Page 2 of Time Out

Huh. Not the second one. “Ah. That last one. Wasn’t so bad, eh?”

“Not bad at all. Your ankle okay?”

“Right as rain.” Twisted it coming off that touchdown, wobbling after I hurdled Levi Harrison, Seattle’s safety. It pulsed with a dull pain but was manageable. I’d had worse.

I ordered a beer, Miller Lite, because I wasn’t into fancy drinks or hard alcohol. Might have been the Nebraskan in me, but simple and easy still tasted better than pretentious and expensive.

Lou and I talked about the game some more. He’d never made a fuss about knowing who I was, but the night I stopped in after our first home pre-season game, he’d told me I played good. Figured Lou didn’t give a lot of compliments, and good was a euphemism for fucking incredible, which was how I was feeling that night. I’d been coming in for three months, almost once a week, for a po’boy and beer or two, sometimes with Dawson, my team’s tight end, or Mason, and Lou had never said a word. Figured, since it was Nashville, most locals were used to the parade of celebrities and country musicians and stars of all forms, but I appreciated it. I’d been well-known in Clemson and a small-town celebrity back in Nebraska. For once, it felt good to not be all that known or noticed while I was at the local Target grabbing a pack of new underwear.

Like usual, we chatted about football for a few minutes, and then he steered the conversation to his grandkids in high school and college after he brought me my sandwich. I munched on fries and got a fresh beer, but even then, that anxious knot in my chest still wouldn’t go away.

What in the hell was it?

I was living my dream. Should have been flying off that win and how well I was playing.

I wasn’t caving to expectations or any stress from media who wrote I was still too soft, too young, too not perfect enough to sustain the energy I’d shown this early in the season.

Doubters were everywhere, but they always had been. I was used to it.

My phone rang, and some of that concern vanished as my sister’s face, smooshed up to kiss her youngest, soon-to-be middle child on the cheek, appeared on the screen.

Thank goodness it was quiet enough that I didn’t have to step outside to take her call.

I’d never miss this.

I brought the phone to my ear. “Hey Annie.”

“God. You suck so much. Slowest person out there.” She deadpanned the insult, her highest form of praise, and I took a sip of my beer.

“I know. It’s a shame. I should be sent back to Clemson to start all over.”

She snorted. “No shit. Your ankle okay?”

Because nothing came faster after her insults than a big sister’s worry. God, I loved her.

Missed her. Maybe this was my problem… I was used to not seeing my family much, but they’d always been at my games. Then Annie and Avery had to go and get married and start populating the next generation’s offensive lines, and everyone’s visits to my games became less.

“It’s good. Sore, but nothing major.”

“Shouldn’t have pretended you’re a track star instead of a semi-mediocre football player.”

“I think semi and mediocre is redundant.”

“Are you moonlighting as an English teacher now, too?”

“Someone has to impress Mom and Dad.”

“Please. I’m their favorite because I keep giving Mom more grandbabies. She might like you too if you have a kid.”

“As if.”

No way. No, thank you. No how. Not anytime soon.

Kids were several years down the line for me. While most of my old classmates in Nebraska got married after college, if they even finished or went, and started popping out kids, I had other things I wanted to accomplish first.

Like make a Pro Bowl. Go to—and hopefully win—a Super Bowl. Join the two-thousand-yard club by rushing that many yards in a single season. Break a few records.

Girlfriends and wives and kids and responsibilities could stay on my back burner.

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