“First time we met,” Marty said. “You know what my first impression was?”
Dawson tipped his head back against his seat. “I know you’re going to tell me.”
“Young kid. Raw. But fucking talented. If he could only get out of his own way. And then you did, and kept doing it.”
“I’ve heard this story before and I know how it ends.”
“Yeah, you think you do. You think it ends with your last season, with you going off the rails. But it doesn’t have to end that way.”
“This sounds suspiciously like the pep talk you gave me when you convinced me to sign with the Thunder,” Dawson retorted without much heat. Marty was kind of a pain—but helikedhim. Had always liked him, from the first time they’d met, at that Pro Bowl.
When Baltimore had released him, Marty was the only special teams coordinator who’d come tohim. His agent had spent the weeks post-release—post-firing, Dawson had thought of it—making agonized noises about how they were going to have to make the rounds, make Dawson look confident and good again, that he was probably going to have to win a kicking competition in camp. Something he hadn’t done in ten years.
But then Marty had shown up with his inspirational speech, like he actually believed, despite all evidence to the contrary, that there was still something special in Dawson. Like he still deserved to be pitchedto, instead of being forced to pitchhimself.
“It’s not the same thing at all,” Marty dismissed. “We’re not really talking about you. Though you’re in a dramatic enough snit you probably think everythingisabout you.”
Dawson squeezed his eyes shut. Willed himself to be anywhere else.
“God, take it easy on me, old man,” Dawson ground out.
“No,” Marty said unrepentantly.
Dawson ground his teeth together. “Fine.Fine. Whoarewe talking about?”
“Cam, of course. You need to work with him.”
“Weare. We’re on the field together every practice. You’re there. You see it.” Marty directed it, more like, though Dawson had been in the NFL long enough that he probably could’ve orchestrated their practices himself.
“Yeah, sure, on the field, yeah. Could get your timing down a bit better. Get more familiar with each other. That comes with time. You know what else helps with that?”
Dawson knew what was coming. He just didn’t have to like it. “No.”
“Yeah, you do—”
“Yeah, I do. What I mean is,no, I don’t wanna become his best bud or his rookie comfort blankie.”
Marty elbowed him hard as the plane started to taxi. “You’ve become kind of an asshole. That kid I met at the Pro Bowl ten years ago would be disappointed in you, Daws.”
“Can we go back and tell that rookie not to get married, either?” Dawson didn’t bother to hide his bitterness. Didn’t think he should, at this point. He was bitter, and frankly, hedeservedto be. He’d gotten fucked over. Literally. Figuratively. Every single freaking way you could get fucked over, he’d endured.
“You and Brynn were happy, once.”
“Were we though? Or was she just happy that I was good and getting better? She liked the prestige and the money. Liked being a WAG.”
“Daws,” Marty warned.
“Easier to pretend that it was always shit,” Dawson muttered by way of explanation. “Easier than thinking of how it got fucked.”
Marty patted him awkwardly on the arm. “It’s gonna be okay. I know it doesn’t seem that way now, but it will be.”
“Thanks,” Dawson said dryly.
“But I mean it,” Marty said, his voice going serious, “you’re gonna have to do something about this. I’ve talked to Cam, and he says you’re nice enough—which I’m sure is a fucking lie—”
“Ouch,” Dawson interrupted.
“Real talk, you’ve been a grumpy asshole since you showed up in Toronto,” Marty said.
