Page 7 of Final Down

I’m not sure what to make of the fact Reed isn’t in his office when I pull into my usual parking spot, but rather is throwing balls from the caddy through the targets on the field. For a man in his fifties, he’s still got one hell of an arm.

I kill my truck’s engine and fold my arms over the steering wheel to watch him for a minute. I’ve seen his highlights enough to know his movements by heart. It’s been thirty-plus years of throwing, and I don’t know that he’s lost a step. At least, not when the defenders are invisible figments of his imagination.

He’s lost in his past, I think, and it’s kind of fun to watch. He pulls a ball from the caddy and steps back a few yards before pretending to take a snap. His feet seem so light on the turf as he falls back before spinning to his right and rushing toward the sideline. My mouth inches up at the corners as I anticipate his moves, his arm dropping to that signature three-quarter slot as he slings the ball practically side-armed and into the target net about twenty yards away. He fakes a jump-shot, then claps his hands like he’s still in the game, under the lights, hearing the crowd.

I step out of my truck and push my fingers into my mouth to let out a whistle. When Reed jerks his head around and spots me, I clap above my head. He laughs me off and pinches the bridge of his nose, probably a little embarrassed that he got caught—by me.

My truck beeps as I press the fob to lock it, and I jog to the field to help Reed pick up the balls.

“Let me guess, you heard Portland was looking for a quarterback?” I joke, figuring he knows all about my invitation. He chuckles.

“Little competition is good for everyone, right? You don’t mind going up against me for the gig, do you?” The weight of his palm as it slaps my back would be enough to take me out of the running if I thought he was serious. Of course, he’s not. But I have a feeling this little exercise he’s in the middle of is part of a bigger point he plans on making.

“Who told you?” I squint as the sun hits my eyes over his shoulder.

“You mean first? Because Bryce couldn’t help himself yesterday. I don’t think we made it all the way to my office before he blabbed about it. And then, well, ya know . . . Whiskey called. And that wife of his. And Jason and I met up for a beer last night, so you could say I’ve gotten most of the angles covered. I mean,except yours, of course. And my daughter’s. You two have been remarkably mum about the news, which makes me wonder?—”

“Well, keep wondering,” I laugh out. He joins me, getting it. I’m lucky to have Reed in my life. He’s not my father, but I know they would have been like brothers. There is so much about them that’s the same. And Reed sees me in ways that only a man who’s been in my shoes can.

We push the caddy to the sideline, then take a seat on the middle bench, both of us leaning forward and resting our elbows on our knees as we knead our hands.

“What’s Peyton think?” He swivels his head to meet my gaze.

I shrug.

“She says she supports me no matter what.”

Reed shakes with a short laugh.

“Well, shit. That’s not helpful at all, is it?”

I shake my head.

“No, sir. Not in the least.”

I sit up straight and grip the bench on either side of me, shifting my focus to the golden light coloring the tips of the ripe spinach and kale fields on the other side of the fence. There aren’t many farms left in Coolidge, but I hope this one stays. I can’t imagine sitting here one day and seeing rooftops or a block wall around a shopping center. It won’t hit the same.

“You probably came out here early thinking I’d be able to get your head straight.” The way he says it hits my chest with a thud. Something about his tone tells me Reed’s not going to be able to give me any answers, either.

“How did you decide? I mean, when you went in the draft, and when you left the game. All of it.” I squint one eye as I look at him. His eyes meet mine as he softly chuckles.

“Nolan.” He shrugs, as if it’s that simple. It’s not. It can’t be.

“Nah, there had to be something else.”

He shakes his head as he gets to his feet. He takes a ball from the cart and tosses it up a few times before throwing it to me. I catch it against my chest, still baffled.Morebaffled, in fact.

“Deep down, when the time is right, it will hit you,” he says, moving back a few steps with his hands held out. I stand and throw the ball back to him.

“And when is that right time? Is it soon? Because I don’t think Bryce has the cache to buy me loads of time.”

Reed slings the ball back to me with a laugh.

“You know now; it’s just your head can’t get out of your own damn way. My guess is, sometime around dinner, you’ll figure this out.”

I throw the ball back, pretty sure my father-in-law smoked a little weed this morning. He’s making zero sense.

“All I can tell you, Wyatt, is that nothing in my life was ever really my own choice. I know that looking back. Everything that happened to me was either the game’s call or Nolan’s. I was simply a man good at throwing a ball and fairly decent at being a husband and a parent. But I’ll tell you one thing.” He jogs back a few steps and tosses me the ball again. “If I weren’t fifty-two and in need of a knee replacement, I’d absolutely leap at the chance to have that feeling in my chest again.”

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