Page 52 of Red Zone Realizations
Today, I’m going to reach out to other professional athletes via their agent to see if they would be interested in my services. I’m anticipating Noah firing me. He has his pick of reasons. While I have him and things are good, I’m going to leverage his patronage to my advantage.
I know that Noah would never fire me over a failed relationship. He’s too loyal. He would keep me around because he already made the commitment, and he would hate every second of it. I, on the other hand, would have to quit because I wouldn’t be able to be around him. He’s not a man who runs on pride. Noah does everything by the standard of his character.
Is a man of that character someone who can live a happy life without children if it means being with me?
Chapter Twenty-Five
NOAH
After cuts are made and the team is solidified, we are in Dallas to play the Outlaws for the last game of the preseason. Next week, the first week of September, is the beginning of the regular season. Since we both represent the same state and have very dedicated fans, things can get chippy. They like to call themselves “America’s Team” but that’s all advertising. Every season it’s a battle for who’s going to be Texas’s team.
Every step I take away from Audrey feels like oxygen is thinning in the atmosphere, making it harder to breathe. If I lose Audrey, I’ll suffocate. I’m not sure how to return to her life. Do I just show up like nothing happened? Text her to meet me for dinner and lay it all on the line?
In the hotel room, I try and stick to my normal pre-game night routine, but it doesn’t seem to work. My hot shower/jerk-off combo leaves me feeling empty instead of sated. Laying out my arrival clothes doesn’t excite me. Most of the time putting on the suit jacket makes me feel like my dreams have come true, but looking at them now, I almost feel like a kid playing dress up with his dad’s clothes.
I lie in bed with the lights off for a long time, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to come. It does, eventually, but not the good kind where you blink and it’s been eight restful hours. More like the kind that feels like it goes on and on. Like every hour you’re on the verge of being late for something.
The tone is terse and full of concentration on the bus on the way to the stadium. Stoic eyes everywhere you look. The new guys need to prove to the coaches that they made the right choice betting on them. I try to focus on myself and what I need to do.
The second I step foot on the field the electricity fills me and the hair on my arms stands at attention. The smell of the turf fills my nose. I walk over to the goal post and sit cross-legged underneath it. I pull my noise-canceling headphones over my ears and open up my meditation app. I close my eyes and let the voice of the narrator settle over me.
I’ve been doing this since my first season in the NFL. When I was having a hard time adjusting to the pressure of going pro, Nina recommended I try some guided meditation before games. I remember having my head in my hands on her couch and her telling me, “Some people’s minds need more of a warmup than their body.”
Today, like my whole week, I’m finding it harder to concentrate than usual. My breath isn’t as easy to control as it usually is. Definitely has something to do with the fact that I’m just getting back into the rhythm of things. Getting hit like this takes some getting used to at the beginning of each new season.
When my meditation ends, I move through a series of slow stretches on the ground. I watch both teams as I move, noticing that their running back is slightly favoring his left leg. I tuck that nugget away for later. I get up, grab my water, and jogtoward the bench to join the rest of the team with warmups. If there was any pushback about my quiet time before a game, they’re long gone now.
Now it’s time to focus on winning.
Everything is going to shit.
We aren’t playing well as a whole. We aren’t communicating. I ran the wrong route once and it almost resulted in a pick. Luckily, Colin was paying better attention than me and was able to throw the ball away. Things are looking dismal, including the score: three to twenty-one. Being two possessions behind is never good. We look like a team made up entirely of rookies, unable to find the end zone without an extremely detailed map.
The guy guarding me on the Outlaws is getting on my last fucking nerve. He bumps me every time I walk past, even after the whistle blows. I know he’s just doing it to get under my skin. The constant shoving and shit talk would have me ready to throw hands on my best day.
It’s not even close to my best day.
We break from the huddle and move to the line of scrimmage. Number forty-two and I have been going at it all night. Colin calls for the ball and we all slam into motion. I’m gripping this guy by the chest plate, blocking him. We struggle against each other until he pulls a swim move on me and lunges toward our running back carrying the ball. Jaden weaves through the gap, but number forty-two gets him by the shoestring because I blew my block. Two-yard gain on the play in a third-and-ten situation. Not converting on fourth and eight is a sure sign of a team slowly breaking down.
I can feel the anger burning in my chest. The outside of it is tinged with fear. Is this what our season is going to look like? If so, then my fears of possibly being traded from the Hurricanes and having to start over somewhere else in a city that doesn’t feel like home is now full-on terrifying. Darkness swirls in my mind as I move back to the line. Which is why, when number forty-two starts his bumping shit again, I lose it.
“Back the fuck up, dude,” I snarl.
He moves a step closer. “Or what?”
“Or I’ll put you on your ass.”
Referees blow their whistles like there’s no tomorrow. Every one of my teammates on the field is taking hasty steps toward me, ready to tear me away from this guy or aid in the fight. “Gentlemen!” Whistles blow some more. “Back to your line.”
My breath is heaving as I send a final glare his way and take my position again. I’ve got to keep my head on straight. This fourth down is too important. He knows it because as soon as I set my cleat on the line, he starts up again. “I heard your social media bitch fucks her clients. Think you can give me her number?”
“Fuck you.”
“I bet she would. Never look back at your ugly ass after she gets a taste of this.” He cups a hand over his junk and the movement is so lewd I black out completely. All I can feel is rage. I lunge at him with all my weight, throwing my whole body into his chest, mowing him down.
I stand over him and hold my arms open. “Let’s go, bitch.” He’s quiet for a second. “Oh, that’s all you’ve got to say?” Referees come rushing back up and a smile splits his smug face. I see the yellow flag on the ground next to him.
Fuck.
