Page 1 of Near Miss

Beckett

Being paid a few million dollars to kick a football a few times a game is arguably the best job in the world.

It’s a stupid thing to be a generational talent at. But up until recently, it’s made my life pretty easy.

No one usually cares much about the kicker. You’re not the quarterback, the wide receiver, a tight end—no one important on a minute-by-minute basis.

You show up, you go to practice. Train on special teams, stay flexible, keep the strength in your legs, and kick.

If you’re me, and you get to be stupidly good at something irrelevant to most people, you focus on breaking records for yourself. You kick well for your team, and sometimes you get to win them games.

You rarely do press, you’re rarely in the media. But if you’re also me, your agent and team really capitalize on the fact that you’ve made a career not only on power and accuracy but also on being likeable. Then, you get shoved everywhere. You’re doing more post-game press than any kicker ever has because you’renice. You’re the face of fan and charity events because you smile more than anyone else. You’re on advertisements all over because people think you’re photogenic.

But you’re not important until you are.

And no one hates you until they really, really do.

And people really, really hate me.

I can’t say I blame them. Who likes someone who misses the most important kick of the year and costs the first and only Canadian team in the league their first championship in franchise history?

I would have preferred to spend my summer the way I usually do: in relative solitude at my cottage, only showing up for events when I’m asked, but otherwise just doing the things I can’t do during the season.

But now, one week leading up to preseason, my agent has me trailing behind my brother while he does rounds in the hospital.

Nathaniel looks at home here—white coat, stethoscope hanging around his neck. He’s even got what I’m pretty sure is a Pokémon clipped to it because we’re in possibly the most depressing place here—a children’s oncology unit.

I’m definitely not at home—I fucking hate hospitals. Rolling my shoulders back for the millionth time, I take my hat off and tug at the ends of my hair. I’m trying to relax, but I don’t like it here.

Even though the hallways are bright, paintings hang everywhere, nurses and doctors skate by on wheeled shoes, and I’ve heard more children’s laughter than I would have thought could possibly exist here—those bright colours and paintings and games and nurses and kids just remind me of everything I try to forget.

I clear my throat. “Are we almost done? I’m only supposed to be here so people see me. I didn’t agree to visits, so no one will know—”

I can’t see him, but I can practically hear the eye roll in his voice when he speaks. “Wouldn’t dream of dragging the great Beck Davis anywhere he might not be photographed at an opportune time. I just have to run these labs by my attending, and we’ll be out of here. You can make your big show in the parking lot.”

“Ouch. That was rough.” I force a grin when he turns around.

I’m always grinning, even when I don’t feel like it.

My agent calls it “the grin.” It puts people at ease, makes people like me, and that, plus whatever work the muscle fibres of my legs somehow manage to do, gets me endorsements, and has my team shoving me in front of cameras at every opportunity.

Until I failed one time. And everyone forgot that knees allegedly go weak when the dimple in my cheek pops, that I always show up for practice even when my contracts are being negotiated, that I rarely, rarely miss, or that I’m generally nice and affable and I’ve never once mouthed off to a reporter.

My brother looks over his shoulder at me, eyes narrowed. “Was I wrong? You’ve not set foot here once since I started my residency, even when I’ve asked.”

There’s a reason for that, and it’s probably something he should know, but I’m not really sure he knows me, at the end of the day—so I keep grinning and I shrug. “I’m here now, aren’t I?”

“Convenient timing.” Nathaniel rolls his eyes and I see it this time, but he holds up a hand when he stops in front of a paned window with pictures of cartoon ducks dotting the edges.

He waves, and a doctor a few years older than him pokes his head around the door. “Are those the labs?”

“They look great.” Nathaniel raises a manilla folder before holding it out. He turns to look at me and I widen my eyes expectantly.

This is what I’m supposed to be here for. My agent, Yara, wanted to socialize people to my presence, test the waters andsee if people might be receptive to me doing some volunteer work here or showing my face at a fundraiser every once in a while.

Everywhere else seems hesitant to commit to making me the face of anything now, but here was my brother, a pediatric oncologist at one of the largest hospitals in the city, an opportunity ready-made.

Nathaniel gestures to me. “Dr. Ladak, this is my brother, Beckett Davis. Beck, this is my attending, Dr. Ladak.”

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