by K. Bromberg
“I’m sure your sisters have seen him on occasion,” he says and I wonder if that’s true. And if they have, did they talk to him or pretend as if they hadn’t seen him to avoid the awkwardness?
“Have you?”
“Me?” he asks and I nod. “A few times but I’ve kept my distance out of respect for him and his family.”
“What does that mean?” I ask with a disbelieving laugh.
He shrugs. “It means everything was very sudden. The accusations then your mother’s passing. There was never closure on any side, and it’s not my place to initiate it or put Drew in the position to feel like he needs to answer for his father. So . . . I’ve made sure to keep my distance.”
I stare at my father and consider his very diplomatic answer. I need to know more. Need to know if what Drew and I are doing is going to upset some fragile balance I didn’t even know was a thing.
“Did Gary throw the playoff game, Dad? That’s what the accusations were, right? That he was gambling on the game and threw it on purpose to win big.”
My father nods slowly. “That was the supposition, yes.”
“Did he do it?”
He twists his lips and sighs, his expression pained. “I don’t know.”
“You two were inseparable. You had to have known.”
“I don’t. No one does, really.”
“So he just walked away from the game, from your friendship, and has never talked about it since?”
“Pretty much.”
“That’s weird. Even you have to admit that it looks shady,” I say.
“To you and me and the public, yes. To him and his reasons, maybe it was logical.”
I grit my teeth, frustrated with my dad’s sense of fairness. It’s a blessing and a curse the way he gives everyone the benefit of the doubt. Sometimes you just want him to take a damn side.
“Football was his life. Even I remember how much he loved the game. Was there an investigation? What was the conclusion when it was over? Did—”
“He just up and walked away, Brex. There was nothing to investigate if he wasn’t playing.”
“Since when is that the case?”
“Since maybe that was the terms of him walking away?” He lifts his hands. “No one knows, but that’s what seems the most likely.”
“You don’t know?”
“No one does.”
“Humph.” I breathe out a frustrated sigh. “That makes him sound guilty.”
“Or it looks like he didn’t want to drag his family through the mud because of it.”
I chew the inside of my lip and stare out at the lights on the skyscrapers around us. “But why’d he cut you off? You were his best friend. Our families were . . .”
“I don’t know. Shortly thereafter your mom passed, and our life fell apart, so I didn’t have the energy to try and worry about him when I was worrying about the four of you. I probably should have and that’s on me. And maybe I was pissed. Our circumstances were a lot more life-altering, and Gary was so involved in himself that he didn’t cross the aisle to see how we were.”
I snap my head over to him, surprised by his words. “That’s a reasonable way to feel considering we lost Mom while he only lost his job.”
“It was his life, Brex. The man lived and breathed football. It was everything to that family—including Drew—and so in a sense they went through a huge loss too.”
“So you never talked to him again?”
“I tried for a bit, but it was one-sided.”
I mull over my father’s words and try to figure how they play into Drew and the man he’s made himself into.
“Wait? Why did you ask if Drew was cordial? Did you think he wouldn’t be?” I ask.
“Some people don’t like reminders of the past. You’re a reminder,” he says in a measured tone.
“There’s more there.”
My father’s sigh fills the room. “Drew came to me . . . after. He was all hot under the collar. Accusing me of things. I don’t remember the whole of it other than the fact that he was angry and all over the place with what he was saying.”
“Why was he angry at you? Did you have any part in it?”
“No. I didn’t even know Gary was gambling. How would I have been privy to him trying to throw a game? I mean, when we were in the Keys he was super stressed over something, not acting himself, but I just chalked it up to the mounting pressure for him to perform in the coming season. I never thought he was gambling or anything like that.”
“But Drew confronted you?” I meter my reaction and the shock hearing it brings me.
“He did.” His eyes go dark as he remembers. “He was seventeen or eighteen and fuming. Looking for answers as to why his life irrevocably changed. The kid idolized his father and seemed so damn lost trying to understand what had happened just like we all were. I just figure Drew needed answers, so he came to the only other male figure he could trust.”
“But you gave him nothing.”
“I had nothing to give him but a shoulder to lean on and an ear to listen. He wanted neither.”
“And you haven’t spoken to any of them since?”
“I have not.” He looks out to the city beyond, lost in thought for a beat, a soft smile on his face.
I try to fathom how that happens. How two families who are like one, simply disintegrate at a time when they needed the other the most.
But then again, isn’t that what we did when my mom died? We closed ranks and took care of each other. Isn’t that what happens?
To Drew, a part of his life died that year too.
“The past is the past. What happened is what happened. We don’t talk about it, we don’t pick it apart. It’s history for a reason.” Is that why?
Does he still carry that same anger? And if he does, what can that possibly mean for us?
DREW
9 years earlier
“WHO WAS THAT?”
I look over to my dad standing in the doorway of my bedroom, shake my head, and sigh. “USC.”
My dad nods but doesn’t speak. I’m sure the defeat that owns my posture says it all. Another rejection. Another hollow explanation about how my stats are incredible but . . .
“He said I was a gamble.” I chuckle but it lacks amusement. “That’s an apropos choice of words, don’t you think?” I ask, baiting him. I’m pissed and hurt and defeat is starting to wear me down. “A gamble. Wonder why he used those words? The same goddamn words almost every other coach has said to me in some way or another over the past few weeks.”
I roll my shoulders and shove up off my bed as it really hits me. My dream school. The same one that recruited me eagerly a year ago as a freaking junior, made all kinds of promises, now is treating me like I’m some run-of-the-mill quarterback who doesn’t deserve their time.
My dream school . . . now gone.
“I told you football was a pipe dream, Drew.”
And I don’t know what it is about his comment—the passiveness in his voice, the underlying disapproval, something—but it sets me off.
“A pipe dream?” I turn and shout at him. “A pipe dream?” My voice screeches. “Here I thought you were going to be disappointed in me, and instead you’re telling me I need to give up the one thing I have?” I meet his eyes and feel like the man I once knew is no longer there, lost in this hell we’ve been living in for the past six months. “I don’t understand you anymore. Not a fucking thing about you, Dad.”
“Watch your tone with me.”
I laugh. “That’s funny. You think I give a damn about what you think of me? You walked away from this game—from everything you loved—and we’ve never been the same since. None of us! Not Mom, not Maggs, and sure as fuck not you!”
He doesn’t flinch at my accusations, nor does he move from his spot in the doorway, almost as if he’s standing there willing me to use him as my punching bag. “It wasn’t everything I loved, Drew. You guys are what I loved. Who I love. You guys are—”
/> “Sure could’ve fucking fooled me. You’re a ghost around here. The minute you stopped playing you became a shadow of yourself, and fuck if all I want is my old dad back.”
“I understand you’re disappointed, but there are other things in life than football, son,” he says evenly.
“Like what?” The pitch of my voice is such a contrast to his. “Because my old dad wouldn’t have uttered those words. He would have told me that I’m talented and that we’d move heaven and earth to give me a chance. He would have pushed me and encouraged me and told me to never give up until I get what I want. I would have been able to look up into those stands and see him there being proud of me, but instead, he’s hiding at home like a guilty coward I know he isn’t. He would have told me that he’s proud of me for following in his footsteps, so I could try to be just like him.” My voice breaks and I fucking hate that a tear has slid down my cheek in anger.
He doesn’t give me the fight I’m angling for. The same fight I’ve wanted since that day he stood in our house six months ago and told us he was walking away from the game our family had been built on. He just stands there staring at me with indiscernible emotions written all over his face.
His silence is almost as crippling as his complacency.
“Screw you, Dad. Screw. You.” My body vibrates with anger and I try to fathom how this is our life. How he became him and I became me, and how I’ve grown to resent him so damn much.
“Everything will work itself out. It will—”
“You’re damn right it will,” I shout and shove a finger in his direction. “Because I’m going to do this on my own.” I think of the form saved on my computer that will allow me to legally change my name. The one I’d filled out in a brash moment last week when I wondered if it was Bowman that was holding me back. If it was his name that people were seeing instead of my talent.
Now I know.
I turn to my dad and look him in the eyes—needing to see his reaction when I utter the words of betrayal. Hoping that they will spark a reaction that will give me an ounce of insight into what the truth really is.
“I’m going to do it without your name with its shame and stigma attached to me.”
But he doesn’t flinch. He simply nods and turns and walks away.
Because that’s all he’s good at now.
Walking away.
DREW
“I’M GLAD TO HEAR YOU’RE doing well.”
I walk to the other side of my hotel room, one arm tucked under the other one, and look out the window to the rainy sidewalk of Seattle down below.
Maggie inhales a shaky breath. “Well is kind of overshooting, but I’m doing what I can.”
I close my eyes for a beat and hate that I’m feeling like I’m on top of the fucking world while she’s suffering through withdrawal.
“I’m proud of you, Maggs.”
“I’m not.” There’s a brutal honesty to her voice. One I hate to hear—because I know she’s going through hell—yet love to hear because it means she’s sober.
“Have you talked to Charley?” I ask.
“No. I need—I need to be better before I can. It’s rough right now and she . . . Christ, she doesn’t fucking deserve this.”
“You’re right. She doesn’t. But neither do you.”
There is silence as she digests my words. “How am I ever going to beat this, Drew?” Her voice breaks and it kills me.
“With a lot of help.”
She sniffs and then I hear someone talking in the background. “I have to go. My time is up.”
“Okay.”
“Tell Charley I love her.”
I nod even though she can’t see me because I have a huge lump in my throat. “Of course.”
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to be the person you want me to be, Drew.”
“I just want you to be you, Maggs. Just you.”
There’s another sniffle and then the call ends.
It’s my sigh that fills the hotel room.
She used her first call in three weeks to phone me. I’m not sure how I feel about that. If I should think of it as a burden that I’m the stability she looks toward or a blessing.
Regardless, I know I feel like shit. Nothing about this feels good.
And it hasn’t in the longest time.
I feel like fear is what we Bowmans live in.
I look at you and see one of the most gifted and talented quarterbacks I’ve ever seen, but the man beneath is too goddamn afraid to step into the limelight.
While I may have been drunk at the McMasters’ wedding, those words of Brexton’s have stuck with me.
I can’t shake them loose.
The worst part?
I’m embarrassed by them.
Does she think less of me because of it? Does she see these other starting players and wonder what they have that I don’t?
“Christ,” I mutter and run a hand through my hair.
One fucking phone call from Maggs, and I’m already doubting if the high I’ve been on for the past two days since I’ve left Brexton’s bed is real or not.
Maybe more like warranted or not.
Tapping my cell phone against my chin, I debate whether or not I should call her. Have I wanted to? Of course. Have I worried that everything was just too goddamn perfect and if I call her I’ll realize it wasn’t? Most definitely.
“Quit being a pussy, Bowman. Just call her.”
With a shake of my head, I pull up her contact and dial.
“Hey, you,” she answers on the second ring. Fucking hell, my balls draw up at the rasp of her voice.
“Hey.”
“How’s Seattle?”
“Rainy.”
“Forecast calls for clear skies for the game tomorrow though.”
“You keeping tabs on me, Kincade?” I ask and chuckle.
“I do happen to have clients on your team, you know.”
“I do indeed.”
The line falls silent for a beat as I realize I had no real reason to call, and now I don’t really know what to say.
“Did you need something?” she asks.
“No. I just . . . I don’t know.” I chuckle and feel like a complete idiot. “When can we see each other again?”
“I like the way your mind thinks.”
“You do, huh?”
“I do. In fact, I was sitting here looking out of my office window thinking way too much about the other night.”
And I can picture her in some high-rise building with her heels on, her long legs crossed at the knee, and her hair pulled up off her neck.
“Hopefully they were all good thoughts.”
“Mm-hmm. More along the lines of want to do it again thoughts.”
“Is that so?” I ask as my body hums at the prospect.
“It is.”
“When can I see you again?” I ask. “I get back into town on Monday morning.”
“Why did I know you were going to say that?”
“Why?”
“I leave Monday morning for the Midwest for meetings.”
“Can you tell those corn-fed Midwest boys you have other plans?”
“This time it’s a female gymnast, but I can tell her.”
I laugh and even when the sound dissipates, my smile remains.
That’s what she does to me.
“When do you come back?” I ask, clearly desperate to see her again.
“Friday morning,” she says and I groan. “Let me guess, you fly out Friday?”
“Yep. Miami.”
She sighs. “Is this where I say good things come to those who wait and then we both pretend like we’re okay with waiting?”
“I’m not okay with it,” I deadpan.
Her laughter fills the line. “That makes two of us.”
“Good to know.”
“Sunday night when you get home from Miami then.”
“Such the planner.”
“Always.” She laughs. “So, tell me about your
day.”
“Do you want the long or the short version?” I tease.
“Long version. I like to hear your voice,” she murmurs and wins over another piece of me.
So I talk about the flight here to Seattle. How we ran game prep drills today once we got here, and how I think Klingerman hurt his knee while running a play. She gave her two cents on how this isn’t a good time for him to be hurt since he’ll be up for free agency next year, and I suggested he may retire.
“What about your day?” I ask when I’ve run through the paces of mine. “What hot new athlete are you chasing after now?”
“It’s quite the opposite actually,” she says. “I had to have the conversation with a longtime client that it might be time to hang up his skates.”
Her words are like a gut punch to me—words every athlete fears hearing. “That couldn’t have been easy.”
“Which is why I’m already on glass number two of wine.” She blows out a sigh. “And it’s never easy, but I’d much rather have my clients go out on top and happy than on the bottom with their reputation tarnished for holding on too long.”
“How’d he take it?” There is silence on the other end of the line and then a sniffle that just adds to the twist in my gut. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. It’s just part of the job. On the plus side, I negotiated a kick-ass endorsement deal for a female soccer player today that will help compensate for the crap wages she gets paid simply because of her gender.”
“That’s a definite plus.”
She continues, telling me about her day.
Snippets.
Little pieces of our daily lives shared and listened to. Parts of ourselves offered up and accepted.
It’s the first time I get a glimpse of what it would be like to have more with Brex. Having that person to talk over the day with, even if it is a bit like sleep, play, repeat, it’s my job. And normally, I have no one to discuss it with.
Yet, with her, it feels natural.
Hell, I’m not a stranger to dating or just plain sleeping with a woman to pass the time. I’ve done sex without commitment on occasion. I’ve casually dated. But with Brexton, what I can’t quite put my finger on, is how it feels so effortless when it should be the exact fucking opposite.
