Page 2 of The Wild Card
James raises one dark brow. “Quick reminder, Collin—you run a gym for elite athletes.”
I arch an eyebrow right back at James because he doesn’t have the monopoly on eyebrow arches. “Idoown a gym for elite athletes.”
For now.
But my brothers don’t know that I’m trying to sell the place, so I don’t say that. Instead, I run a hand over the beard I’m still getting used to on my face. It’s still in the itchy phase. Do beards ever stop being itchy? “And your point is?” I ask James.
“My point is that you should know better than to eat fried butter,” he continues.
“Thanks,Dad,” I say.
Pat puts his hands on his hips and narrows his eyes at our older brother. “It’s a festival, Jamie. One day a year. Live a little. If youdare.”
But James isn’t the one who responds to dares. That’s Pat. Or sometimes, if the mood hits just right, me.
All my life, I’ve vacillated on a spectrum somewhere between two opposite poles of my brothers—the serious and responsible (and mostly grumpy) James and the carefree and charming (and often reckless) Pat.
Not that either of them isonlythose things. But if you had to list the sum of their parts, these descriptions work.
I love them both and wouldn’t change a thing, even if they get on my last nerve most days. It’s just that their extremes leave no space for me to be …me. Whoevermeis.
I’m always the “other” brother. The Goldilocks of the Grahams—not too hot and not too cold.
But I’m not just right either.
What Iamis restless. I don’t like being caught between two opposites, who are currently arguing right in front of me about seed oils and saturated fats while I zone out.
I’ve never liked feeling that, by default, my allotted space is somewhere in the middle. Or like I’m defined in relation to Pat and James.
Even my pro football career, which lasted longer than Pat’s, was pretty unremarkable. I did my job but wasn’t ever a household name in the sports world. Any mention I got, whether in commentary or articles or on social media, included a mention of our famous father, Tank, whose legacy still shines as bright as his smile.
I was—and am—Collin Graham, son of Tank Graham, brother to James and Patrick Graham.
Never just … Collin Graham. Full stop.
And though I’ve always felt itchy about this, I also don’t know how I want to be known or where I fit.
My dad is a famous face on Sports Center, the kind of Big Man who does Big Things, like buying and revitalizing the small town of Sheet Cake.
James recently opened Dark Horse, a craft brewery with award-winning beer. A Big Thing in its own right, even if he has a knack for ducking out of the spotlight.
Pat is going for father-and-husband-of-the-year awards and deserves both. To some people, those might not count asbig, huge things since there are no actual awards for that kind of thing. But since family is something we Grahams value so highly, these are better than a Heisman trophy.
My sister, Harper, doesn’t partake in the brotherly competition or comparisons. I’m sure it wasn’t easy growing up as the only woman in the semi-famous Graham family. But like my brothers, she’s carved out her own spot, first on a journey of self-discovery about her neurodivergence, and then by marrying Chase, a guy every bit as decent and good as my brothers. She’s found contentment in her own skin, our family, and her life.
And then … there’s me.
I thought the gym might be my place. My Big Thing. But it’s not. And even if it were, right now, it’s crumbling around me. The shocking thing is that I’m not all that disappointed to see the flames rising from the dumpster fire. I’m just embarrassed to be the failure. To be the one person in our family who has no set path, no purpose.
Which is why no one aside from Thayden, our family lawyer, knows what’s going on with me and the gym. And it will stay that way as long as I can keep it under wraps.
With everyone else in my family so clearly certain of who they are, I feel less sure of whoIam. Or who Iwantto be.
“Where’s Dad?” I ask, interrupting their spat while wiping sweat from my forehead. I need to get out of the sun. Jeans and boots, while very Sheet Cake Festival apropos, were a poor choice for May.
Pat grins. He still has powdered sugar in what looks like two days’ worth of dark stubble on his face. “Tank is with Jo. He promised to win her some stuffed animals.”
I’m a little surprised Pat isn’t off winning his daughter prizes himself. Knowing him, he already did and the fried food smorgasbord is his reward.
