Page 87 of Good Guy Gabe

I trudge behind him to the elevator up to the corporate offices in silence. In the elevator, he says, “Heard a rumor about you.”

I swallow to make sure my voice doesn’t sound all sad and mopey. “What rumor?”

“Heard that gal of yours is expecting.”

“She is, yeah. We’re having a girl. Due at the end of June.”

He raises an eyebrow like he heard the panic in my voice that time, but he must misunderstand it because he laughs and givesmy shoulder one of those fatherly squeezes old coaches give you when you slip up and admit you have a personal life you’re actually concerned about. “The first is always terrifying, son. But I can tell you’re going to love that little girl.”

“Yes sir. She and her mom are my world.”

“That’s great. Glad you’re settling in to Wilmington.”

Probably because it’s easier for former players to move on after they’re let loose if they still have some connection.

I’m despondent by the time we reach his office. He gestures to a chair for me to sit in, and it looks flimsy as fuck, but I’m surely not the only linebacker to have sat here. I ease myself down, cringing at the creaking but feeling solid once I’m settled. I’d hate if my final act as a Jug was landing my ass on the floor.

Bradley pulls an old-school manila folder out of a drawer and pitches it across the desk along with the pen. “Alright, now. You’ve had your fun. Stop dicking around and sign this before Accounting rips me a new asshole.”

I don’t have anything to say. I’m guessing this must be my severance package, but that’s a set number. It’s not like Accounting doesn’t know exactly what it’ll be. I go ahead and open the folder, wondering if there’s stuff I don’t know about leaving the NFL.

There’s a new contract inside.

I look up at Bradley and frown. I should be happy — I will be happy in another couple seconds, I’m sure of it — but for now, I’m holding back the need to freak out over the stress he’s put me under.

I’m staying another . . . however long. I didn’t actually look. I glance back down, the words blurring together, but I finally locate a 3 (THREE). Three more years. This is it.

Bradley groans. “Please tell me you’re not retiring and have just been dodging my messages!”

“Your . . . messages?”

“I’ve been texting and emailing you about this for five months, since we got this hammered out with your agent!”

“I—what? I haven’t received a single message. I thought you were letting me go, Maurice! What the hell?”

We stare at each other. I probably shouldn’t have said it that way, but Bradley’s used to hotheads. He keeps his cool as he finger-pecks his way through his computer and then turns the monitor to face me. “Look, we’ve been reaching out to you since November.”

I do see a string of messages, both texts and emails, sent weekly. Marked as opened by receiver but no responses. I definitely haven’t opened them. I look more closely and see that although this is a tab with my personal information, only my home address is correct. I don’t recognize the email address, and the phone number isn’t even my area code. “This info is wrong!”

Bradley takes a look at it, then shrugs. “It’s what your agent gave us,” he says defensively.

I glower at him as I whip out my phone and dial the number on the screen. Caller ID gives me the name, but I go ahead and hit CALL and turn the ringer on.

“‘Sup, broseph,” Vedder says on the other end, and Bradley grimaces.

“Hey man, have you been receiving a bunch of texts and emails about me needing to go get my contract straightened out with Bradley?”

“Yeah, bro. You get that done?”

“We don’t even have the same agent,” I inform Bradley as I hang up on Vedder.

I look back down at the contract. It’s a mountain of pages with little flags all over the place, a million things for me to sign my life away on in the National Football League’s behalf. There’s a page about money, and numbers are thrown all over the place, the magic of that Accounting department working to pay us our market value while circumventing the NFL’s salary caps. I scan through it, but math’s not my strong suit. I find the box that matters, the bottom line, and my jaw drops.

“You’re giving me another nine million over three years?”

Maurice Bradley snatches the document back, fishes out a decaying bottle of liquid paper, and dabs it on a couple numbers. He writes over them and passes it back. “Ten million. Sorry about whatever that was. And Gabe? Please tell me you’re not retiring.”

“Nope, definitely not.”

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