“She’s busy, bud,” I say but sigh heavily. It’s not intended. I’m just thoroughly exhausted with all of this.
“Are you getting a divorce?”
I say nothing. I’m unprepared to answer his question.
“Mom has a boyfriend.”
I look at my son, who is staring at the door. “Where did you hear this?”
He glances up with unshed tears in his eyes. At this moment, I want Elena to see what she’s done to her children. “It was on TV last night.”
Motherfucker. I swallow the knot in my throat. “I’m trying to protect you,” I tell my son. “I don’t want you to have to deal with all this adult stuff.” He looks at me with sadness as my head shakes back and forth slowly. My heart hurts. It breaks for my children. “Mom is going to stay at the house in California for a bit, but you can go see her whenever you want.”
“She doesn’t love us anymore?” he asks, the dam of tears finally spilling over. I crouch down so we’re eye level, and I wipe his damp cheeks.
“She loves you, Reggie. She wants you to go live with her, but I want you and Roxy to stay here with me. Maybe I’m being selfish and should ask what you want.”
“Can I think about it?”
As much as it’s killing me inside, I nod and stand back up. He doesn’t need to see that his question is ripping me in two. When we reach the garage, I rush to my SUV and click the fob to unlock the doors. Reggie and I climb in and say nothing to each other until we’re at the drop off in front of the school.
“I love you, Reg. Have a good day.”
“Love you too. Tell Noah I said hi.” He climbs out and doesn’t look back as he runs toward his friends. I wonder if he’ll talk to them about what’s going on or if he’ll keep it bottled up. The latter isn’t good. I pull my phone out and send a text to my agent, asking him to find me a local family counselor. My kids need someone to talk to that isn’t their mother or me.
By the time I pull into the practice facility, the tension in my body is rolling off me. It’s a good thing we don’t have a game for a few more days because I’m not sure I’d be able to focus. I’m heated, angry, and emotional. Not a great combination of feelings when I need to focus on running routes and catching torpedo passes from my quarterback. This year, we have a good team, especially with the draft picks the general manager and our coach made. In my opinion, which, let’s be honest, probably doesn’t amount to much, I think we have a shot at the playoffs.
The locker room is empty, which is odd but also a relief. Only Noah knows I went to L.A. yesterday to see Elena, and I don’t really want to talk about what I did on my day off with anyone. Although, I guess if people saw the same shit my son caught on TV last night, the cat is out of the bag.
I find my teammates in the weight room. Loud music is playing, and some of the guys are walking around in spandex shorts or pants and no shirts, while others are wearing team workout gear. I bypass everyone and head for the treadmill. I want to get five miles in before I start to lift. Today is cardio, weight training, and skills practice. Tomorrow, we run through mock plays, on Thursday we’ll hit, and Friday is another walk through with game time situations. Coach always has us down by seven when we run our simulations. He says it keeps us humble.
The five-mile run seems to go faster than I expected. I don’t feel like I’ve exerted enough energy to be cordial to anyone. I look around the room and spot Noah. He’s in the corner, chatting with our cornerback, Cameron Simmons. I head over, and the three of us shoot the shit for a bit until Cameron is called into the trainer’s room.
“You look pissed,” Noah says. He picks up a weight and sets it on the bar. I match him and realize this set is for me. Noah lifts, but never over a certain amount because he’s afraid to fuck up his arm.
“I am.” I lie down on the bench and place my hands on the bar. Inhale. Exhale. Pushing the bar up, I lock my arms until I feel the burn of the weight. Noah’s behind me, his hands poised to grab the bar if needed.
“Ready?” he asks.
Up. Down. Inhale. Exhale. Grunt.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
“I take it things didn’t go well?”
“Met the boyfriend,” I tell him through gritted teeth. “He came into my home saying something about how my wife better be naked and ready for him.”
“That’s messed up, man.”
“She also wants to separate the kids since I want to keep them.”
“I’m not a parent, but I think that sounds ludicrous.”
“It is. I told her the kids should stay with me. They have a life here and a solid routine. Down there, they’d be with a nanny all the time. If she gets an acting gig, it could take her away from them for months, or they’d have to go and interrupt their lives to accommodate her. I also pointed out the only reason she wants the kids is because of child support.”
“Prenup?”
“Solid as a rock. A nice little clause in there about extramarital affairs. The irony of it is she added it because she was afraid I’d fuck a fan or a cheerleader. Do you and Peyton have one?”
Noah laughs and shakes his head. “Nah, we both know we’re not going anywhere. She knows I won’t cheat on her, and if she ever cheated on me, I must’ve done something terrible to deserve it. I love that woman more than my own life. If she told me to quit football and wait on her hand and foot, I would.”
“You don’t ever worry about your age difference?”
“Nope. I’ve known most of my life I was going to marry her. I probably would’ve done it when she turned eighteen if it wasn’t frowned upon by society. All through college, I wanted to be with her, but it wasn’t legal, so I kept my distance.”
“That must’ve been hard.”
“You have no idea,” he tells me. “Listen, I know you’re hurting from the wife thing, but come over Friday night. Peyton and I are having some people over. My friend Quinn will be here, and possibly Peyton’s sister, Elle. It’ll be very lowkey.”
“Elle’s a bitch,” I tell him.
Noah laughs. “Elle is engaged, and even if she wasn’t, she’s not the one for you. Come on, let’s get this lift in so we can get the hell out of here sooner.”
Five
Autumn
I thought starting a new job was nerve wracking, but nothing compares to meeting a sorority sister who seems to have hit the jackpot when it comes to life. After I sent the “hey, let’s be friends” email to Peyton, I spent the next hour or so of my life on the couch with a glass of wine in my hand, looking her up. Why? Because I’m a glutton for punishment, apparently. I had it in my mind that there was no way in hell someone like her would email someone like me back. I am a Plain Jane, the I don’t belong in her circle type of person. All over the internet, Peyton is living this luxurious life. Her father is a drummer in a very popular band. Her husband is the quarterback of an NFL team. Her sister is one of the most sought-after band managers, who it seems took their brother's band and skyrocketed them to stardom. Who am I? Someone she may have crossed paths with in the halls of our sorority house. And that’s a big giant maybe. Honestly, I should’ve done all this research before sending her an email because now I feel like a complete fool for reaching out to her.