In the coffee shop, the vacant, half-lidded stares of business professionals milling around staring at their phones, the whirring crunch of the coffee grinder, the overpowering smell of ten different types of beans, and the cringe at mispronounced names scribbled on cups only meant one thing—Monday.
September should’ve meant training camp for me. Instead I was in line with everyone else trying to figure out how the fuck my life had turned out this way.
“Aren’t you that guy?” An insistent tap on my shoulder.
My head dipped for a second before I turned to the woman peering up at me over the top of her glasses. She didn’t strike me as a football fan.
“What guy?” her friend unhelpfully offered, staring at me like a zoo exhibit.
My jaw clenched and I stared straight ahead over the heads of the four people in front of me.
“The guy who got wrecked last season by, like, three guys during the Super Bowl? Remember, we watched the replay ten or fifteen times?”
My fists clenched at my sides. “No, that’s not me.”
“Are you sure? There were so many close-ups on your face when they pulled you out of there on the stretcher.”
“I’m sure.” I glared at them before facing front, not needing to relive the unceremonious end to my career thanks to a nosy woman in line at the coffee shop. I’d learned over the past few months that my face had become much more recognizable in the time since I’d been booted from my team than it had been the whole three seasons I’d played for them.
It wasn’t like I blended in, though. Once, sticking out like this had been all I wanted; now fading into the background was what I needed.
The exit path for former players was a crash course in how not to live the rest of your life. People flamed out like an overworked engine reaching its breaking point or parlayed their experience into something more. Every waking moment had been layered over a football backdrop. Practices. Playbook reviews. Traveling for games. Recovering from games. For eighteen years, since pee-wee football began when I was eight, I’d devoted myself to the gridiron—what the hell was I supposed to do now?
Sports commentary was the only way to stay close to the game for me. My attempts at coaching had flamed out spectacularly. College hadn’t been my forte. My college transcript wasn’t winning me any coveted positions anywhere. My face wasn’t even recognizable enough to start up a car dealership like a lot of guys did when they left the pros. Besides, you need capital to jumpstart a business fast, and all mine had been sucked away with one signature on a dotted line.
My agent had worked out a deal with an accountant to protect me from myself. The money I hadn’t blown through while playing was locked up tight, only accessible in monthly payments of just enough to keep me afloat. The contract was ironclad. Waiting around for a check wasn’t my style and my skills were limited. Sports commentary was the only way to keep myself from going off the deep end, but no amount of resume sending had gotten me even a ‘fuck off’ in response.
Sam had said I could stop by at eight, and I wanted to grab him a coffee first. It was the least I could do.
He’d been pale and skinnier the last time I’d seen him and guilt bore down on me like a whole squad of offensive linemen prepared to take my head off. They should. It would hurt less than knowing how I’d let Felix down before he died.
Brushing past the sidewalk surliness, I went inside to get a couple cups of coffee, if only to have something to do with my hands when I showed up at Simply Stark.
A text rolled in.
Hunter: You’re still coming to the game this afternoon
Me: Of course.
August: He’s trying to get out of it.
Me: Isn’t that Everest’s job?
Everest: Fuck. Off.
Me: Shocking language from such a posh guy.
Everest: I have a few other choice words I can pull out of my hat, if you’d like
Jameson: Children! Focus! We have the court reserved for 6. Brady’s saving our booth until 7:30. The Wing Night Special ends at 8:30.
August: Thanks for keeping us on track, Jameson
Jameson: It’s what I do
Hunter: It’s settled then, everyone will be there.
A chorus of yeses happened right as I got to the counter.
Walking past the barista set-up after placing my order, my shoulders tensed. Eyes were on me. I could feel them with every step I took. This was what I got for not wearing my baseball cap.
“Leo Wilder. I knew it was you.” The woman from earlier in the line had her phone up to the side of my face, not taking my denial lying down.
My shoulders sagged. So much for a quick trip into a coffee shop.
“Can I have your autograph?” She clambered half-up onto the counter to grab one of the barista pens and held it out to me.
You’d think in Philly, they’d hate me forever for being a hometown boy who was playing for the opposing team that beat them at the Super Bowl, but five signatures in, no one seemed to mind. At least some things never changed. City pride over all else.
How many more months until these reactions were wiped away? The next season started in a couple weeks; there’d be a new clip played on repeat and I’d be another has-been peddling signatures no one wanted, instead of basking in the dying light of my former glory. I hadn’t even stood on the field when the confetti cannons had gone off and they’d hoisted the glistening trophy into the air. I’d been in a CT machine and a neck brace, not knowing my football career was over.
But everyone loved a recognizable face. I’d need it to kick start the next stage of my career. Being up in a booth talking about the games was nothing compared to being on the field using my body to gain one more inch for my team, but it was all I knew. Football was where I no longer felt like a mere mortal, so I’d get back to it the only way I knew how.
With my coffees, a hand cramp, and phantom flashes dancing in my eyes, I made it back outside. There was no sign of the woman other than a dried coffee splatter and remnants of her croissant on the sidewalk. Her seething anger hadn’t distracted me completely from how pretty she’d been—or would have been, if not for the sneer and need to jump down my throat. Too bad. With over a million people in the city, it wasn’t like I’d be seeing her again. I headed to Simply Stark.
“Look what the cat dragged in.” Phyllis tugged her horn-rimmed cat eye glasses down to the tip of her nose.
“Hey, Phyl.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Stranger, I’m surprised you remember my name.”
I pecked her on the cheek before holding onto both her hands and perching on the edge of her desk. “How could I not? If I was forty years older…”
She lifted an eyebrow and threw her head back, glasses sliding back into place. “Who said I’m not into younger men?” Pushing at my shoulder, she shook her head. “Laying it on pretty thick aren’t you, kid?”
“You know I love you. When will you finally accept my offer and run away with me?”
“Don’t let my husband hear or he’ll run you out of the state, but if I were forty years younger…”
“Then we’ll be sure to keep that our little secret.” I winked and she swatted at my leg. “How’s he doing?”
“As good as he could be, considering.” A hint of tenderness she almost never let show broke through. “Things have been rough lately.”