by Tracey Ward
“Yes, sir,” Anders barks back, already running his scrawny ass for the door. He lets it swing shut behind him, bringing a stony silence to the room.
Daddy pours himself another drink, sipping it slowly with his back to the men watching him. Keith sweats. Uncle Grant’s mouth breathes. Paul and I wait patiently. We’re accustomed to these thoughtful moments Daddy takes. It’s never good to interrupt them and I’m watching Keith out of the corner of my eye to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid. Luckily, he seems perfectly happy to sit there quiet and useless as a Liberal Arts degree.
“How sure are we he’s serious about quitting?” Daddy asks quietly, his tone belying his mood.
Paul and I glance at each other. His face says what I’m thinking; we’re dead sure.
“He’s done. He’s finished with the team.” Paul answers confidently.
“He feels disrespected,” I add. “He’s said so on his Twitter about a hundred times. He hasn’t been quiet about how unhappy he is.”
Daddy looks back at me in surprise. “You follow Anthony’s Twitter?”
“I follow every Kodiak on Twitter. And Instagram. Tyus is angry, Lowry is usually drunk, and Sam is a baker in his spare time. He’s really talented too. Colt’s fiancé has complimented him on his stuff and told him he has a career with her when he’s done slinging pig skin.”
“She’s got that bakery, doesn’t she?” Paul asks.
“Mad Batter.”
“Great cookies.”
“Their donuts. Oh my God,” I gush, my eyes rolling back in my head with delight.
“Are you two done?” Daddy snaps.
Paul sits up straight in response. I just smile.
Daddy can intimidate anyone on the planet with just a look; anyone but me. He’s a softy when it comes to me and I know it.
“What do we know about his life?” Daddy asks the room, but he’s really just asking me and Paul. “Is he in money trouble? Is he looking for a bonus?”
I sit forward, opening my hands on the table to reiterate the obvious. “It’s not about money. He’s angry about Josh Ramsey. Tyus has had almost zero playing time since that guy came on the team, and it’s bullshit. He’s the better player but Coach Allen keeps benching him.”
“Coach Allen is trying to build a backup. That takes time,” Paul reasons.
“And it nearly cost us a win against the Patriots. He waited too long to put Tyus in today.”
He grimaces. “I won’t argue that.”
“Ramsey was supposed to be better than Anthony,” Daddy reminds me. “He was supposed to be an asset, not a handicap.”
“He’s scared. He doesn’t like taking hits so he gets nervous when the ball comes his way. Tyus doesn’t sweat it.”
“Which is why he’s had two concussions and back spasms,” he spits out angrily.
“He’s still the better player. He proved that today, no question.”
Daddy looks at me for a long time, but he’s not looking at me. He’s looking through me, thinking. Finally, he asks Paul, “What’s Anthony looking at losing if he quits today?”
“I’d have to check his contract, but off the top of my head I’d say about two million. Maybe closer to two-point-five. Almost a hundred thousand more if we win the Super Bowl.”
“Which we will, if he stays with us,” I add confidently.
Daddy snorts into his whiskey. “Didn’t you see? He quit.”
“Yeah, but you’re not going to let him. You’ll get him back.”
“Why would I bother?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because he’s a diva.”
“So is Mama but you married her.”
He smiles at me faintly. “That’s true.”
“Keep Tyus,” I command. “Get him back. Bench Josh.”
“You think I should, huh?”
“I know you should because I know you want a Super Bowl win.”
“So do you.”
“That’s why I’m telling you to keep him.”
Daddy looks at me impassively. I stare back, my expression just as blank. Just the way he taught me.
He finishes his drink in one quick swallow, coughing into his fist. “Paul, how much wiggle room do we have for a bonus?”
“Not much,” he admits unwillingly. “Maybe two hundred thousand.”
“That’s too much. If he stays on the team through the rest of the season and we win the Super Bowl, I’ll match that bonus. Ninety-thousand. He’ll walk away with a hundred and eighty thousand in bonuses and we’ll finish his contract. End of deal.”
“I don’t think it’s about money with him,” I warn them. “It’s about the respect. He’s the better player, he should be playing. Not Ramsey. You go throwing money at him, he’s only going to get angrier.”
“I don’t care how angry he is. He has a job to do.”
“One he wants to do but Coach Allen isn’t letting him.”
“Then we’ll let him. Right, Keith?” Daddy snaps.
Keith nods readily. “He can play.”
“Oh, thank you for that,” he chuckles sarcastically. “It’s very generous of you.”
Keith doesn’t respond, and that’s good. There’s no smart response to a Greene’s derision.
“So, what are we offering him exactly?” Paul clarifies. “His starting positions back.”
“Assuming he keeps making plays like the one he did here today,” Daddy says pointedly.
“Right. And a match of his Super Bowl bonus.”
“And a sit down with Coach Allen,” I insist.
Daddy shakes his head. “That’s not part of the deal, honey. They can hash that out on their own time. I’m not interested in who’s feelings got hurt and why. He’ll get a guarantee of his spot back and a fist full of cash. These kids don’t want more than that.”
He’s wrong but I don’t say it because it won’t matter. Instead, I sip my Evian wishing it was vodka.
“What about next year?” I ask Daddy reluctantly. “Will you re-sign him?”
“No.”
I knew he was going to say that, but I still feel sick when I hear it. It’s amazing how hard it hits, and I have no idea why. Tyus Anthony is one of more than fifty guys on this team. He’s a stand out talent, sure, but I’ve never been very invested in him. He’s definitely not a personal favorite of mine. If I had to pick a favorite player, it’d be Kurtis Matthews. I had a huge crush on him his rookie year. I was fifteen, I had secured myself a sealed criminal record, but I still almost cried like a bitch when he was suddenly traded away to the Montana Miners. That kid in me screamed with excitement when he came back to us last year. His career has been a roller coaster ride of ups and downs, littered with speculation about his personal life that he guards like a troll keeping watch over his gold. A ripped, sinuous, sexy troll.
Tyus has been an even success his entire career. One of the fastest men in the NFL, he’s nearly untouchable on the field. He holds rushing records and has a highlight reel that plays like an episode of The Flash. His only flaw is his size. He’s shorter than a lot of guys out there and he weighs in about forty pounds lighter. He’s hard to catch, but if you do, he’s easy to injure. It’s one of the reasons Daddy won’t re-sign him. Tyus Anthony has proven himself to be almost more trouble than he’s worth, and next year with him off the roster there will be more money to buy a new receiver who can take hits and catch a ball, thereby making both Ramsey and Anthony obsolete. That’s how a team is run. It’s business, plain and simple.
Daddy checks his phone. He nods his approval. “Anders got to Allen and he has eyes on Anthony. We can contain this.”
“Why does it matter?” Uncle Grant asks with a yawn. “Everyone saw what happened. You can’t exactly spin it.”
“No one knows what he said to Allen down there. They just saw him take off his jersey. But if he tells even one reporter on the record that he quit, it will look like we begged him back. They’ll say we paid him off to get him on the
roster again because Ramsey is a misfire and we can’t make the Super Bowl without him. I don’t want that story out there. It will weaken our bid. It’s bad enough we’ve got that goddamn documentary crew filming our every move. We need to contain this as much as we possibly can.”
Paul groans miserably. “I forgot about the documentary.”
“How?” Daddy laughs irritably. “They’re on both sides of the field today, filming the Patriots and us. We were cherry picked by the NFL to be followed by these people because we’re the most likely to face off in the Super Bowl together, and the fact that we just beat the Pats in the last seconds of the game should be front page news, the highlight of the film, solidifying our dominance over them, but what do you think everyone is going to remember about today? Our win or Tyus Anthony’s fucking walkout?!”
No one answers that. Even Keith isn’t dumb enough to take that as anything but a rhetorical rant, and I thank God for his limited good sense.
Daddy drains the last of his liquor before setting the thick glass down on the bar behind him with a heavy thud. It’s a signal to his entourage. They move immediately, draining their own drinks and putting their empties on the bar next to his. They move out of the room in a single file line that would make a school teacher weep with pride.
As the last man disappears into the hall, Daddy looks at me with a surprisingly soft smile.
“This shouldn’t take long,” he promises.
I take an eager step toward him. “Let me watch the meeting. Just watch, I won’t say a word.”
“No.”
“Why not?” I complain, feeling instantly deflated.
“Because you will say a word, Mila. You’ll say a lot of them, and probably none of them I want this kid to hear.”
“He’s one of the best players on the team.”
He shakes his head unhappily. “Like that. I don’t want him hearing that in this meeting.”
“He already knows it. The whole world knows it. He wants to play football, that’s what’s important to him. You need to make that clear to him. He has to feel like you understand him, not like you’re throwing money at him to shut him up.”
“I told you, he and Coach Allen can talk that out. I’m not getting involved. I’ll get him a guarantee that he’ll play. He’ll get as much playing time as his body can handle.”
I frown. “What does that mean?”
“It means I need a Super Bowl win to sell the team for a premium, and I need Tyus Anthony on that field to get it. He’ll play until he’s broken in two if that’s what it takes.”
…I need a Super Bowl win to sell the team for a premium…
His words hit me like a slap across the face. They’re stunning and painful, my body retreating from him like a wounded animal. I bump back against the table, nearly sending my water toppling to the floor.
“You’re selling the team?” I ask quietly, my heart racing.
“I told myself I was going to sell three years ago, but they weren’t worth enough. It’s long overdue.”
“You were planning on selling three years ago? Why didn’t you tell me?”
He shakes his head dismissively. “Why would I worry you? It didn’t happen.”
“You should worry me because they’re my team,” I insist. “You’ve always said they’re going to be mine someday. Always!”
His eyes harden. “Don’t raise your voice to me,” he warns quietly.
I take a quick breath to slow myself down. “I just… I never knew you were thinking about selling. You said you were going to give me the team when I turned thirty. They’re part of my inheritance.”
“And I thought I would, but this isn’t your calling. This isn’t the place for you.” He looks me over, his lips coming together tightly. “It’s a man’s game, baby. It’s not a good place for a girl like you, and I won’t always be here to make sure people don’t take advantage of you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“You haven’t proven that yet.”
And another slap. Another invisible blow to my body that aches with sobriety. This one hurts the worst. Worse than both the others combined. It hurts my heart and my pride, and I feel irrationally angry because of it. Like I want to scream or cry or both.
I wonder if this is how Tyus Anthony feels right now.
I swallow thickly. “This is about Dubai, isn’t it?”
“This is about a lot of things. Dubai is one of them. The drinking and the drugs are another.”
“I quit all of that.”
“Last year. That’s not that long ago, Mila.”
I shake my head, unable to look him in the eyes.
Daddy comes in close. He pulls me into a firm hug, but I wish he wouldn’t because it makes me feel worse. It makes me feel small pressed up against him. Feckless and juvenile. “You’ll do great things, sweetie. But they won’t be with the NFL.”
He kisses the top of my head before letting me go. Before turning his back on me to leave the skybox, to leave me. He closes the door firmly between us.
When he’s gone and the rich scent of seven different colognes mercifully starts to dissipate, I groan in annoyance. I take a deep breath, sucking in air and holding it in my lungs until they complain. That’s when I release it, telling my body to relax. To calm. To send all my cares away on the air leaving my lungs.
It doesn’t listen.
I need more air. I need more something.
I go to the large glass doors sealing me off from the rest of the stadium; a crystal-clear velvet rope. I pull them open, letting in the frigid fall air. It bites at my skin, slithering inside my clothes, lacing along my long, dark hair. It runs up and down my spine until I’m shivering, my breath a cloud of fog in front of me.
People are clearing out of the stadium with surprising speed. The majority of them were Pats fans, and no one wants to stick around celebrating a loss. The players are gone, the field an empty, tarnished canvas. The day is written across its surface in a language I can’t speak, but I can see the beauty behind it; brutal and bruising. Honest. Angry.
I know that feeling. I understand that story.
I shiver again as I pull my lighter from the shallow pocket of my jeans. The joint I get from the enigmatically tiny pocket above it. I pinch it between my lips, using my hand to shelter the lighter from the whipping, cold wind. Finally the flame dances delightedly for me; orange and yellow.
Kodiak colors.
CHAPTER THREE
TYUS
My head hurts. My brain pounds against the back of my eyes like an animal rattling its cage, snarling to get out. It’s angry. It’s irrational.
It’s injured.
I get headaches a lot lately. Blinding, scorched earth kind of headaches. I feel nauseous sometimes for no reason. My balance isn’t great in the morning. I should see a doctor, I know, but I don’t because I’m afraid of what they’ll say. My career can’t be over. I’m not ready yet. I don’t know what I would do without the game.
So why’d I’d quit, right? That’s a good question. I’m asking myself that right now. I’m wondering how I let my emotions get so far away from me. I feel fractured. Like the guy on the field who ripped off his jersey and threw it in his coach’s face is a different man than the one sitting here in the locker room waiting to get his dick spanked for coming outta pocket on the field. This man doesn’t want to be done playing football. This man is wondering what the other guy thought quitting would fix, because from where this man is sitting, we’re more off the team now than we was an hour ago.
And yeah, I’m thinking about myself in third person as multiple personalities, and that cannot be a good sign. But it’s where I’m at. Limbo. A green carpeted, mildew scented limbo full of rowdy, half-naked dudes who are giving me a very wide berth. They’re treating me like I’m toxic. Even my buddy Colt, my brother-from-another-mother, is steering clear because whatever I got going on with me, none of them want rubbing off on them. And I don’t blame them. Not even
a little.
“Mr. Anthony.”
I glance over my shoulder. There’s a kid there with clothes on. Fancy clothes, like a docent in a museum.
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Greene has asked that you meet with him.”
“Big Bill Greene is here?” I ask in mild surprise. “The owner?”
Blondie nods. He tugs anxiously at the hem of his yellow sweater vest. “Yes, sir. He’s in the skybox now but he’s requested that you and Coach Allen meet with him in the conference room. Would you like me to escort you there?”
“I can find it.”
“Are you sure? I believe he wants to see you right away.”
“I’m not about to go into a meeting without my agent.” I lower my head, dismissing him. “I’ll be there as soon as I hear from him.”
“Of course, Mr. Anthony.” He shifts on his feet, moving his weight from one to the next. Finally, he adds, “I’ll pass the information on to Mr. Greene and assure him you’ll be with him as soon as possible.”
“You do that, man.”
He disappears, but I feel his exit more than I see it. My eyes are focused on my hands. They’re steady again. They shook for a good five minutes during my shower, until the water was so cold on my skin that my entire body was quaking. I told myself that’s all it was. The cold. The nerves. The anger.
I tell myself a lot of things lately.
I believe about half of them.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, ready to talk to Darren, but it’s not him. It’s Tia. My sister. She’s been blowing me up ever since I left the field, but I haven’t answered a single call. That’s not like me. It makes me sick to cancel her call again, but I have to. I don’t know what to tell her. I don’t have answers for the questions everyone is dying to ask, and I won’t until I go to that meeting. With or without Darren.
