Page 22 of Christmas Cheer

“Because I would have been groping you!”

I sigh, recognizing that he’s agitated and too drunk to be talked down at this point. He’s feeling territorial, and the best way to deal with that without making a scene is to move to another territory.

“Do you want me to walk you back to your room? I could stay there a couple hours maybe?”

He lights up about a billion watts and nods vehemently enough that he gurgles pool water. “Uh huh.”

Chapter 11

Evan

My sheets arestill damp — from pool water — when I wake up in the morning, slam about a gallon of Pedialyte, pass back out, and drag my ass out of bed ten minutes later at Thad’s insistence.

“Where’d she go?” I grumble.

Thad wanders his towel-clad ass back into the bathroom. “Back to her room, I’m guessing. Was already gone by the time I got in.”

“Fuck,” I groan. I look down at the bed. I was definitely the only person who slept here, but there’s a strand of auburn threaded through my pillow case. She was lying here at some point.

“Do you think I fucked her?” I yell to Thad.

“You fucked someone!” Reggie Calhoun, our quarterback, yells through the thin wall dividing our rooms.

Thad corroborates this with, “I mean, there’s a condom in the trash, which seems to go against whatever the hell you were doing with the Plan B, but do you, boo.”

Nah, it’s all going to plan. I shimmy past Thad into the bathroom, shooing him out so I can take a leak and start getting my body back to human again. I peek back out to tell him, “Don’t be dipping into my condom stash, okay?”

“Why would I? I got my own.”

“But like in an emergency, don’t use mine. I poked holes in them.”

He launches his towel at me, smacking me right in the face. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“Love,” I mutter before adding, “Probably pink eye now.”

We’re training at the actual stadium. It’s a rarity. I’ve played at a dozen NFL stadiums, but usually we’ll still train at a nearby college or even the training facility of a different sport entirely. Tomorrow, the coaches will ease back slightly so we’re not sore for the game, but they run us into the ground today with strength training and cardio until we’re all feeling pretty broken, only to tell us that after lunch, we’re going to spend two hours running plays.

I finish my lunch quickly. “You running away, man?” Calhoun calls to me as I slink away toward the door, and suddenly everyone’s attention is on me.

For once in my life, I don’t actually want the attention. What I’m sneaking off to do is gonna sound really weird to them. I have to think fast, come up with something that makes sense for me, finally landing on, “You know they’re tailgating already? I’m gonna go party, sign some shirts and shit. I’ll be back.”

“I’m not covering your ass when you’re late!” Reggie yells, and I flip him the bird as I walk out because that feels right.

I’ve always had this vision of my life, and I’ve been lucky enough that everything’s gone just right to keep me on that path. There’s no way I’m not getting drafted. I mean, sure, nothing in life is guaranteed, but I was a finalist for the Heisman.

There’s this thought that I think all players have that there’s only one road to professional football. You finish high school at the top of your game, you go to the college that gives you the best offer and is in the best conference to get you the visibility you need to get the attention of the NFL scouts, you get drafted. If you don’t get drafted, you keep up on your training, assistant coach at a high school or get a job through a connection to get by for a couple years, get yourself into a combine, and get signed as a free agent. You get yourself into the NFL. That’s it.

But that’s not true. They’re not the only league that pays. You don’t even need to stay in the country. The money’s hardly anything in other countries, but you just get a second job. You can still provide for your loved ones.

So as I wander the cavernous halls in the bowels of the stadium, the echoes of the staff going about their lives sounding very far away, I wonder if this will be my last time in an NFL stadium. If I really am willing to give up all of this for Keira if she refuses to come back after her semester abroad.

I am.

I stroll by a row of offices, mostly dark right now. I’m not sure what they’re used for, but a lot happens at these stadiums. This isn’t even where the local NFL team trains most of the week; their facility is across the street. This place is just game day for them. But one of the doors is open, and there’s a man in casual clothes, looking like he was just stopping by the office for something on his day off, attempting to corral a little boy who’s grabbing at the sports memorabilia the man has on his desk.

I’m not trying to spy or anything, I just happen to walk by at the moment when the kid grabs something. The father, desperate to take control of the situation before the kid breaks it, picks up a stress ball shaped like the NFL crest and waves it for the toddler, squeezing it so it gets distorted and bouncing it around. The toddler immediately grabs for it, forgetting about the valuable he’s already holding, and the fast-acting father snatches it right out of the air as it falls. Disaster averted.

He looked like a seasoned pro of a dad but not much older than me. I wouldn’t guess him to be over thirty. He’s figured it out. He’s figured out this one thing if nothing else. And it’s just him and the kid. That’s really cool. I’m wondering if mom’s having a day to herself or if they have more at home, if they’re separated and it’s his turn or if she’s not in the picture at all.

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