“Tuck, hey, you got a second?” Coach Hardy calls from his office as I walk out of the locker room. Barry Williams, the offensive coach, is with him. Shit.
I keep my face bland and my body loose even though my back aches from a hit I took at practice. “Sure.”
I take a seat on the leather couch in his office and stretch out my legs.
Williams sits in a club chair, not meeting my gaze, while Hardy sits on his desk, eagle eyes fixed on me. I stiffen. Lately his attention feels keener, sharper, when he looks at me.
“You’re having trouble on the field” is how he starts. “You’re missing cues. Hell, son, you look like a fucking amateur out there.”
I exhale. “We’re working on the plays, making them sharper.” I look at Williams, hoping he’ll jump in and take up for me, but he’s silent.
Hardy scoffs as he rubs his jaw. “Hmm, yeah, so why did we get beat by the worst team in the league this week? You seem . . . preoccupied lately. I need your focus on the goddamn game.”
My hands clench, and I release them slowly. “It is, sir.”
It fucking isn’t.
I’m thinking about my mom.
About how my body won’t do the things it used to do.
“I’m taking heat for keeping you on the field, but I can’t do that anymore. The owner is breathing down my neck . . .” He pauses as he holds my eyes. “Just wanted you to know that we’ve decided that River Tate will start against Kansas City. Look, you’re smart—you know this is the right thing for the team.”
It feels as if he’s slapped me. Sure, I’ve envisioned this very thing, but I never thought it would happen so soon. Being a starter is prestige; it’s confidence that the franchise believes in you. Panic makes my heart flutter, and I breathe in and out slowly. My words come out low and rough. “He’s not seen the experience I have.”
“We’ve got faith in him.”
Another slap. Harder. But no faith in me? My jaw flexes. “Is this permanent?”
Hardy gets off his desk and opens his door. “It’s a one-game-at-a-time thing. Show me you want to be the number one receiver on the team, and we’ll reassess.”
Fear ripples over me as I leave in a daze. If they’re benching me, then what will they do when my contract comes up at the end of the season? Is this the beginning of the end?
A few minutes later, Jasper and I head out of the stadium.
“What did Hardy want?” he asks.
“Tate is starting against Kansas City,” I say tightly as I open the trunk of my Ferrari. I throw my duffel in.
He starts at my words, his mouth gaping. “Tuck . . . shit . . .”
“I don’t want to discuss it,” I say.
He gets in the passenger side. “Okay, but are you all right?”
No. I’m bitter. I want to pummel something with my fists. I need to pound the shit out of everything in my workout room.
I grumble out an unintelligible response as we squeal out of the garage.
Jasper flips on the radio, and two familiar voices fill the car.
“And they aren’t scoring any points. That’s where it starts, and that’s where the problem is,” says Dog’s voice from the Dog and Jerry Show, a sports-radio talk show.
I huff. A few years ago, I was their shiny star with a standing weekly interview on Tuesday afternoons. I’d talk about our game and news around the league, but this year I haven’t felt like talking to them—and they haven’t called. My hands clench the steering wheel.
“Amen. Our Pythons offense is the worst in a fifteen-year history, and it’s not the QB’s fault, folks. Jasper Janich can’t throw the ball and catch it too,” Jerry says on a chuckle.
“These guys are hilarious,” Jasper says.
“Really? You like them now? A couple of years ago you called my lawyer to see if you could sue them for saying that you ran like that kid who wore a scoliosis brace in third grade.”
He bristles. “Meh, they like me now.”
Dog is back. “Janich is a stud quarterback, but he’s running for his life, and the ole veteran, Tuck Avery, is stinking up the joint this year.”
Bitterness eats at me. Where’s the love for a player who’s spent the past fourteen years bringing championships to our city? The speedometer hits eighty as I pass a BMW on the expressway.
“Yep, he’s gone from being ole reliable on third down to just being old,” Jerry says.
They both laugh as I hit ninety and pass a sedan.
“He’s fumbled more than he’s caught passes,” Jerry adds.
I grit my teeth. Not true. I speed around a truck, hitting triple digits.
Jasper puts his hands on the dashboard, then his seat belt, checking it. “Dude. You’ve got special cargo here. Take it easy.”
Dog chuckles. “Tuck’s so old he farts dust.”
Jasper gives me an uneasy look. “That one was kind of funny?”
“Yeah, sure,” I mutter as I downshift and accelerate around a tractor trailer.
Jasper crosses himself. “Baby Jesus, save us.”
Blue lights glitter behind me. Cursing, I ease off the accelerator. Gravel sprays when I pull off to the side of the road.
“Shit, shit, shit, fuck, damn, sorry I cussed, Jesus,” Jasper says as I jerk to a stop.
I lean my head back against the headrest and close my eyes. Breathe. Breathe.
A cold sweat breaks out over my skin—not about the cop but at the helpless feeling inside me.
I can’t make myself be a better football player. I can’t fix this. The team is going to dump me. My team is going to leave me behind. Even Jasper.
The trooper taps on my window, and I roll it down. Jerry and the Dog are still making jokes as Jasper turns the radio off.
The cop, a tall dude around my age, leans down. A disbelieving scoff comes from him. “The Tuck Avery. This is crazy. I was listening to the show when you passed me.”
I snap off my sunglasses and force a smile. “Love that show.”
“You enjoy them talking shit about you?” He hooks his thumbs in his belt.
My knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. “It’s all for attention.”
He nods. “Have you been drinking, Mr. Avery?”
I snort. Fuck this guy. I don’t drink and drive. “Have you?”
The trooper narrows his eyes. “Do we have a problem here, Mr. Avery?”
Jasper leans over. “Him? Hell nah. He’s cool, right? You’re cool, right, Big T?”
The trooper shifts around, and Jasper gulps when he sees his firearm.
“I watched the Houston game,” the cop says. “You really sucked. I’m guessing it still stings a bit.”
I grunt.
“Anyway, I’m supposed to ask you why I pulled you over, but we both know why I stopped you, right?”
“I was speeding, Officer. No excuse,” I snap.
“You passed several cars. You endangered the lives of others.” He peers in to see who is sitting next to me. “Is that Jasper Janich?”
Jasper swallows. “How are you today, Officer? We are, like, super sorry. I’m an upright citizen, and so is Tuck. I come from Utah. We never speed.”
The trooper nods, then pats the Ferrari. “My boys will never believe I pulled you two over.”
Digging deep, I wrangle my anger. It’s not at him anyway. I force a smile. “Let’s prove it with a selfie. Bet they’d believe it then, am I right?”
He looks down at his ticket pad, then looks back at us. He closes it, puts it into his belt, and then points to the area in front of the Ferrari. “Can we do it from there? That way we will get your car and my squad car in the picture.”
“Of course,” I say as I get out of the car.
We take a couple of shots. I take one of him pretending to catch a pass from Jasper and another where he pretends to handcuff me. Finally, he records a video of Jasper and me saying Merry Christmas to his two boys.
He tells us that he didn’t notice us speeding, really, and it was just a safety stop. “But between us, slow the fuck down.”
We get back in the car and sit in silence.
Jasper clears his throat. “Big T, I gotta say, you scared this kid. I’ve never been pulled over before.”
A rough laugh comes from me. “Live a little longer. This is my third time this year.”
“Did you get tickets?”
“Nah. I just smile, and it all goes away. I need some air.” I get out of the car, slam the door, and walk off into a field. My head churns with what the future holds for me.
What is there after football?
What the fuck is there?
I hadn’t realized he’d followed me, but Jasper appears and steps with me as I walk.
“Where are we going?”
“Nowhere. No destination. No goal. No plan. No fucking idea,” I say as I tuck my hands in my joggers.
“I see.”
I scoff.
He huffs. “Don’t dismiss me because I’m young. You’re going through some shit.”
“What do you know about it?”
“You’re having your worst year in football. It’s getting close to Christmas, and it’s a tough time for you.”
I cut my eyes at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Last year, you got in a mood over the holidays. You stalked around all pissy and shit. You didn’t put up a tree or come to my Christmas party.”
“Sorry.”
He kicks at the gravel. “I’m going home next week. I’ve got four sisters and all these aunts and uncles coming. They think I’m the shit, you know. They’ve got a big party planned. Lots of homemade pies and cookies. I was wondering, um, do you have plans over the holidays?”
My face feels hot, and I look up at the gray winter sky. No, I don’t. I have distant relatives, but when they see me, they ask for money, and I usually give it. I went to Virginia last year, and when a cousin asked me to invest in his political campaign, I agreed, then left as soon as dessert was cleared. “Sure, I have plans. I’ll go to Virginia. I have family there.” My gut twists at the lie.
“And your mom?”
“She’s going on a trip to Vermont with some of the residents at Greenwood.”
Jasper fidgets. “Ah, I see. Well, I’m your Robin, Batman. I’m your bestie. Yeah, I know Ronan was your number one, and he was your age and wise and all that, but I’m the one now. I’d love for you to come to Utah and meet my family. My sisters will piss their pants, but you can’t touch them, feel me? They’re off limits, bro.”
Jesus. He’s feeling sorry for me.
“I’ll pass, but I appreciate the offer.”
“You can tell me stuff,” he adds. “Make some peace with what’s bugging you. How do I say this—what’s the word . . . you’re like, at critical mass. You’re at the zero hour, and you can go either way: figure it out or blow the fuck up.” He mimics an explosion with his hands.
My lips twitch. “Blowing up sounds ominous.”
“Then don’t.”
Oh, if only it were that easy. He’s right about one thing. I’m at a turning point. Then I recall Francesca’s “crossroads.” A long sigh comes from me as I tuck my hands in my joggers. We have that in common. Does she have holiday plans? I enjoyed our walks; then she stopped showing up. She said she didn’t want to have dinner with me. I shake my head. It’s not often I get turned down cold.
“Talk to me, Big T.”
I kick at a piece of gravel as I face him.
No one can understand abuse unless they’ve lived it.
The constant fear.
The absence of security.
The crawling sense that you’re not enough and never will be.
He grew up in Utah with a good family. What will he think of mine?
“My mom and I—shit, she had a manic episode and didn’t even call me. The director had to fill me in. I don’t know; she’s been back for five years, and I just thought that things would be better between us, but they aren’t. Toss in football, and my head is spinning.”
He looks out over the field.
“She’s still upset about your dad, yeah?”
I rub the scars on my wrist. “Yeah.”
“You’ve never told me what happened.”
My throat tightens. “I can’t . . .”
“Put it out in the universe. Let the words out. Release your truth.”
A long exhale leaves my chest. “You wanna know why she hates me?”
“Yeah. ’Cause I gotta tell you—you’re a good fucking person. I can’t understand a mother not wanting to see a man like you.”
His words hit me in the chest, the truth in them, and I stare down at the ground, not wanting him to see the anguish on my face. “When I was little, she called me her sunshine. She marveled over how much I looked like my dad. She’d kiss me and say, ‘You’re gonna break hearts just like he does mine.’” I pause. “It was hard, being the person between them, but I did my best. I hated him but loved her energy, you know, the excitement. She’d write a play in one night. She’d design me an elaborate tree house and have someone build it. She’d put on her mink coat and go out and buy three cars at once. When I was in high school, she got obsessed with art. Over Christmas, we went to Paris, Rome, Milan—and hit every museum. We barely slept. I wanted to call my dad, but he knew—he knew she was in a phase and just let me deal with it.” A scoff comes from me. “She made me love art.”
I sigh. “It all went south when I came home for my twenty-fifth birthday. I was a superstar in the NFL; nothing could bring me down, but when I walked in that house . . .” I pause, keeping my voice calm, factual. “Mom was in one of her phases. She’d invited half the town, decorated the whole place. I brought my girlfriend and Ronan. An hour before guests were supposed to arrive, she got agitated. Nothing was right: the caterers, the decor, her dress, me. She said my dad invited his mistress. I don’t know if that is true. My dad . . . he and I . . . we weren’t close, but I wouldn’t be surprised.”
Jasper nods.
I clear my throat. “Anyway, she spent fifty grand on the party and called it off. Ronan and I tried to talk her down, but nothing would convince her. She accused Dad of cheating. He accused her of being a psycho and fucking any man she could find. She hit him; he punched her—then me and Ronan pulled him off. My girlfriend called the police, and my mom freaked. They were high society, and she didn’t want anyone to know how fucked up we were. She tore her clothes, went after Ronan, then me. My dad stormed out of the house . . .” I stop, sucking in air. “He backed out of our driveway, revved the engine, then drove into a giant tree in our front yard.”
I stare down at my hands, frowning at the scars. “The car door was stuck—and the other doors locked. I tried to go in through his window with a rock, then put my hands in to touch him. He was dead.” I shake off the memory of my father’s busted face, the blood from his chest. “My mom was screaming that it was my birthday, that it was my fault, that I shouldn’t have been born. It was a mess. I had to manage the funeral and took a few weeks off.” A huff comes from me. “My girlfriend tried to sell the story to the media, and I had to pay her off and get an NDA.”
Jasper’s eyes are wide. “Jesus, I’m sorry.”
I nod. “Yeah. When I came back to New York, Mom sold the house, bought a million-dollar RV—one of those motor homes—and drove out west to meet a man she met online. She married him, some sleazy movie guy, then got divorced. She bought a house on the beach in Carmel, then sold it and moved to Nantucket with another man. She met another guy and moved to Boston. It just went round and round—a different guy, a different place. Some of them used her for her money. Maybe some loved her. Five years ago she got arrested for attacking a woman who was with her ex. She needed help and came to me. I paid off the woman, got the charges dismissed, and got her into Greenwood. It’s not a mandatory place. It’s not like an institution, so don’t think I locked my mom away. I offered help, and she took it. She wanted to get herself straightened out. It felt like a restart for both of us, her coming to me, then getting treatment, but . . .”
“I’m sorry. What can I do?”
“Nothing.” I face him. “My own mother despises me, and there’s nothing anyone can do about that.” I exhale. “Let’s go home.”
