Page 88 of Play the Last Track
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“You married that.”
“I know.”
“Did you know she was like this?”
“After some wine? Yes, but I thought she wouldn’t do this in the dress.”
“One thing I’ve learned about these girls is that they will hype each other up until they both do something dumb. If Ivy suggested a few wines and then a bungee jump off a bridge, Katie would ask how many bottles,” I say as I watch my girlfriend sing into the microphone Ivy holds up for her. An hour ago, the DJ gave them a microphone to make some announcements. They announced the party was starting, both lifting a bottle of wine each over their heads and laughing hysterically. Since then, the DJ has played pop song after pop song that both Ivy and Katie have screamed the lyrics for.
We started in the middle of the dance floor with them, Scott and I. Scott, who has never been much of a dancer, tried his best to keep up, but he bowed out by song number five, taking up residence on the edge of the dance floor. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Ivy since.
I lasted a little longer, but after a full straight minute of Katie grinding her ass against me during some Justin Timberlake song, I needed a break.
A server places two bottles of beer down on the table Scott and I lean against, and I give him a nod. It’s been a pretty decent night. Scott looks completely and utterly in awe of his new wife, and I couldn’t be happier for the both of them. I tell him as much, bumping my shoulder gently with his.
“Thank you.” He takes a swig of the beer, never taking an eye off Ivy. The girls are now screaming the lyrics to ‘Baby’by Justin Bieber into the mic.
“I’m glad you guys found each other. You’re meant to be. She’s good for you. Has been since you met her,” I say, tipping my beer in Ivy’s direction. “Plus, she kept you in Boston, and we won the ring we’ve been chasing since freshman year training camp.”
“You were a scrawny shit, running your mouth about how the school had never seen a QB quite like you.”
“And they still haven’t.” I smirk. “You never let me show them.”
“You are a talented tight end. Fucking one with the ball, you know that.” Scott turns a little toward me, taking his eyes off Ivy for the first time in hours.
“Was,” I say quietly. “Iwasa talented tight end. Now, I’m just another retired NFL player with serious brain damage and a bogus degree in business.”
“It’s not bogus. You graduated.”
“I have no interest in using it.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to get a second opinion? Lots of players have come back after concussions.” His words wash over me like cold water. Suddenly, I’m wide awake, and the hair on the back of my neck is standing up. For a second, his wordspump adrenaline through my veins, and I feel the anticipation crawl under my skin, giving me the slightest of buzzes.
“Sure, but none from a severe traumatic brain injury.” Scott flinches at my words, and the adrenaline, the anticipation, that was just humming through my body ceases.
“Fuck.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I guess I just can’t believe it’s over.”
“We got our ring. We did what you came here to do, with me.”
“I know, but—” Scott takes a deep breath, his eyes flickering back to his new wife and avoiding my gaze. “You’re so calm. I would be freaking out.”
“I—Oh, well, I guess I am calm.” I shrug, swigging at the beer again. The amber liquid slides down my throat, and I expect to feel something at Scott’s words. I expect disappointment, panic, maybe even anger.
But I don’t.
He’s right. I’m calm.
“The injury, the way I had to go out, it was shit. I’m disappointed the choice was made for me, but—” I lift a hand to his shoulder and squeeze. “I’m not disappointed that it was made. It was my time. That’s that.”
I remember the beginning of the season, when I spent all my free evenings sitting in a booth in Katie’s bar, staring at her from across the room while she wouldn’t even make eye contact with me. I remember the conversation with Hollie after the video got leaked. She was worried I wasn’t going to get re-signed, but I was worried Katie would be even more pissed that I started a fight in front of her bar.
I think, deep down, I knew my time on the field as a player was coming to an end. I just didn’t know when.
“Have you thought about what you might want to do now?” Scott asks, speaking over the music.
I shake my head and shrug. “Coach? I don’t know. College ball could be fun. High school might be good too, if any of the local colleges or high schools are hiring.”
