Infinity.

by Layne Harper

  Year Two Post-Retirement

  … “The game of football misses number-eight Colin McKinney. The NFL reports that for the first time, their viewership numbers decreased instead of increasing as they’ve done every single year since the NFL has been televised. We’ve reached out to McKinney’s agent, Aiden Montgomery, hoping to get his reaction, but as of publication we’ve received nothing from the former football star.”

  Year Three Post-Retirement

  …“Is former Dallas quarterback and model Colin McKinney a recluse? Sources are reporting that McKinney suffers from severe a severe mental disorder that prevents him from leaving his home. We’re told that his paranoia is so acute that he demands that all of his food be tested for poison, and he refuses to trim his hair or nails. His children are not allowed to socialize with others, and are also not permitted outside of his home unless they’re under armed guard. We’re told his wife, Charlie, has taken a job at Texas A&M University to escape the demanding needs of Colin’s disease. How the mighty have fallen.”

  Year Four Post-Retirement

  …“Former Dallas quarterback and spokesman for Ford, Colin McKinney, has been spotted for the first time in public in four years. McKinney was photographed, along with his dog, putting gas in his famous truck that he calls Bertha. If you remember, this truck made an appearance at both Super Bowls that Dallas won and was considered the team’s unofficial mascot. As you can see from the photograph above, McKinney looks healthy, and witnesses report he was walking without a limp. This is contrary to earlier news stories that he had been seen walking with the aid of a cane.”

  Year Five Post-Retirement

  … “McKinney in the Hall of Fame? You’ve got to be kidding me. The most selfish player to ever toss a ball doesn’t deserve to have his bust displayed amongst football’s greatest in Canton, Ohio. Maybe he could be in the Hall of Fame of the most despicable players. He can stand next to OJ Simpson. I question what the nominating committee was thinking. Yes, I’ll grant you, the guy put up Hall of Fame numbers, and was a two-time Super Bowl winner and awarded the MVP trophy twice, but he let his team down. What about his character off the field? McKinney should still be playing, not have taken five years off to drive car pool. What kind of numbers has Dallas put up without him? The big zero. The most selfish player to ever toss the football does not deserve to be in the Hall of Fame.”

  …“I’ll grant you that character is an important quality for Hall of Fame consideration, however, McKinney didn’t kill anybody. He’s never been accused of a crime, except maybe prescription pain-pill abuse, but even that was just speculation. There was never a shred of evidence to validate the claims. Did the guy retire from football at the top of his career? Sure. Did he leave his team high and dry? Yes. Should that keep him out of the hall? In my opinion, no it shouldn’t. You put up the numbers. You don’t have a criminal record. Then, you should be a Hall of Fame candidate.”

  …“Colin McKinney has been elected into the Football Hall of Fame in Canton, Ohio, although his selection has not come without its share of controversy. We’ve been told by sources that fans have decided to organize a jersey burning protest outside of the Hall of Fame facilities to let the selection committee know just how upset they are with their choice. McKinney did the impossible. He retired from the sport of football at the top of his career. Five years later, and fans still seem to be just as upset at McKinney’s decision.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Colin

  I toss the football up in the air with my left hand. Once. Twice. Thrice. I catch it each time and toss it again. I repeat this motion for an undefined period of time. Thoughts Ping-Pong around my brain, yet there’s nothing distinguishable that I can cling to. How’s this possible? Who knows?

  The only sound is the pigskin slapping against my hand every time I catch it. I’m kicked back in my maroon leather desk-chair staring at the lake, our lake, through my wall of windows. I’ll never tire of watching the moonlight dance across the gentle waves of the water. This is the most beautiful and tranquil place on earth. I designed my office space—separate from the main house—to look out on our lake. We’ve affectionately named it Lake CharCol.

  The dark wood floors in my office are buffed with enough shine to reflect a sliver of the moonlight bathing my office in shades of grey. It never occurred to me turn on the desk lamp when I came to my office to take Aiden’s phone call.

  I’m sure a casual observer would wonder how it’s possible to toss a football up in the air and catch it every time without watching it fall. Most people have to see what they’re catching. The casual observer wouldn’t realize that I’m Colin McKinney, two-time Super Bowl-winning MVP quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys. Or I was.

  The casual observer would note the greying hair around my temples, and the dust of scruff on my face, as well as the lines that etch my eyes from years of playing football in the hot Texas sun. The casual observer better also note that I’m in good shape for a man in my late thirties. Hell! I’m in damn good shape for a man in my twenties. I’ve kept my player physique, which sold a metric ton of underwear, sports clothes, trucks, and cologne for various companies. The Brad Pitt of football… or I was.

  I could color the grey away, but why? I’ve earned every single one of those hairs. They’re a rite a passage for me—a badge of honor—almost.

  I toss the football up in the air and catch it, speaking for the first time in minutes? Hours? I’m lost in my own thoughts, and right now, they’re not a pretty place to be. You’d think that a first ballot induction to the Football Hall of Fame would be a good thing. It’s amazing for apparently every football player but me.

  Aiden had called earlier in the evening. I’d answered the phone, expecting our usual banter, and just assumed he was calling about our trip. But when I said hello, he referred to me as Colin, instead of any of the plethora of names we normally sling at each other. Quickly, I cut him off and explained that I was in the house, and would head to my office. I excused myself from my family, giving Charlie a kiss on the cheek as I walked out the front door. Panic flooded my gut. This was bad.

  As soon as the front door was closed, I asked, “Amy, Collette, the baby?” My heart attempted to pound its way out of my chest.

  “No, no. They’re all fine. In fact, Collette is so excited to see her cousins that she’s already packed her suitcase,” Aiden said with a chuckle at his three-year-old daughter’s antics. “No, this is unfortunately about the Hall of Fame. Have you turned on the TV?”

  I wiped my feet on the doormat as I entered into my office, sinking into my desk chair. “You know I don’t watch TV, especially in the off-season. What are they saying?”

  My first round ballot into the Football Hall of Fame stirred up every bit of the controversy surrounding my retirement that I’d assumed had been laid to rest. Phrases like “most selfish player to ever step foot on the field” and “narcissist” are being batted around by the football so-called experts. They make me cringe. My kids are old enough to hear this shit.

  “Fuck, I’m dreading this trip,” I say in a hoarse voice to no one in particular. I keep looking out at Lake CharCol hoping for inspiration.

  I find no words of wisdom. I strain my ears, hoping that the crickets rubbing their legs together in a mating call, the birds tweeting to each other, the bullfrogs croaking to their mates will have an answer, but all those bastards do is let me down. I’m met with nothing but their silence.

  I turn around in my chair, still not missing the ball as I toss it in the air, and take in my office. I don’t think that there’s a more beautiful workspace. It’s rectangular shaped. The large, wooden desk is made from old ship wood, and faces a wall of windows that look toward the bend of the lake and the dense, virgin woods. The back of my desk also faces a wall of windows that look toward the modest four-bedroom house that Charlie and I designed with the help of an architect. To the right of my desk is a third wall of windows, and French doors that lead to a balco
ny built over the lake, complete with four Adirondack cedar chairs. I only have one wall without windows, and it’s to my left. I have built-ins that surround the door that leads into Jenny’s office, filled with mementos from my playing career.

  I spend a lot of time in my office on Lake CharCol. Charlie might say that I’m escaping, but I’m really not. Since I hung up my jock strap, I’ve stayed busy with my many financial investments that Aiden made on my behalf. Hell! I’m twenty percent owner in an island, for God’s sake. The official headquarters for CharCol Inc. are in an office building in College Station. That’s where the majority of the souvenirs from my former life are housed. I think of that office space as my reception area. It’s where I meet with business executives pitching me to invest in their companies, young quarterbacks who need mentoring, and anyone else who isn’t family. No one but family is allowed here in Somerville, in what Charlie calls The Compound. She has a name for everything.

  The press says that I’ve been in virtual seclusion for more than five years. They’ve even called me a hermit, and speculated that I have a mental disease like agoraphobia. They’ve said that I was driven to seclusion because I can no longer walk without a cane. What the media doesn’t report is that I leave the compound frequently. I’ve just made it a point to not draw attention to myself.

  When I walked away from the bright stadium lights, I went completely radio silent. As Charlie says, I only see the world in black and white. There are no grey areas. That meant no more endorsement deals. No memorabilia singing events. No sideline appearances at football games. No guest commentary on ESPN. No red-carpet appearances at charity events. No waving at paparazzi while I take one of the kids running in the jogging stroller. I turned down every broadcast deal. I’ve done nothing to place myself in the spotlight. Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

  I went from the biggest name in the sporting world to nothing in twenty-four hours. Well, that’s not entirely true. I was once again the number-one trending story on Twitter and most Googled person for about two weeks, but then it’s like the world got distracted by a squirrel and everyone forgot who Colin Fucking McKinney is/was/is.

  Speculation and rumors swirled about why I walked away from football. Theories included that I couldn’t take the pressure of trying to repeat a championship season for the third time, and had a mental breakdown. I did indeed have an addiction to prescription pain-pills and was afraid of getting busted. Charlie demanded that I quit playing football if I wanted to stay married. I was being blackmailed and was forced to retire. The hardest rumor was that Ainsley wasn’t healthy, and I was stepping down to focus on her medical care.

  No one seemed to be able to comprehend that my decision was simply to leave the game while I was on top, and to finally be the husband and father that my family deserved to have. Then again, I turned down every interview request where I could have explained all of that to the public.

  Why? Because it was no one’s business. The world had heard enough from me. Hell, I was sick of myself. I couldn’t turn on the TV or read a magazine without seeing me pimping a product. Yes, it was time to leave the bright spotlight.

  Sure, I was aware of the horrible things being said about me. The media can always dig up the disgruntled ex-teammate who thought I was an asshole. Aiden and Mark kept hounding me to speak out, to grant an interview, explaining my reasons. Frankly, I was tired of justifying myself to anyone, and most of all the press. So I flat out refused, and spent my time focused on my wife, who struggled every damn day with her pregnancy.

  Maybe I should have done one little interview.

  I toss the ball up in my hand and catch it for the hundredth/thousandth/millionth time. My life is so good right now. I mean, my life is as close to perfect as it can be while not playing football, but do I want to expose my kids to the media? As far as I know there are no pictures of the twins at all, and Ainsley’s pics are from when she was a baby. I cringe at the thought of some asshole reporter asking me questions in front of my kids that would make them think less of me.

  I stop tossing the ball, catching it one last time, and lean my head back against the leather desk chair, looking up at the shadowed grey ceiling. I can’t protect them forever, but I’d damn sure like to try.

  I grab my phone and text Charlie.

  Me: You in bed yet?

  When she doesn’t respond immediately, I assume that she’s already asleep, and now I’ve probably disturbed her. Just when I look away from my phone, I hear the trill indicating that I have a text.

  Charlie: A had a bad dream. She begged to sleep with us, but I got her back in her bed. I figured that we didn’t need another distraction to keep you up. Coming to bed soon?

  Me: Let Pancho out. I’ll be there in a few.

  I push off from behind my desk, finally letting the football rest, and grab my phone with my right hand. Slipping it into my shorts pocket and walking to the built-ins, I place the football back in its glass box. It’s the football that I threw for the game-winning touchdown in the Super Bowl. I made the pass with two seconds left in the game, and we were down by six. What a feeling… electricity surges through my body, and it makes my left hand vibrate. I might even smile at the memory. It was the last pass that I ever threw as a professional athlete.

  Next to the glass case that stores my football is a framed picture of Charlie, right before she went to the hospital to deliver Ainsley. We found the pictures when we were cleaning out the McMansion before our move to Somerville. Charlie thinks that Brad took it, but she can’t remember. She’s in the hotel that she watched the victory parade from. I love the picture. In fact, it’s one of my most cherished items. It’s her in jeans and a rose-colored sweater. Her stomach is so pronounced that the picture almost looks doctored. She’s doing maybe a shimmy or some sort of dance move. Her arms are above her head, and her fingers are positioned as if she’s snapping. Charlie’s face is radiant. She’s glowing with happiness. Her huge, toothy smile matches her eyes. And to think that about twelve hours later we met our daughter.

  Picking up the picture, I carry it to the closest windows so I can see it better in the moonlight. It makes me smile. I wasn’t there when Charlie went into labor, or for most of the drama leading up to Ainsley’s birth, but this picture makes me believe that Charlie was okay and happy. I feel more a part of that special time when I look at it. My lips curl into a smile as I set it back on the shelf next to my other treasured possessions.

  I step through my door and into Jenny’s office—when she’s gracing me with her presence—and onto the front porch of CharCol Inc. It’s a gorgeous August night. I take a deep breath and smell the comforting scent of pine. An overwhelming feeling of blessings rolls through me. Because of football and wise business decisions, my family is able to have all of this. For the first time tonight, I feel like maybe I deserve it. I’m a man who worked my ass off since I was twelve years’ old, when I became serious about football, to give my family this beautiful piece of property to live on.

  I walk the fifty yards to the house, listening to the leaves crunch under my feet. When I’m just about to the wrap-around porch, I’m almost taken down by our psychotic love monster, Pancho the Destructicon. My dog and I are as thick as thieves, but when the rest of the family is in the house he doesn’t leave his post. We’ve chatted. We’re boys. He watches out for the gang while I’m gone.

  Pancho and I have a late-night ritual that Charlie doesn’t know about. Us boys like to pee against one of our favorite trees. It’s an old oak tree that is not close enough to the lake to house a rope swing over the water, but it’s a damn fine tree. In fact, I’ve thought about building a playhouse around it for the kids. Pancho hikes his leg, and I drop my shorts enough to get my dick out.

  About midstream, I hear in her know-it-all voice, “I’ve always wondered why you don’t go to the bathroom before you come to bed.”

  I look down at Pancho and whisper, “Busted.”

  She continues, “Is this why I can’t get the b
oys to use our indoor plumbing? Because I don’t approve if it is. Nature is not your toilet. In fact, we have five bathrooms inside that you can choose from. It’s unsanitary…”

  “I got it. You don’t want me pissing outside. Noted.” I look down at Pancho, and he looks up at me with these huge brown eyes, clearly expressing the regret he feels for the situation that I’ve gotten us in to.

  I fix my shorts, and Pancho and I walk up to the porch, stepping up to where my lovely wife stands in one of my old T-shirts that hits her about mid-thigh, her caramel-colored hair twisted into a half ponytail, face clean of all makeup, and a smirk that says that I’m never going to live this down.

  “You look deliciously fuckable,” I coo into her ear, hoping that I can use her body as a distraction from my anxiety. I wrap her into my arms and kiss her hair. “I love you, even when you’re being an uptight, condescending shrew.”

  She drops her chin and even in the dark of the night, only lit by moonlight and stars, I can see her mind spinning. She looks up at me and bats her eyelashes. “I love you, even when you’re being a disgusting male pig.”

  I pull back and slap her ass. And then I quote one of our favorite movies that we recently watched. “Take me to bed, or lose me forever.”

  She throws her head back and laughs. “Show me the way home, honey.”

  With that, I take her hand, pulling her into a dance position. She giggles. “It’s rude to just assume that a lady wants to dance with you.”