by Danica Avet
And now my agent, my best friend, is telling me it’s all over. Fuck that. I hadn’t been named Rookie of the Year and a five time MVP by giving up when things got tough.
“What about the European or Canadian leagues?”
Corey sighs heavily and shakes his head. “Shaun, you’re going to be thirty-nine years old. Most tight ends retire at thirty-four. No one is going to take you with the injuries, not to mention your age. It just isn’t going to happen.” He sits forward. “A few networks have expressed interest in having you announce and you’ve had at least two dozen offers from the teams to join the coaching staff. I even had a call from Buddy Nielson at Sauvage State University asking if you’d want to take an assistant offensive coaching job.” He holds his hands up with a smile. “It’s the perfect time to look at other avenues that will keep you in football.”
My hand tightens around the glass of water in front of me. I wish I’d ordered something harder, but I’ve been holding hard to the belief I’ll get an offer with another team. But some habits are hard to break, and drinking is one of mine. The first few years after going pro I partied hard. It’s how I met my wife Denise. Drinking, laughing, causing messes, until I got stopped with a DUI, nearly throwing away everything I’d worked so hard for.
Since then I always drank water. Unlike the other players, I learned from my mistakes and made sure I followed the rules to a T. After that near miss eight years ago, the only parties I went to were either tame affairs thrown by the team or teammates, or something my wife absolutely had to go to. I didn’t drink then either, just acted the DD when needed and was happy with it.
There was no way I would jeopardize my career for alcohol. Football is all I need. Sure, once in a while I still imbibed, but I limit myself to a few beers here and there. Right at this moment though I would give my left nut for a bottle of Crown.
Because I can see it in Corey’s eyes. This is it. I’d never step on the field again as anything other than a coach or because I was having my number retired somewhere. Football—my life—is over.
Just like fucking that.
My phone chooses that moment to buzz. Breaking eye contact with Corey, I open it to see one of my teammates has sent me a text. Brewer is on the offensive line. A big, soft-hearted mountain of muscle and unfortunate looks, he’s probably the only guy on the team who understands where I’m coming from. At thirty-seven, he’s nearing the end of his run as well. We never talked about it outright, just sort of beat around the bush while we bullshitted about fishing and the microbrewery he was opening.
I have other friends I’ve made over the course of my career, although most of them have already retired, settling into the types of lives Corey is trying to sell me. I’d thought they were ridiculous to give up their game so soon. Now I’m starting to wonder if I was the one who was being ridiculous.
Pushing the thought aside, I focus on the text, despite how rude it is to play with my phone while in a meeting.
Brewer: Hey, thought you might need to see this
There’s an image attached and I open it, thinking it’s a picture of something he caught or the new spin reel he keeps saying he wants to buy. But I was oh, so fucking wrong. It takes me a few seconds to process what I’m seeing.
Brewer is obviously at a party. I sort of recognize the background. I’m pretty sure Denise showed me the layout in one of the decorating magazine she loves. I frown hard, taking in the action photos in the background. It looks like Johnny Sommers’ house. He’s the hottest new tight end for the Timbers and one of the biggest assholes I know, and that’s saying something, since I know a lot of assholes.
What the fuck is Brewer doing, hanging with that dickhead? I know he doesn’t like Johnny. No one likes Johnny because he takes asshole to a whole new level. I probably hate him more than anyone else, since he’s the one who’s taken my spot on the team. I can handle that. It wasn’t the first time I was on injured reserve or the probable list. But was the little shit humble about his good fortune? No, of course not. He rubbed that shit in like salt on an open wound. He doesn’t call me Decker, or Steady, like everyone else on the team. No, to him I’m ‘Old Man’.
Shaking my head in confusion as to why the fuck Brewer was even there, I study the rest of the picture. There are people everywhere, in a typical cluster fuck of the rich, famous and stupid. Cleat chasers, football players from the Timbers, a few NBA and NHL players and some B-listed celebrities. Alcohol and sex look like the main theme of the party, but that isn’t what catches and holds my attention.
It’s the woman swapping spit with Johnny Sommers, his hand up the hem of her skirt, right between her spread thighs. The more I stare at the image, the more small details come into view. Like the diamond necklace with the elaborate D dangling in her cleavage. Or the hand she has wrapped around Johnny’s junk through his jeans. The ring on the third finger is familiar, since I’d put it on that same hand eleven years ago.
“Son of a bitch,” I snarl.
It looks like the twenty-four-year-old Johnny Sommers has replaced me in more ways than one.
Two weeks later…
“Everything looks to be in order,” Madison Pope says without looking up from the papers she’s shuffling on the big conference table. “You’ll receive two million dollars, the house and your vehicle as part of agreement and—”
Denise’s lawyer leans forward. “That isn’t going to work for Mrs. Decker.”
I shoot a glance at Denise to see her playing all hurt and shit. The minute Corey saw the picture on my phone, he called his divorce lawyer to take my case. I probably should have at least given Denise a chance to explain—although that picture had been worth a million words—but there was no way I’m going to take her back after she let Johnny fuck her. And he had. Many times.
I learned that tidbit from Brewer, who’d been all hangdog about it. He hadn’t known they were having an affair until the night of the party. Several of the other players had known though, those fuckers, and they’d just kept their traps shut. When word of me finding out about it came out, Johnny filed a restraining order against me like the pussy he is, but other than wanting to rough him up a bit, I’m strangely okay with the ending of my marriage.
Denise sniffs and brings a tissue to her face. She isn’t crying. That would ruin her makeup. I know her, or I thought I did. She’d fucked up, got caught and, instead of admitting it, was trying to make me out to be the bad guy. Did I ever touch any of the cleat chasers who hounded the team everywhere we went? No. I’m not perfect, but I’m not a fucking cheater. Since she couldn’t claim she was retaliating against my extramarital affairs, she was going for the neglect angle.
I’ve bought her mansions everywhere we’ve lived in the eleven years we were married. I was fine with an apartment as long as it had a workout space, a shower big enough for me to fit under and a comfortable sofa, but I’d wanted my wife to be happy. So I doled out the money for showcase homes every time I was traded. The massive penthouse apartment had been chosen by her while I was away at training camp, and it reflected her personality perfectly. Sleek, modern and cold.
When was the last time I really looked at her? I wonder, as I stare at her. When we first got together, she’d been all of twenty-five and the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. With ink-black hair, cornflower-blue eyes and a slim body, it was no wonder I’d been struck dumb. Now she looks like a plastic version of herself. Seems we were both in denial about our ages, except there wasn’t anything a plastic surgeon could do to make it so I could play again. Just like they couldn’t do anything to reverse the clock and make her twenty-five again.
Her gaze flicks to my lawyer, calculating the effectiveness of her tears. Has she always been such a good actress? I can’t remember, or maybe I never wanted to see it. I thought we were meant for each other, that we’d have the kind of marriage my parents do, that I would have a partner and lover. Of course, I’d been a twenty-six-year-old with more money than most people would ever see
in their lives.
She and I had partied, laughed, drank and fucked for six months before I asked her to marry me. I was high on life, on being the best, and she’d been my own personal cheerleader. Eleven years later and I didn’t even recognize her.
Things between us started changing when I had the first injury. She began pulling away slightly, spending more time with her friends. Oh sure, she still supported me, told me all the right things to make me think she was still on my side, but with the second injury and less play time, she didn’t even bother doing that anymore.
I attributed her distance to worry about me. Now I see it was about her lifestyle. Johnny is up-and-coming, young and healthy. He has at least eight more years in him. If she gets her claws in him now, she’ll be set for a while. In the meantime, though, it looks as if she’s going to wring as much out of me as she can. Do I blame her? Not really. She doesn’t have any skills other than partying and shopping, as far as I know, but two million dollars wasn’t enough? The five point eight million dollar apartment?
I didn’t even realize I’d asked the questions out loud until she shoots me a dirty look. “My lifestyle shouldn’t be affected because you neglected me and forced me into the arms of another man,” she says, giving another hiccup.
I blink. “Neglected you? How the hell did I neglect you? I gave you everything you wanted and more.”
Her collagen plumped lips tighten into a hard line behind her tissue, but I’m the only one who sees it. “I need love, Shaun. Affection and attention, which you never gave me!”
My wife’s lawyer pats her arm. “We feel Mrs. Decker deserves no less than fifteen million dollars, which is half of what Mr. Decker is worth, the penthouse apartment, and all the jewelry Mr. Decker purchased for her throughout the course of the marriage.”
Is she fucking kidding? I gape at her in absolute disbelief. That’s more than half of what my entire contract with the Timbers is worth.
Madison snorts. “You’re fucking joking, right? She signed the prenup with her lawyer present, agreed to two million dollars, whatever home they were living in, her current vehicle and a mutual split of community property. What’s the justification for fifteen million dollars? She brought nothing to the marriage except debt.”
“Her time was spent supporting her husband’s career,” the other lawyer states calmly, although I see a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Mrs. Decker has grown used to a certain lifestyle and deserves to continue living that lifestyle.”
“Five million,” I say, because I’m already tired of this shit.
Madison glares at me. “No. The prenup is valid, the division of assets and settlement outlined very clearly. Two million, the house, car and half of community property. That’s it. No more than that.”
I stare at Denise. “Five million,” I mouth. She shakes her head, trying to narrow her eyes at me, but she must’ve had a Botox injection recently so she only manages to look constipated.
“Five.” Her gaze darts between our lawyers, who are arguing the finer points of the prenup. “Five,” I repeat silently, giving her the expression I only ever use on the field and during the rougher patches of physical therapy. It was my eat shit and die glare. She knows it well, although she’s never been on the receiving end of it before.
She clears her throat. “Five million sounds reasonable to me,” she says abruptly. “And I get to keep two-thirds of the jewelry you’ve given me.”
I hadn’t given her nearly as much jewelry as she’d given herself in my name, but whatever. I just want this shit over with. “That’s fine with me.”
And, just like that, I’m in the middle of an amicable divorce. In two weeks I’ve lost my job, my wife and a fifth of my income. I need some good news soon or I’ll go off the fucking deep end.
Kate
Chicago
Three weeks later
“I don’t know why you have to apply for a job so far away,” Mom complains as she pulls into the long line of vehicles outside the airport. “Don’t you think that’s a little much?”
“It’s a good opportunity.” It really is. If the job had been open when I first began my search four years ago, I’d have jumped at it. That the position came up right when I needed to get away from Chicago just seems serendipitous. “You know how much I admire Dr. Klauss. Being his Assistant Director is the chance of a lifetime. You know this.”
And she does, because she’d been with me throughout the whole love-hate-hate relationship I’d had with my undergraduate advisor. Mom might not understand my passion for music, but she understands how important this is to me.
Ever since The Scandal, as I was calling it in my mind, Mom has been my staunchest supporter. Leaving Chicago might seem extreme to some people—like my mother and Helen—but at this point I feel it’s my only option. Everyone in the public and private school system knows about me and Adam. Everyone in the parish did as well. How? Dorothy, who’d taken great pleasure in using me as the poster girl for all that was wrong with modern society. I feel like fucking Hester Prynne and I swear I think the entire city knows what happened.
This interview with Dr. Klauss is my best shot at getting a premier position far away from the scandal. And Adam. Mostly. It is the opportunity of a lifetime and if it hadn’t been for the fact that Dr. Klauss remembered me from my undergraduate days, I probably wouldn’t even be going for an interview. Sauvage is a great school with an elite music program. The Assistant Director’s position is coveted in music academia. Klauss is a hardass, no doubt about that, but the Sauvage marching, jazz and concert bands are recognized across the nation as being the cream of the crop.
And, if I got this job, I’d be a part of that. Sure, he’d warned me the caveat was teaching three Music Appreciation classes, but I could handle that. After teaching ten to twelve year old kids to play “Mary Had A Little Lamb”, I can teach bored college students how to truly listen to and appreciate music. I think.
“We’ve talked about this. I might not even get the job,” I tell her, my knees bouncing with impatience. I glance at my watch and curse. “Just stop the car, I can get out here.”
“But we’re not even at the entrance yet,” she protests, no doubt trying to make me “accidentally” miss my flight because she thinks this is all nonsense.
I grab my carry on and purse and lean over to kiss her cheek. “I love you. I’ll call when I land.”
She’s still protesting when I jump out of the car, pull my suitcase out of the backseat and begin running for the doors. I only have an hour to get checked in, go through security and get to the gate. That isn’t a lot of time. Not at O’Hare.
By the time I check my bags and start for security, I’m out of breath, red-faced and probably look like I have nefarious plans. Which is probably why I get pulled out of line and given a full pat down.
“Flight 3501 for New Orleans is now boarding.”
My heart leaps into my throat and I try to remain calm, but I can’t miss this flight. It takes everything I have not to run for the gates. I doubt the TSA agent would appreciate it and I’m sure I wouldn’t like sitting in a holding cell explaining to security that I wasn’t trying to dodge the checkpoint, just catch a plane because I needed to get the hell out of Chicago.
I gather my carry-on, purse, and slip-on shoes before I run for the gate. Of course it’s at the end of the terminal. Naturally. Because a woman in my peak physical condition should have no problem sprinting for it, if by peak physical condition they mean able to climb a set of stairs briskly. Once. Without passing out. Because that’s about as much as I can do.
Still I sprint for about five yards, then slow to a jog for another fifteen yards before decreasing to a fast walk. My heart and lungs won’t accept much more than that. I make it in time, although I get an ugly look from the flight attendant. Ducking my head to avoid her sharp glare, I hurry down the ramp, still huffing and puffing. The attendant at the end must be related to the first because she’s got the same stink eye.
My feet are still bare, but I don’t dare take the time to slide my shoes on. Not after those baleful looks. Instead I check my boarding pass and scurry down the aisle, trying not to look as though I almost missed the flight.
I always sit behind the wings because I’d read passengers had a better survival rate there, so I don’t bother looking at the seats in the front. My gaze skips down the rows of people until I spy the empty seat that has to be mine. Thank god. Freedom is only a few hours away.
With such a full flight, I knew I hadn’t lucked out enough to get the entire row to myself. Hoping against hope it wasn’t a kid or someone who’d want to talk to me, I look at the seat next to mine and feel my teeth clink together. A man. A big, handsome man with deep brown eyes sits in the aisle seat, his gaze trained back on me. My lip curls.
To say my opinion of men has taken a nosedive after discovering Adam was married is an understatement. Father Morris, a man I admired for his forward thinking, hadn’t given me a chance to do more than say, “But Father,” before he strongly urged me to resign my post or be fired for violating the school’s morality clause. Since I needed a job and didn’t want to jeopardize my chances of finding another one, I’d quietly resigned and began the frantic search for something else.
Unfortunately, I’d been quietly blackballed in the private and public school sectors by a man I considered something of a father figure. Men 1, Kate 0.
Then there was Adam.
Just because I changed my number and the locks on my apartment didn’t mean he’d left me alone. He hadn’t. He kept coming to my place, standing outside the door playing Nesum Dorma by Puccini, as though that would change my mind about being his woman on the side. By the time I finally heard from the Director of Music at Sauvage State University, I’d become a hermit. Men 2, Kate 0.
This Assistant Director’s job could be my saving grace. Instead of trying to fight a losing battle against the injustice in Chicago, I could start fresh. No men clogging up my life except my hopefully soon-to-be boss. In my mind, I sort of see Sauvage State like the pearly gates: a sanctuary from the misery of Chicago.
