Page 69 of Good Guy Gabe

Blaise straight-up slaps my ass and yells, “You got this, buddy!” so the entire line hears.

And responds with, “We got this!”

Vedder gives me a nod, telling me this isn’t as self-serving of Blaise as usual. Everyone knows I’m nervous. Fuck me.

The guy standing nearly shoulder-to-shoulder across from me, Willis Brand, is a meat wall. He’s grinning at me like he doesn’t want to slip past me, he wants to slam me down and stomp on my spine. He’s an unnerving guy, everyone says so, but I’m not usually unnerved. The problem is he knows what we’re going to do. Everyone does. The penalty we got on the last play pushed us back another five yards, making a first down only possible with a long pass.

Merrick’s fucked. I’m fucked. We’re all fucked.

But miracles happen.

The clock is running out. We gotta go.

“Alex Trebek 47!” Blaise yells. “Alex Trebek 47!” It’s gibberish, everyone already got the play from me, but it makes him happy.

I count down from two and hike the ball.

It all happens in slow-motion. It’s like that sometimes. Not even necessarily big plays. Sometimes, it’s just another day at the office, and other days, it’s every speck, every minutia, decanted into single moments.

It’s the rough leather gritting along my fingertips before propelling away into Blaise’s hand.

It’s the head rush that comes from righting myself to brace for collision. Everyone else is prepared when that ball is snapped, but my neck’s a second’s delay from getting a nasty bend, a ringing of the old bell.

It’s my eyes filling with white streaked by yellow and blue lightning, the Charger’s jersey.

It’s the sudden dark of the collision.

It’s pushing back at Brand, but the next collision is with his knees as I go down and he gets over me.

The ball launches over my head. There’s a moment where I actually see it from the frame of my helmet.

It’s wrong. I only get a glimpse, but it’s wrong. I know where Merrick is supposed to be, and that not where that ball is going. Not even close.

There’s cheering in the stadium, always cheering, but it’s the Chargers fans who flew out to Wilmington to root their team on. They’ve won.

Our season is over.

I’m over.

Definitely did one or two more shots than I should have.

No more than five shots too many.

Jeff slams a can of coffee in my hand as he hoists himself back up into the work truck. When I start to open it, he takes it back and opens it himself, keeping the tab pulled forward so he can slide a slushie straw into the hole. Then he hands it back to me.

He kiddie-cupped my coffee. He fucking kiddie-cupped my coffee.

He pats my knee as I slurp it down. “Figure you’ve been throwing back so much alcohol lately you might need something to keep yourself from guzzling it like an idiot.”

I glare at him as I suck on the straw, not that he can see. I’ve chosen mirrored sunglasses for today, in the style that hugs the face to keep the sun from getting in around the sides. It seems like it hasn’t stopped snowing since I blew the game a week ago. I’ve been able to hide inside in a cocoon of blankets and alcohol, but I told Jeff I’d help him and his crew with the deck once the season was over.

Surprise, the season’s over.

I’ve already had two coffees, and yeah, I did shotgun the second one in the parking lot of the hardware store, so Jeff’s concern is valid. Everyone was cool with me in the hardware store, even signed a couple autographs, lots of comments about better luck next season, but I know.

No one from Jugs management has talked to me about it yet, but I know.

I’m done. Everyone knows.

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