Trevor was silent for a beat. “I don’t know how much Harris has told you, but I’m starting a nonprofit. For retired players who are showing signs of CTE but can’t access the NFL settlement, either because they were denied, or because their symptoms don’t fit in the covered class.” When Samson stared at him blankly, Trevor continued. “The settlement only covers a narrow window of neurological, degenerative diseases like ALS or Parkinson’s. There are players out there with anger, depression, suicidal ideation. They have to cobble together their own emotional and financial resources. I want to create a central place they can go to for assistance.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“What?”
“You’re going to be the face of a CTE organization?”
“No, actually. I was hoping you would be.”
Samson’s laugh was short. “Are you serious?”
“We’re serious. I’m serious.”
“There are a lot of players, current and former, who are more famous than me,” he said flatly.
“Your career aside, you’re a Lima.” Trevor spread his hands out. “The son and nephew of two beloved players. Your father’s case made that settlement possible. The irony is, he wouldn’t even be eligible for compensation from it if he was still alive. Both because he retired before the cut-off, and because he didn’t have the right diagnosis. Your uncle—”
“My uncle’s results are not back yet,” Samson snapped. With every word Trevor was saying the throbbing at the base of his skull grew. He didn’t want to think about where his uncle’s brain was, or who was poring over it, or when the results would come. Bad enough when it had been his father, though he’d prayed for an explanation then.
He knew exactly what had caused his uncle’s decline, he didn’t need the confirmation.
Trevor dipped his head, acknowledging what he must have realized was a sensitive subject. “You quit the game,” he continued, in an even softer tone. “At the height of your career, loudly and publicly, because you disagreed with how head injuries were being managed. You were one of the first to take a stand for yourself and other players. In the history of activism for this condition, you are an icon.”
Samson linked his hands together under the tablecloth. Another person might say they were shaking, but he was a big, strong man. Big strong men’s hands didn’t shake.
He’d played football for four years after his dad died. Four years of being gaslit by his employers about how the scientists who had studied his father’s brain matter didn’t know what they were talking about, and that Aleki had been a special, unusual case.
On the day Samson had retired, when he’d knelt next to Dean, he hadn’t been thinking about activism. He’d been thinking about his dad. And how, if people had stopped Aleki from going out in the field with concussions, maybe he wouldn’t have suffered as much as he had in his final years.
“You’re forgetting part of that story,” Samson said, his voice hoarse. “When I left the field, you declared me a coward and a traitor.” A curse.
“I did.” Trevor’s shoulders hunched forward. “I absolutely did. I’m so sorry. It was a different—”
“I don’t want your excuses. I’m out here to help out a family friend, that’s all. It has nothing to do with CTE or the NFL or football.”
Trevor’s brow furrowed. “Man, haven’t you been looking at how the sports world is covering this? Whether you want to or not, your whole past, your father, your uncle, it’s all getting rehashed. I’m not the only one calling you an icon.”
Samson’s shoulders tightened, like there was a target painted on his back. “I stopped caring what that world thought of me a long time ago.” He dropped a wad of cash on the table, not looking to sort out how much was there, just eager to get gone. The waitress could have a big tip.
“Samson . . . I retired because I started having depressive episodes.”
Samson froze. Trevor’s voice lowered. “It was bad. I couldn’t play, I couldn’t get out of bed. After I quit, it got worse. I had other mood changes. Paranoia, anger. I’d pick fights with my girlfriend, stupid fights, sometimes over the same damn thing again and again. She finally left me one day when I accused her of stealing my phone. I couldn’t stop yelling at her.” Trevor’s jaw worked. “She took our son. I only get to see him in supervised settings now. I actually don’t mind that. I’d never hurt him, but I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry.” An inadequate bouquet of words, but they were all he had.
Trevor swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I have help. There are guys out there who are way worse off than I am. I want to help them. I’ve assembled a good team. Please, will you meet with the whole group? Then decide.”
Slowly, Samson shook his head. Ice had seeped through his veins, leaving him cold. He couldn’t think about Trevor’s organization or his problems. He couldn’t think about Trevor’s son. “I don’t want to work for you. When this gig with Matchmaker is over, I’m going to—” He stopped. He was going to . . . what?
“You could save lives, Samson.”
Samson wanted to laugh at that, but not because it was funny. He hadn’t been able to save his own father, or a man he considered a father. What good could he do for anyone else? “Goodbye. Good luck.”
He was sweating by the time he got outside, and he ripped off his light jacket, though there was a nip in the air. He pulled out his phone to call for a ride, and that was when he saw the text from Rhi.
Can I come see you?
He didn’t know what she wanted—they didn’t have anything scheduled today—but it didn’t matter. Could she come see him? What a ridiculous question. The answer would always be yes, but especially right now.
He typed out his reply. I’ll be at my place in an hour. He gave the address and hit send. Her response was immediate. See you then.
He knew he needed to sort out the complex tangle of emotions in his brain, but not now. Not yet.
For now, he wanted Rhi.
Chapter Fifteen
RHIANNON’S FRENZIED panic had cooled a little on the drive from Santa Barbara to L.A., especially after Samson had finally—finally!—texted her back, but not enough for her to cancel seeing him. The edge of fear and anger was still there when she pulled up in front of Samson’s high-rise condo.
She avoided looking at herself in the mirrors in the elevator on the way up. She didn’t want to think about what she looked like. Probably a mess, since she’d intended to lounge the day and weekend away and not see anyone but Katrina.
Her knuckles barely hit Samson’s door before he opened it. Angels didn’t sing, but a halo of light surrounded him.
Or he’s backlit by the sun, calm down.
He opened the door all the way, and his biceps looked so big and strong and sweet. She wanted to bite them and lay her head against them. “Hey. Good to see you. Come on in.”
She stepped inside and glanced around. Curiosity pierced through her other emotions, though it was misplaced. There was nothing personal in this open-concept corporate-furnished condo. It was all black leather and metal.