I step into the house, set the container of to-go soup on the counter, catch one look at the whiteboard in the corner of the room, and turn right back around.
“Nope,” I say, heading for the door.
Sick my ass. My friend and teammate, Nathan, sent me a text this morning saying he and his wife, Bree, were really sick and wondered if I could drop off some soup—knowing I’m hardwired to show up when someone needs me. But he looks healthy as a clam standing by the whiteboard with my three other friends wearing a shit-eating grin on his face.
Lawrence steps in my path as I try to retreat, giving me a taste of what it’s like to face him—our left tackle—on the field. “Hear us out, Derek.”
“Like hell. I’m here under false pretenses—not for whatever that intervention is,” I say, pointing to the whiteboard behind me.
“Dude, come on. It’s time.” Jamal loves the sound of his own voice. “Besides, after what we found in your bedside table, you can’t deny you want this.”
“It is not time, and I don’t want it.” I stalk over to rip the dry-erase marker from Jamal’s hand. Next, I aggressively wipe away the words Find Derek A Wife from the top of the whiteboard. The whiteboard that has become a staple for every important life planning session in our friend group over the last two years ever since we used it to help Nathan get out of the friend zone with his best friend (now wife), Bree. And listen, I’m happy to sit around with these guys and meticulously plot out each of their sappy love-life plans all day, but try to use it on me, and I’ll burn it to the ground.
“I don’t want a wife. And this is the last time I’ll warn you not to bring up my bedside table before there’s real consequences in the form of your face looking a little less pretty at the start of the season.”
I should have never given these guys a key to my place while I was out of town, even if my plants needed watering. Of course they would snoop. It’s in their DNA to overstep.
But this shit with the whiteboard is too much. I know why they’re doing it—can see right through their nervous pity-smiles. I’ve been hermitting myself away too much, declining more and more dinners, never going out to clubs with them, and definitely not dating. I’m basically a one-eighty of who I used to be, and they think a relationship is going to pull me back out. And maybe their fears are valid. They don’t know who I am anymore or how to handle me. I don’t know who I am either.
I haven’t felt this uncertain of myself since I was an awkward, gangly, eighth-grader who was once again sucking at school, struggling to make friends who didn’t tease me mercilessly after they heard me read aloud, and only lived in the shadow of my older sister. Ginny who was everyone’s favorite. Achieving straight A’s was effortless for her, and probably why she’s now a practicing doctor. Where she thrived, I struggled twice as hard. I fought relentlessly with my parents over grades and heard Why can’t you just apply yourself, Derek, and stop goofing off more times than I could count.
It wasn’t until a few months ago that I was finally diagnosed with what my supposed goofing off was…dyslexia. One night while lying in bed and scrolling through social media, I came across a video where a guy was describing what living with dyslexia was like for him. I was shocked—because everything he described, those were my experiences too. I got in with a learning specialist quickly, and after testing, it was confirmed.
I’m dyslexic.
It’s why reading and writing were so damn hard for me and took me twice as long as other students. Why I struggled to process certain words. Why I fell behind. I wasn’t tested in my adolescence because I come from a very firm “he just needs to try harder” family. But in reality, I was working the hardest. I could never understand why it wasn’t enough. Why I couldn’t comprehend what I was reading in my textbooks like everyone else. And that wedge just grew between me and my parents until I hated learning altogether.
But then…I found football my ninth-grade year. I stepped onto the field and it was like every puzzle piece fell into place for me. I was good. A natural. And I only got better and better as the years went on and I grew into my six-four body and filled out in a way the other guys around me did not. Girls suddenly really liked me. Teachers gave me more slack. My parents were proud, because like Ginny, I was making a name for myself. A new reason they could brag to their friends. No one really cared too much that my grades sucked or that I was struggling with academics—because I was clearly going to play college football and then go on to the NFL, so what did it matter anyway?
And that’s what happened.
I just barely graduated high school but shattered varsity records as a tight end. I got more handouts in college courses from my professors than I’d care to admit, but I graduated, and then went first round in the draft. I’ve played in two Super Bowls and have been named MVP. I’ve dated movie stars, bought my parents their new house, and paid off my sister’s med school loans as her graduation present.
It wasn’t until I snapped my ankle on the field at the end of last season and needed surgery that my identity altered. I’ve leaned on this career for security and acceptance for so long that I don’t know who the hell I’d be without it. What will all these people think of me when I can no longer do the one thing I was good at. Worthless.
It would be the worst time to try to find a relationship. Especially when Collin Abbot—the rookie backup who stepped in for me while I was out during the last two games of the season—blew everyone away. The rumors circle me like piranhas now. He’s going to take my place this season. I have everything to lose—and nothing permanent to offer.
“Derek, quit being a dipshit and let us help you find love and happiness,” says Nathan.
“It’s not the right time,” I tell him instead of snapping at him that love and happiness are not synonymous in my head and that he can shove his opinions up his ass. I’ve only contemplated the idea of marriage with one woman. The only woman that I’ve ever felt really loved me for who I was outside of football. It was before I ever met these four buffoons that I call teammates—less affectionately known as friends—and let’s just say I got enough of a taste of being loved and left to never want seconds. They don’t know about her. They don’t know she’s the reason I chafe at the idea of a long-term relationship now.
“Why not?” Nathan Donelson is the quarterback of our team, the Los Angeles Sharks, and we’ve affectionately nicknamed him Dad because of his leadership and wisdom. Which is why after he married his best friend, Bree, two years ago, the rest of the guys followed suit shortly after. Jamal married Tamara and Lawrence married Cora—both couples even going so far as to elope in Vegas just like Nathan and Bree because they made it look like a damn fairy tale. But marriage is where the sheeplike following ends for me.
I’m the last of our five-man crew without a wedding ring, and I’m going to keep it that way.
“Pender’s just scared,” says Jamal Mericks, our team’s running back and self-designated pain-in-my-ass, taking the dry-erase marker from my hand again and using it to draw a big baby with a pacifier on the board. In case there was any question as to who the baby was supposed to represent, he writes my name with a big arrow pointing down to it.
I give him the bird.
“Real mature. You’re only proving my point.” He taps the marker against the cartoon baby.
“That’s enough bickering for the day,” says Lawrence, who is undoubtedly the biggest softie of the group but also the most aggressive on the field—you’d never guess it by the way he bristles when we fight. He’s also the only one in here who makes me look short. I’m six-four and Lawrence towers over me.
He pushes past me and Jamal to erase the board again. “Jamal, it’s a miracle you managed to land a wife with your big ego. And Derek, I’m starting to doubt that you could get one even if you tried.”
“Rude,” Jamal and I say in unison, and then turn mirroring glares at each other. We’re a love-hate situation. As in, I mostly love to hate him.
“How about you guys do something constructive and come help me instead of trying to force romance down Derek’s throat?” Price shouts from the living room, where he’s sprawled out with a million tiny little plastic rainbow-colored parts on the floor. I think they are eventually supposed to resemble some sort of baby-jumping-play-saucer-thing.
Jayon Price is our curmudgeonly wide receiver. He shocked the hell out of us all by becoming the first in the group to announce a pregnancy. My money was on Nathan, but no. Hope, Price’s wife, is in her last trimester, and I’ve never seen the guy so happy.
Well, he doesn’t currently look happy as he tries to shove a plastic springy thing into another plastic part, but it won’t click together. His bicep is about to burst from how much force he’s using. “Why the hell don’t they sell these things already assembled?”
He chucks the offending piece across the room, and I duck—just narrowly missing a plastic bumblebee to the face.
“Better question,” says Jamal, stepping up to look at the box the parts came in. “Why are you putting this together now?”
Price looks dumbstruck. “Why not? Hope’s due date is like two months away.”
I grunt a laugh. “Man, your baby won’t be old enough for that thing for a while.” I point at the box. “It says on the back that it’s to strengthen a baby’s legs and back to start walking.”
Price drops the instructions and levels an ominous look at each of us. “Tell Hope about this and you’re all dead. She’s already freaking out that we don’t know what we’re doing, and I don’t want her to worry more when she finds out she asked me to piece together a toy for an eight-month-old.”
I really do love getting to walk through all these seasons of life with my friends. Which is why I have to make a full comeback. Because part of me is worried that if I get cut…never mind. I don’t want to think about it right now.
Nathan nods. “We’ll help you put it together, but mainly because your pregnant wife truly terrified me last week when she threatened to stab her fork’s prongs into my hand if I took the last brownie. If that woman wants her baby’s exersaucer built several months early, we’ll build it.” He faces me again. “But first…we’re not done talking about your relationship status yet.”
“Oh yes we are,” I say, backing into the kitchen and aiming for my keys on the counter. “Leave me and my bachelorhood alone and go eat your soup, you lying asshole. I’m outta here.”
“No one is going anywhere!” comes a feminine voice from the kitchen threshold. I look up to find that Nathan’s wife, Bree, has appeared out of nowhere and is using her body as a human barrier—arms stretched out and gripping the trim around the door so I can’t exit. She must have just come from her ballet studio because she’s wearing a black leotard with gray sweatpants. Her usual look. “Did you guys talk to him about the plan yet?”
Nathan yells from the living room. “Yeah, he doesn’t want to get married.”
Bree’s mouth falls open. “Ever?” She sounds personally offended by this choice. It’s not like I have anything against marriage for other people, though—it’s just not for me. Not anymore at least.
I shrug and toss my keys around my finger, staring at the woman who now feels like my little sister. “Sorry, Bree Cheese—it’s just not for me.”
“Okay, okay…” She waves a hand. “So you don’t want to get married—that’s fine. At least let us set you up with someone.”
“Thanks, but no. I’m all set on that front.” I walk toward her, but she doesn’t move out of the threshold.
“No, you’re not! Don’t think we haven’t noticed how you—Derek Pender—have not even been on a single date since your injury. All those overgrown toddlers peeking from behind the corner might be too chicken to come right out and say it…but it’s worrisome that you’re not going out anymore. Not dating. Not even hooking up with anyone!” She says all of this like my name should be synonymous with those things. And…well, I guess it used to be.
I look over my shoulder and sure enough, everyone is watching. They duck back a little, though, when I make eye contact. “Nothing to worry about, guys. I’m just focusing on rehab full-time right now.”
“At what cost?” Bree asks, shoulders sagging a little.
I look her in the eyes. “Quit worrying. I’m fine—I swear.”
She drops her arms and rolls her eyes. “You’re annoying is what you are. But I guess I’ll still let you have this anyway.” She reaches in her purse hanging off her shoulder and I know what’s coming next: a Breenkit. Bree shows her affection by occasionally giving out little presents that made her think of her friends. We each have at least a few. I have a skull coffee mug that she said looks like the tattoo on my forearm and a magnetic 82 she stole from her little nieces’ fridge number-learning stash in honor of my jersey number.
Today, she pulls out something that stops me in my tracks even though there’s no way she could know why this particular item has so much impact on me.
Bree sets a little key chain onto my palm and all I can do for a solid three breaths is stare down at the miniature bowl of ice cream topped with cereal bits. The skin of my face heats like I’ve been caught red-handed.
“Why did you give me this?” My tone is accusatory. Like she’s been snooping around inside my brain without permission. Like she knows all my secrets, and this is part of the intervention.
“Because…” Her smile turns questioning. “Remember? At Lawrence’s wedding reception when you got drunk? You gave that funny speech about how all you ever want to eat for the rest of your life is ice cream and cereal and you were so sad thinking you couldn’t? I saw a shop online that makes custom ice cream resin key chains, so I had them make you this one with cereal on top.”
Right. Because of the speech. My shoulders relax a little in relief that she doesn’t know about her. About Nora.
To this day the group still laughs about that “funny little speech” I gave at the reception. They thought I was so incredibly drunk that I was just spouting pitiful nonsense. And it’s true—I was drunk. But only because I couldn’t get Nora—the woman I wanted to marry from the day I met her—off my mind through the entire ceremony. I couldn’t stop thinking about where she is now or wondering for the thousandth time why I wasn’t enough for her. Yes, we were opposites. Her being incredibly smart and driven and academically focused whereas I was a jock with an undiagnosed learning disorder who was great at partying.
But we were also compatible in a lot of ways. We loved to compete—turning everything into a pointless, fun game and thriving off it. We had chemistry that I’ve never felt with anyone else. The kind that slips into your bloodstream and alters you. And if that wasn’t enough—we both loved sports. In fact, she was aiming to become an agent. Did that ever happen?
And Nora’s favorite snack: ice cream topped with cereal.
Apparently, I never gave any hints that the speech was actually directed toward my broken heart or the woman who brought the hammer down on it. They just assumed I had a serious sweet tooth that night. I’ve let them believe it because I prefer my history with Nora to remain buried.
I close my hand around the key chain and force a smile. “Right, I completely forgot. Thank you—this is funny.”
She frowns and probably would say more about my unamused demeanor if Nathan didn’t turn the corner behind her and wrap his arms around Bree’s waist. These two will make you puke. They’re too damn sweet for their own good.
“We’re all going to lunch. Want to join?” Nathan asks me while still holding on to Bree.
“Can’t. I have a meeting at one o’clock. Bill had to retire—something health-related he didn’t want to talk about—so I’m meeting with a brand-new agent that Nicole recommends.”
And that’s another thing. You know that my agency isn’t putting too much stock in my career when they try to stick me with the new kid on the block. Imagine being the number one tight end in professional football, only to get tackled in a way that snapped my ankle like a twig and required surgery to repair it, and now I’m stuck with the agency rookie who’s never had a client in her life. The only reasons I didn’t turn down the idea immediately are (1) I’m not so sure I’m worth it anymore either, and (2) Nicole—who has been Nathan’s agent from the start of his career and is known as the best in the business—recommended her.
“Nicole wouldn’t steer you wrong. If she says to sign with him, do it,” says Nathan, still holding Bree like she’s his lifeline and he’ll keel over if their physical contact is severed.
I envy them.
“Her,” I correct, looking away from the happy couple to spin my keys around my finger again. “The agent is a woman.”
“Ooh, maybe she’ll be gorgeous and single, and you’ll fall madly in love,” says Bree with hearts in her eyes.
I shake my head. “I seriously need you guys to give it up. I don’t want a relationship.”
“Sure…you think that now. But what about after you go meet the most incredible woman in the world?”
I look at Nathan. “Can you please ask Cupid to stand down so I can leave?”
