“It’s nice. Not what I expected. I thought you would have grown up in a huge house like Belle’s.”
Samson looked around, trying to see the home through Rhi’s eyes. Though sitting on prime real estate, the place was relatively cozy, one giant room split into a kitchen, dining area, and living room. The furniture was large and of good quality, to accommodate his large-framed family, but decidedly dated. Except for his and his uncle’s bedrooms, no one had redecorated in here since his mom had passed. “My parents were pretty frugal.”
“A beautiful place to grow up.”
He softened. Sometimes he avoided thinking about his parents entirely, because his father’s behavior after the Switch had been so painful, but he should probably work on that. They’d had so many good times together. His childhood here had been idyllic. “It was.” He rested his hands on the back of the floral couch. “The place was closed up for a long time. Since my uncle died, and before, too, since my mom died.”
At her questioning look, he continued. “When I started taking care of Uncle Joe, we lived in the big house. A little over a year ago, it started to get challenging. He kept getting lost, not remembering where anything was, not recognizing Aunt Belle when she visited. He was calmer here.” He nodded at the mantel of the fireplace and the display case next to it. It held photos and memorabilia from his uncle and father’s football-playing days. Samson had moved the elder Lima’s Super Bowl rings to his safe deposit box, but they’d carefully been enshrined in the case when Uncle Joe had been alive. “He liked to sit up here and look at all of that. He could remember.”
Rhi drifted over to the display case and peered inside. “This is really cool.”
“I suppose I should donate it or something now.” That was something else he’d put off, along with thinking too much about the endless future. There was a reason this place had been preserved so well. Packing it up and deciding what to do with it had always been too painful of a chore.
“Or keep it. For future Limas.”
Samson blinked. He hadn’t considered having a family or children for a long time. “I have to think about it. Some of it might be better off in a place where fans could see and enjoy it.”
“You must miss him an awful lot.”
“My uncle? Yeah. I do miss him.” The words that had been so hard to say to his aunt spilled from his lips. “I got a call today, confirming his CTE diagnosis.”
She faced him. “I’m sorry.”
He nodded. “I knew it was coming.”
“Still hurts, I’m sure.”
Again, it was remarkably easy to make his confession. “More than I thought it would. Like I lost him all over again.”
She walked toward him, skirting the flowered couch. “Is that why you’ve been so distant today?”
He scrubbed his face. “Was I?” Samson didn’t need to ask, though. He’d chased down and welcomed the numbness. “I’m sorry. I guess I have a tendency to shut down when I’m upset.” He grimaced, thinking of the fog he’d been in after his uncle’s death. “I’ll work on it.”
The corner of her lips kicked up. She didn’t tell him that he didn’t need to work on anything for her, because what they had was temporary, and for that he was grateful. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him tight. “I don’t know exactly what happens in situations like this, but I presume his diagnosis will be released to the public?”
“Yes. My uncle wanted that. It’s good,” he added, to convince himself. “It’ll increase the pressure to make the game safer.” Two brothers, long NFL careers, both passing away over fifteen years apart due to the same degenerative brain disease? Headline writers would have a field day.
Her hand moved over his back, and it was then that he realized how tense he’d become. He was glad she was calmer than she’d been in her bedroom, but he didn’t much like that she was now the one soothing him.
“You’re good with publicity.”
He should put an end to this line of conversation, show her to a bed, but he couldn’t. “Not this kind.” His throat grew tight. “I was the one who pushed for my father to be diagnosed after he died. I wanted a reason, some scientific proof that explained why he’d changed. I didn’t need a diagnosis for my uncle, I knew what was wrong with him. I guess it’s not just grief that upset me today, but apprehension about what will happen now. The inevitable public reaction.”
She peered up at him. “I understand that, but can I say, as someone who has had to weather a good deal of negative gossip myself and who is fully aware of the current conversation around you, I am pretty sure any attention you get from this will be positive and supportive.”
He tried to scoff. “How are you fully aware? Did you google me despite our no-googling pact?”
“Nah. But occasionally someone will show me the comments. I have football fans who work for me. I’m an outsider, but even I can see that your retirement was a flashpoint for CTE activism.”
Samson’s face flushed. “I didn’t set out to be an activist.”
“No, but it seems like you are one anyway.” She hesitated. “Guys like that drunk on the rooftop, he’s going to be the odd man out. Like, do I think your former employers are going to be happy? No. They’re in the business of men smashing their bodies against each other, not health care. But the majority of public opinion will be firmly and loudly on your side, I bet. You made your industry better for the young men who came after you, and the older men who came before you, and you did it just by living your life. You’ll be a sympathetic face for the disease, whether you like it or not. I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”
He thought about Trevor. “I was recently asked to represent a CTE nonprofit. I turned it down,” he admitted.
“Why’d you turn it down?”
“My team’s old quarterback runs it. He was the one who started calling me the Curse.” Samson’s jaw tightened.
“Ah, he’s done a one-eighty. I’m familiar with those.” She shook her head. “I am like the queen of dead-to-me so I don’t feel comfortable telling you whether you should forgive him or if it’s worth hearing him out. But it sounds more like you hate the guy and not the idea of working for this place.”
He pulled her close and squeezed her tight, because he didn’t know what else to say. He hadn’t brought her here to comfort him, but that was exactly what she’d done.
He didn’t know how she’d take it if he told her how sweet and kind she was. Would she think he was getting too attached and cut him off?
Because he was. He was getting frighteningly attached. “Let me show you to my room. You need to sleep.”
SAMSON’S LARGE BEDROOM was the only place in the house, as far as Rhi could tell, that looked like it had been touched in the last decade. Here was some of the personality that was missing from his slick L.A. apartment and in the rest of this home. She crossed her arms over her chest and chafed them, though she wasn’t cold, and glanced around with curiosity. The walls were painted a soft gray, the king-sized bed covered in a fluffy white duvet. The end tables were clear, the closet doors open, revealing a few shirts, still in dry cleaning bags. A painting above the bed depicted an open-air hut with a thatched roof nestled on golden sand.