I step off the helicopter, and a chauffeur ushers me and Tuck to a waiting black SUV. The driver asks if everything is to my satisfaction, and I tell him yes before we pull out of the heliport in lower Manhattan and head toward the offices of the owner of the Pythons, Damon Armitage II.
The morning started with Damon’s personal jet picking us up at a private airstrip in Austin. We landed at JFK Airport, then hopped in the helicopter. All of this was intended to impress me. I smooth down my blue slacks and white dress shirt. My hands tug at my silver tie.
“You look a little pale,” Tuck says as he settles into the SUV. He picks up one of the bottled waters and hands it to me. “It was a bumpy ride.”
I set it down and scrub my face. “I didn’t sleep last night.”
“Adrenaline from the game. I get it.” His hazel eyes study me.
“Yeah, right.” I lean back on the seat.
I couldn’t sleep because of her.
Her words. That goodbye kiss.
I stare out the window at the financial district. People walk up and down New York, coming and going, heads down as they move from one place to another. The bustle, tall buildings, and honking horns are an adjustment. I’ve visited Tuck several times in the off months, but this time, the city feels busier, more intense. I think about my hammock in Blue Belle.
We’re ushered out of the SUV and greeted by Damon’s personal assistant. I leave Tuck and get on the elevator with the PA and head to his office.
He’s not there when I arrive, so I pace around the room, my heart thudding, a feeling of surrealness inching in. For two seasons, my life revolved around kids in Texas, trying to help them be champions. I came up with our motto, Win the heart, win everything, and those words sit like a lump of cement in my gut.
What’s Toby doing right now? Is he working a shift at the bookstore? Is he worrying about his mom? Dammit, I should have checked on her last night . . .
Bruno . . . he’ll be planning a date with his hot cheerleader girlfriend.
Milo . . . he’ll be at Lois’s playing video games.
Skeeter? He’ll step up as head coach and take the Bobcats to state.
Maybe Andrew will apply and get the job next year.
And Nova . . .
My heart splinters. I shut my eyes and force myself to push the images of her away.
Blowing out a breath, I make my way to the trophy case on the right side of the room.
“If all this works out, I’ll need another case,” says a raspy voice behind me.
I turn to find Damon Armitage II, the owner; Coach Bruce Hardy, the head coach of the Pythons; and my agent, Reggie.
Leaning on a gold-tipped cane with a snake on it, Damon walks behind his desk, then sits. Wearing a black tailored suit, complete with an ascot and a boutonniere, he’s in his seventies, rich as fuck, and known as an eccentric firebrand. “I’m glad you were able to fly in, Ronan. We could have chatted over the phone, but then I wanted you in the room.” He waves his arms around at his spacious office. “Nothing beats seeing a man face to face and getting the measure of him.”
“True,” I say.
“We all met in the elevator,” Reggie says with a nod. “Good to see you, Ronan!” Around forty, he’s dressed in a slick suit, his dark hair clipped around the ears.
“Same,” I say, and the four of us shake hands.
Coach Hardy grins at me. A tall man in his late fifties, he sat by my bed in the hospital for three days after the wreck. He flew my mom from Chicago to New York on the team jet the night it happened. When I woke up the first time in my room, the two of them were there, waiting.
We make small talk, catching up, then chat about his new quarterback, Lucas Pine, a fresh kid from Iowa. He’s having trouble with the transition from college to professional, missing snaps and play calls.
“How’s Coach Dixon doing?” I ask a few minutes later. “Tuck said he was flying to Houston for treatment.”
Coach Hardy sticks his hands in his khakis. “You probably passed him somewhere over Indiana. We’re going to miss him on the field. A hell of a man and coach.”
Reggie takes a seat. “It’s a tragedy.” He looks at me. “But it gives Ronan a chance to step in. I was thinking we’d start with what Dixon was making—”
“Hold on,” I say sharply as I slide into a leather chair. “I appreciate the urgency, but there hasn’t been an offer made or one accepted. This was just a discussion.”
Reggie starts, glaring at me.
Damon frowns, straightening his ascot. “Don’t be coy, Ronan. The salary will be there. We know you, your talent, your work ethic. We’ve seen what you did with that team in Texas. You’re our pick, hell, before Stanford snatches you up!” He slaps the desk and lets out a wheezy laugh.
I lean back and smile, pretending to be calm when I’m anything but. My stomach just won’t settle. “I called Hite and turned him down.”
Reggie nods, and the other two smile, clearly happy.
I clear my throat and steeple my hands. “The thing is I’ve made commitments, Damon. The high school playoffs start December first. Will this wait until afterwards?”
He picks up the pipe on his desk and lights it. “No. Sorry. We want to announce Dixon’s leaving the team, as well as his replacement, on Monday. Our staff’s covering the game Sunday, but we’ve lost two already, ones we should have won.”
“I’m aware,” I say. “I see the mistakes, the bad calls.”
He stares at me with beady eyes. “Why don’t you and Coach Hardy catch up, go meet the staff, maybe some players, then take a walk in that stadium.” He puffs on his pipe. “You’ve got memories there. Hell, I get a hard-on every time I sit in the owner’s box. Not bad for an old man, eh?” He slaps his desk and lets out another laugh, then sobers, considering me, raking over my face and posture. “All right, all right . . . I hear you; I do. You’ve spent some time in Texas and need some time to mull this over.”
“Yes.”
He nods decisively. “I’ll be in touch with Reggie about the money by the end of the day; then I’ll need your answer by tomorrow. All right, boys, I have a phone call with a senator. So . . .” He waves his hands for us to leave.
Reggie, Coach Hardy, and I walk out to the foyer. Coach heads to the restroom, and Reggie pulls me to the side, a furrow between his brows.
“Your part is to win the interview,” he says. “You’re acting like you’re having second thoughts.”
“That was barely an interview. He wanted my ass in New York so I’d feel nostalgic.”
He shakes his head. “Why are you hesitating? This job is a no-brainer. It cuts years off your plan to be in the league.”
True. Scoring an NFL position wasn’t something I expected so soon. I love my old team. I love the staff I used to work with. This is my dream job.
I stare out the window. So why does it feel wrong?
Later that day, it’s dark when the cab drops me off in front of Tuck’s building. They wanted to put me up at a hotel, but I chose to stay with him. Earlier, he left us at Damon’s office and went to his physical therapy appointment.
Wearing joggers and an old shirt, he’s waiting for me in the den, Chinese takeout already ordered, a drink poured in a glass. He hands it to me.
We walk in the kitchen, where he grabs a cheese-and-fruit plate out of the fridge and sets it on the island like it’s the Hope Diamond. He gives me a smile, batting his lashes. “How was your day, dear?”
“You’d make a great wife, Tuck, but I prefer blondes.”
He flips me off while sticking a cube of cheddar between his lips. He chews and swallows it down. “So? Give me the deets.”
I nod and sit on a stool. “It was good. Met the new guys. They seem great. Jasper has a great arm. I like his enthusiasm. I caught up with some people on staff and a few players. The stadium, ah, it was fucking great to walk inside. I closed my eyes and pictured a hundred thousand fans on their feet for us . . .”
“Like coming home?”
I pause, glancing around at his modern apartment, the one I shared with him for years. The gray leather couches. The expensive, fancy Swedish swivel chairs he insisted we had to buy. The mirror coffee table that broke once when one of his girlfriends danced on top of it. (He ordered another one.) The bright yellow painted on one wall, black on the other. My eyes end on the floor-to-ceiling windows.
The curtains are spread, and the view of Manhattan twinkles like stars in the distance.
Stars.
Nova.
I take a steadying breath, feeling the loss of her like an uppercut to the face. It’s Saturday, and we could be hanging out, playing pool or darts, watching a movie, watching football . . . I never showed her my comic book collection. My lips twitch. She’d fall over laughing. Then there’s the Matchbox cars and video arcade machines. I wonder if she likes Ms. Pac-Man—
“Ronan?”
I look up. “Yeah, man, it felt like home. It was awesome.”
“Hmm, I see.” There’s a question in his tone, but the doorbell rings, and he leaves to grab our food.
Later, after we’ve eaten, I clean up the mess while he tells me about his ankle, his therapist, the new neighbor who plays music too loud, his new yoga class . . .
He lets out a breath. “All right, then. I’ve told you everything. Whew. What should we do tonight? There’s a new club I want to hit—”
“You can’t dance on that ankle.” I toss a dish towel over the faucet to dry.
“No, but I can talk to pretty girls.”
Several moments tick by as we lean in over the island.
“Well? Hot chicks or stay at home?”
“Let’s take a ride somewhere,” I say, easing up.
He nods, not asking me where. He already knows.
He grabs keys from a drawer and dangles them. “Ferrari or Maserati?”
I roll my eyes. “You got a new sports car?”
“Meh. Got rid of the Escalade.”
A few minutes later, we back out of his garage in his silver Ferrari. He lets the car idle at the exit. “Connecticut, I presume?”
“Yeah.”
He pulls out on the road and points the car away from the city.
I gaze out the window at the passing buildings. I roll my neck. This entire day I’ve been unsettled, a pricking sensation eating at my insides. It’s fear, that I’m fucking something up, but I don’t know how to stop it.
“You’re quiet. Whatcha thinking?” Tuck asks a few minutes later, glancing over at me.
I smirk ruefully. “That you’re my best goddamn friend in the whole world. I might not be where I am today if it wasn’t for you. You got me dry. You sent me Leia. Like a boss. You bought an outfit and found the perfect girl. Fuck. I love you, man.”
I hear him sniff. “Asshole. Why are you making me cry like a girl?”
I huff out a laugh. “You’re almost a girl anyway.”
It’s close to ten by the time we pull into the landscaped and well-lit memorial garden. Tuck drives through the park, around the curves and hairpin turns. We stop at the bottom of a hill, park, and get out. He leans against the car and crosses his legs. “Take your time, bro.”
I nod and walk to Whitney’s grave. It’s set next to her grandparents’, a gray stone carved into a heart that ends in a flat stone on the bottom. Her parents picked it out, and I feel like she would have loved it. I sit down next to it and stare at her name, the date she was born. It’s been over two years since I visited. In the beginning, it was a lot, sometimes with Tuck, sometimes without. It usually involved a bottle of whiskey.
The last time I came was the day after the Mercer Hotel.
I settle my hands on the stone. Is it possible to have two (or more) loves in a lifetime? Does fate select your possibilities, and if the stars are aligned, you meet them? Is it possible to love them differently?
Whitney was the first girl I let into my heart. Our love bloomed into a gentle thing, sweet and uncomplicated. I planned a happy life with her. Then watched her die.
Nova. Jesus. I’m in deep with her. I love who she is. How strong. How sure she is of her feelings for me. How she treats others. How she’s devoted to Sabine. How she puts up with Lois. How her accent thickens when she’s pissed. Her hair. Her smile. Her damn cat. Her spunk. Her old cowboy boots. Her words about living a meaningful life, and fuck me, I miss her.
I glance up at the night sky, stars gleaming. I swallow thickly. Whitney’s up there in heaven, scowling and huffy. I bet she has her little round glasses on, the ones I said made her look like a professor. She’s pointing her finger at me, telling me I’m a fool, that I need to let go and live my life.
I exhale. My gut knows that to feel alive, to taste what life has to offer, I must conquer my fear of losing people and letting them down. I need to loosen the guilt that burdens me. Fear and guilt have built a fortress in my heart, the stones laid with anguish and pain. It’s whispered to me that it’s safer to just skim through life, lurking in the dark, never living in the light.
But . . .
Now I have another chance, and I’m too scared to reach out and grasp it.
Nova called Andrew a coward.
I bend my head, unable to look at the stars.
I’m. The. Fucking. Coward.
