight lips, so I lean to my side to get a glimpse of his phone. I see Sarah’s name, but that’s all I get before he jerks his phone away and tells me to get the fuck out of his business. I hold up my palms and laugh. He’s smitten, and it’s so cool to see it from this perspective.
I was smitten once too. Now I’m just terrified.
What if I’m messing all of this up?
I flip my phone in my palm all the way to the stadium. Jason set up a service to clear out my condo for me after the game, and I’m showering and heading right to the airport to go home—my real home. The home I’m dying to hear from.
Jason drops me at the back entrance for the players and drives on to the executive lot. He said he has to take a few calls but I think maybe he’s just taking one—and I think it will probably be a FaceTime with Sarah.
The underbelly of the stadium is cold and empty. Almost everyone’s already arrived and either getting work or being taped together so they can get in one last game, a final performance for the next year’s paycheck. This part of the season is always hard. You’re always playing for something. And if you’re not playing for a title or a spot, then you’re playing for yourself. Team goes to shit on nights like this, and this is when that leadership job becomes real damn essential. I better get my head in the right place.
I notice Coach Simms sitting in the boardroom on my way to the locker room, so I pause. He’s in the dark, only lit by the fluorescents of the hallway.
“This a new interrogation tactic you’re testing out? I gotta tell you, I think the dark is just gonna put them to sleep,” I say, taking a chair next to him and rolling it out so I can extend my legs.
I’m due for the trainer soon, my turn to get taped back together.
“Ha, you’re funny, Johnson,” he says, tilting his head back with a hard laugh and turning his chair a little to face me more. He leaves his gaze up at the ceiling and stretches his hands behind his head, interlocking them.
“I was just thinking about how it’s been a good run.”
I let his words sit with me for a few beats. I know the deal he was given. They want him back here in OKC, and it’s a pretty penny—two years, twelve mil. That’s almost New England money.
“Good run, huh?” I bait him.
He swivels a little in the chair, then levels me with his eyes.
“Yep, I’m done. Money’s nice and all, and the job is the best there is, but I’m tired Reed. I’ve got things to do, other things to get to, ya know?”
I smirk and nod slowly.
“I know a thing or two about that,” I say.
Our eyes rest on each other for a long pause, and eventually his hands let go of their grip on one another and he leans forward to rest an elbow on the shiny, glass table. My contract was signed in this room. I remember how uneasy I felt in my own skin. I feel at home right now, and I wonder if that’s because there’s nothing at risk. There’s nothing to lose here now.
“I hear Chicago’s interested. Baylor’s a good coach. You’d work well together,” he says, clearing his voice with a hard cough.
I nod.
“That’s what my agent says.”
He chuckles.
“Ain’t that your brother?”
I laugh a little in response.
“Yeah, it is.” Coach’s laugh breaks for just a breath then starts in again, and I join him.
“He’s actually good at the job” I sigh, the itch of laughter leaving my chest. Silence settles into the room, and I get the sense that Coach Simms is content just letting it be there. He’s at peace with it all, even the outcome of today.
“You wanna win?” I ask, lifting a brow.
He mimics me.
“Reed, son. I always wanna win. Even when I don’t really give two shits.”
I lift my chin and smile to the ceiling.
“Ahh, yeah. I think maybe I like how you roll,” I respond.
“It’s gotten me through a lot of tough decisions,” he says.
“What has?” I ask.
“My gut. Gut instincts, really. My gut’s just fat as hell, ha!” I glance at the bulging belly for a second and smile.
“Your gut, huh?”
“Yep.” His answer is concise.
I flit my eyes up to his, and he leans back, this time folding his hands together on his belly before crossing one leg over his knee.
“When you need to make the choice, Reed. You’ll know. It will hit you like a fucking Mack truck. I promise.” He holds my gaze at that, and I take it all in. He must sense my struggle. I must be wearing it more than I thought I was.
I reach to the center of the table and snag a piece of chocolate from the bowl that’s always full. They’re probably old as shit, but I want one. I stand and hold it up to him between my finger and thumb.
“Gut says I want this,” I say.
He lifts one side of his mouth.
“Well then, best give it what it wants.”
He winks at me and leans back a little more, diving back into his blissful bubble.
I knock on the door as I leave and walk slowly down the hall, picking at the tinfoil wrap around the chocolate. I pop it in my mouth and am instantly disappointed. So much for my goddamned gut. I spit it out in the trash by the locker-room door.
My phone doesn’t leave my palm the entire time I’m with the trainer, propped on my thigh while they work my shoulder with deep massage, and then right back in my hand when my ankles get taped. I’m sure everything’s fine, but I just wish she would tell me something.
Eventually, I have to give in and put my phone away to head out to the field. The unsettled feeling grows with the clock’s countdown. By the time I’m lined up for the anthem, my feet can’t stay still. I’m like a kid who has to pee at a wedding. I’m on edge.
The feeling sticks with me out on the field, and I start with a dismal three and out. Six wins in a row will buy me a little forgiveness, but this crowd will start to boo if I go out there and do that shit again. I wish there was some way I could just know. I need to know she’s okay, that my family is okay. I start to pace the sidelines, stopping when others start to notice, but starting again the second they look away.
I bet the color commentary guys are loving this. Shit…I bet Dad’s seeing this. I take a seat and stuff my hands into the pockets of my jacket. I’ve never felt the cold before, but for some reason, tonight it freezes me to the bone.
“Come on, Reed. Out of your head.” Jenkins slaps the top of my helmet as he walks by, my cue to follow him. I try to shake off the strange sensation eating at me and join him to watch tape of my pathetic first set of downs.
“You’re sinking into the pocket. Look…there.” He pauses the video on the iPad and zooms in, pointing out shit I already know.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, which irritates him and he steps more directly in front of me, between my body and the field.
“Yeah,” he says again, firmer this time.
My eyes lift enough to see how serious his are and I crack my neck to one side and blink as I lower my gaze.
“Sorry, I’ve got some personal things. You’re right. Off the field. I’m focused.” I almost believe my promise to him.
“Good, now the pocket…you have too much faith in our offensive line. I don’t want to get you killed. So how about we start pivoting out, moving those legs a little,” he says, face tilted and brow raised.
“Got it. Lemme watch again.”
I didn’t really watch the first time. This round, I focus, and I see just how slow I am. It’s like I’m carrying elephants around the field, and I hold onto them all the way to my knees until I’m under the two-hundred-forty pounds of flesh that wrapped me up twice in a row last time out.
Our defense recovers a fumble and I get my redemption, this time heading out with nothing but my dad in my thoughts. He never misses a game. He’s watching, and if this is it—if this is the last time I decide to take the field—then it’s going to be damn near perfect from here out.
My time in the pocket only gets shorter. Jenkins was right. After a thrown-away pass for the first down, I roll out for the second and spot Waken about twenty yards out, a foot away from his defender. My window is shrinking; number sixty-six is coming at me with wide-open, angry arms. The next half-second feels like it takes thirty. My eyes look for any other option but going down. All I need is to buy Waken a few…more…steps…
My body going down, he turns just enough that I get a view, and I throw the ball like a third baseman from my knees, whipping it with my elbow as hard as I can and somehow cutting through two defenders reaching in to intercept it. I don’t know if it got caught at all. I know my arm hurts like hell, and I know that sixty-six is heavy as fuck. He pushes my shoulder into the turf hard as he stands, offering his palm to help me up as if that makes it okay. I take it, because I need it; I jump to my feet just in time to see Waken breaking the last ten yards free and into the End Zone.
My body feels an instant injection of victory, however brief, and nothing hurts anymore. Nothing feels impossible, and my problems stay over there, to the side, for the next forty minutes.
There’s no reason for my eyes to focus on the man in the suit. Well-dressed business types float around the space behind the sidelines all the time. The list of VIPs who bought the right to walk almost wherever the hell they want is long. But this guy—he looks different. He’s here for a reason. He’s looking for someone.
I start to stand before I see the Chaplain walk toward the man. My chest empties, and my heart stops. My stomach drops to my feet, and I’m frozen where I stand, somewhere between ready to go in, and ready to collapse.
Coach
Jenkins gets waved over; my feet start to dig more into the ground. Suddenly staying right here, in ignorance, feels like the best option. It’s not a practical one, though, and their faces all turn to me in slow motion.
It feels like I’ve been shot—the pinpoint sharpness hitting my chest, knocking the wind from me again. My knees buckle and I lose my balance for a moment, catching myself with a flat palm on the metal bench.
They’re eyes are full of warning and all of that junk that comes along with not wanting to give someone bad news. Jenkins starts to jog toward me. I shake my head in response, as if I can somehow request that we just don’t do this.
“Just tell me.” I must look rabid, because my quarterback coach has gone ghost white; he’s looking over his shoulder for backup.
“You need to talk with Greg real quick…” He’s bad at this. He doesn’t even know how to deliver bad news on his own.
“Jenk, just tell me. Is Nolan all right?”
“What? Nolan? No…oh, no Reed. She’s fine, she’s totally fine. I mean, as far as I know. This is about Jason—” He shakes his head, wanting to take it back the instant my brother’s name falls from his lips.
My head turns a thousand directions. There are seconds left in the half…there’s a whole other half. I can’t though; I can’t. Why would they talk to me now if it weren’t terrible? They always wait for the end of the game for news like this. The team always wants their commodity sharp—why would they make me dull?
“Reed, let’s head in…let me get you inside…” Jenkins urges me to follow along behind him, and my head plays the running commentary.
Johnson’s leaving the field. I wonder if time’s finally catching up to him. That arm only has so many throws left in it. And some of those hits he’s taken today—a man who’s been through what he’s been through can only be sacked so many times before he breaks. I wonder if that’s what we’re seeing here?
I guess we’ll know if we see him at the second half or if they go with third-stringer Jackson Barrett. Good enough time as any to break in the youth.
