Page 51 of Tight End

So, regardless of the trolls, I don’t regret doing the video, and we’ve got another one-on-one Saturday afternoon. I think it’s safe to say, I’ll be wearing five pairs of shorts next time. I’m not taking any more chances.

“Nice touchdown, Peter Piper.”

“It must have been the momentum from his newly famous one-eyed trouser cobra.”

“Way to hammer the competition.”

“The little lieutenant really gave it to Chicago.”

“Hey fuck truck, good hustle.”

Jesus Christ. These guys must have spent the last quarter rubbing their brain cells together to come up with some of these. Obviously I work with a bunch of degenerates.

“You can’t sink theTitanic.”

All right, that one was pretty good. I hang my head with a laugh, giving Beau a fist bump for effort. “I hate to tell you, but it did sink. Pretty bad actually. Hit a whole-ass iceberg and everything.”

Beau laughs, punching my shoulder, and heads off to thelocker room to get dressed. Halfway there he drops his towel to the ground and glances back at me. “How do you feel about the Unsinkable Molly Brown?”

“I think I prefer the inaccurateTitanicreference.” And your towel picked back up to cover your swinging dick.

“Figured you would. Don’t you worry, I’ll never let go.”

I chuckle, running a hand along the stubble covering my jaw. He’d be the first motherfucker to push me off the door into the freezing ocean. And I bet his ass would laugh as I sank to the bottom. Although, maybe not. He’s coming in clutch with theseTitanicreferences, which means that he either has a thing for Leonardo DiCaprio or he’s a sucker for romance movies.

My money is on the latter.

“Fuck truck.” Gunner steps up next to me, his thumb and index finger stroking his chin like he’s in deep thought. Too bad I know better. “I like that one. Good catch in the fourth, by the way.”

I grunt, nudging his side with my elbow, probably a little harder than I should have, but he takes it like a champ. “Good throw in the fourth.”

“Please.” He waves me off with a laugh, nudging me right back, and we take off toward our side of the locker room. “My throws are all good.”

“Most of the time.” I shrug, trying and failing to suppress the smirk tugging at my lips. “They don’t call you Cannon for nothing.”

“For all you know, they’re talking about my dick.” He shrugs and I ignore him. I’m not taking the bait today. “Your family here?”

It’s an innocent question, but one that has me stumbling over my own feet. I have a family now. An actual family.Fuck. My breath stutters from my lungs, and the room goes a little topsy-turvy before returning to normal.

For so long it’s been my mom and I against the world. That’s it. The two amigos. She’s the only one that’s been there for me through everything, the only one who knows what I lost that fucking terrible night my senior year in college. Hell, she’d be here today if it weren’t so hard for her to navigate the crowds and the narrow aisles, but it’s never bothered me. She’s supporting me from home, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted.

Aside from a brief period with Caitlin, my mom was the only family I had for a long time. While Dean and I were close growing up, we ended up losing touch when he left for college and eventually joined the NHL. I get it, he was busy. I could have reached out more too, but I had football and my own life to live. But now that Dean is back in town, I have him back in my life, I have a son, and despite the slight chasm between us, I have June too.

I have people that matter.

“Yeah, man. I can’t wait for you to meet everyone.” I rub my chest, an unfamiliar feeling taking root.

For the first time in a long time, I have people waiting for me. I don’t have to duck my head and pretend it doesn’t bother me when the other guys meet up with their girlfriends, wives, and kids. I don’t have to go back to the penthouse alone, the only company being several ice pads—trust me, once the high of the game wears off, your body is nothing but aches and pain.

Those aches are already settling in, and while getting back in my street clothes can be an arduous process, I’m dressed in minutes. It would be a little more tedious if I were like the more fashion-forward players and showed up in a fullthree-piece suit, but I’m here to play football, not walk the runway.

Gunner is dressed soon after—like me, he’s wearing joggers and a well-worn T-shirt, a slight grimace on his face as we head toward the door. I’d ask if he’s okay, but I already know the answer. He took a good hit from a three-hundred-pound linebacker at the top of the fourth quarter. There’s no way you don’t feel that for a few days. It’s like being hit head-on by a Mack truck.

“They’re good for you, you know,” Gunner casually says, pulling open the door and heading out to the open hallway where friends and family generally wait.

I pause, his words turning over in my head. I pick them apart, dissect every possible meaning, and there’s a good chance I’m reading entirely too much into this.

But what if I’m not?

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