The men in my family were tall with dark hair and tanned skin. Our Italian heritage probably played apart.
My grandmother Concetta Pitucco named her sons Bruno and Boris. My dad Bruno called him Bo for short and it stuck. People rarely called him Boris. Uncle Bo wasn’t a fan of his full name. Whenever nonna Concetta called him Boris, it brought a smile to his face. Our grandmother preferred we call her nonna which meant grandma in Italian.
She made sure Phoebe, and I knew how to speak Italian. I missed her. If she was here, she’d spout off things about any and everyone around us in Italian. Just thinking about her calmed my nerves. She passed away when I was sixteen. A part of each of us at this table died that day. Lakelyn sat with me in the backyard for hours after the funeral.
She said my nonna would want me to play the game harder than I ever did before. I’d never forget Lakelyn’s words. Peace washed over me in that moment.
“Oak, you got this.” Uncle Bo pointed toward me, then slicked his hand over his black hair. He wore a slick grin. Uncle Bo was a good-looking guy. I hoped to look as good as him and my dad later in life.
After he retired from the NFL, he bought my aunt Aria a restaurant ten minutes from our gated community. He named the restaurant after her. The place was so popular you needed a reservation. It was one of the most prestigious restaurants in Atlanta.
Nonna said we shouldn’t use broken Italian. I laughed inside. I remember the little woman, piccolo donna waving her finger at me when she said it. Around my friends, I did anyway. It was all in fun. Maxon asked me to recite lines from the Godfather.
My friends got a kick out of listening to me.
I stuffed buttered rolls in each side of my mouth and I sat across the dining table from Maxon, Deacon, Lakelyn, Rayne, and Sylvie. Tilting back on the hind legs of the chair, I said, “Gli farò un'offerta che non può rifiutare. I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse.
They burst into laughter every time. A smile fell across my lips, thinking about my friends, wishing they were here.
I came from a football family. My grandfather, dad, and uncle all were professional football players.
Some say I was born with athletic abilities. Or, the football gene.
Many players hated me because of my legacy. I fought opposing teammates after football games in high school locker rooms and on college campuses. They wanted to shit on my greatness. Putting them back in their places left me with bruised knuckles and a sore jaw, but it was worth it. I wouldn’t take anyone’s shit lying down.
Several teams had their eyes on me today.
It wasn’t a secret I dreamed of playing for my home team in Atlanta like my dad. The San Francisco Forty-Niners had the number one draft pick. Their general manager Johnny Farland attended many of my high school games. It felt like his only mission was to put me in a red and gold uniform. The Forty-Niners could choose me and crush my dreams of playing for my favorite team.
There were other reasons I desired to play in Atlanta. It was my hometown, and that was where my first love Lakelyn resided. Grant it she had no idea how deep my feelings were for her.
An hour later, the call came.
Holding the phone steady, I answered.
“Hello, this is Wyatt Oakley speaking.”
“Hello, Wyatt. This is the general manager from the Atlanta Falcons. Are you ready to play some football?”
I exhaled, then threw my fist in the air. “Yes, sir. This is a dream come true. Thank you,” I stated, with a southern twang.
“See you soon.” He disconnected the call.
My family’s screams thudded my ears. A staff member gave me a red and black Falcons baseball cap before escorting me on stage.
My entire body shook with excitement.
“Wyatt Oakley is the number ten draft pick for the Atlanta Falcons,” the commissioner announced.
Hundreds of people wearing their favorite team jerseys shouted and swung colorful props in the air to express their joy. I waved to the audience as I sauntered toward the NFL commissioner and embraced him.
The moment I stepped off the stage, I shoved my earbuds in my ears and made a FaceTime call.
“Hello.” I stared at the screen. My cheeks hurt from smiling so hard.
She placed one finger up as she ran out of the living room, away from prying eyes. Thank God she had in her earbuds.
“Oak, you did it. I’m so proud of you.” Lakelyn jumped up and down. Her natural black curls were pulled up into a ponytail on top of her head, just the way I liked. Yelling and screaming blared through the phone. I knew my best friend and their family were watching the draft. God, she was beautiful. Lakelyn’s hazel eyes beamed.
The excitement in her voice brought me comfort.
“Thanks for believing in me.”
“You’re welcome,” she blushed.
There wasn’t time to hold a conversation, but I had to see her smile. I wished I could kiss her hot, pink pouty lips.
“Go and be great, Oak. Show the NFL you are their best player.”
“I will. Talk to you later.”
Maxon, Rayne, Sylvie, and Lakelyn congratulated me in a group text and attached a pic of an Atlanta Journal Constitution newspaper headline:
Twenty-year-old Wyatt Oakley is Atlanta Falcons' newest wide receiver.
Several scouts were after me during my senior year. I considered playing pro ball fresh out of high school. But enjoying life as a college student was more important at the time, so I waited.
The Notre Dame coach said he hated to lose another great player. He said my drive and determination on the field would take me far.
I glanced at a text from my best friend before I met with the press.
Deacon: You did it, Oak. Congratulations!
Me: Thanks, Deac.
The day flew by at lightning speed.
After leaving the second draft party, I fell on the firm king-sized bed. At least thirty women stuffed their phone numbers in my pockets. NFL stardom brought a new kind of trouble. Gold digging women. They wanted a piece of the American dream and they’d use me to gain access. Not a chance I’d leave home without condoms. I was ready for all the bullshit to come.
**P**
Standing in the Mercedes Benz stadium as an Atlanta Falcons wide receiver felt like a dream. During the second half of my first game, I sat on the bench and sucked down a cup of Gatorade. I felt a powerful urge to peek over my shoulder. The woman who made my heart stop sat in the second row. That beautiful smile I loved so much greeted me. Lakelyn’s long, dark hair cascaded over her shoulders. Twisting Lakelyn’s strands around my fist and taking her from behind flashed in my head. I blinked twice, ridding the dirty thoughts from my mind for now. Maybe Deacon, Sylvie, and Rayne ran to grab refreshments. I didn’t care. That spark we shared a few years ago came rushing back.
It was only a matter of time before I asked Lakelyn out to dinner. But in the meantime, I settled for her presence at the game during the season.
After the season ended, I shot her a friendly text here and there. Then we talked on the phone.
The second year, we graduated to dinner and drinks after the football season came to a close. One night I invited her to have dinner with me at a new hotel in downtown Atlanta. By the end of the night, we checked into a room for one night, which turned into a long weekend. We didn’t put a label on what we had. Over the years, we traveled in secret and agreed we were just fucking each other from time to time.