With wide eyes, I nod at him, somehow not shocked at all that the kindhearted Graham Turner would be returning to a small-town life after football.
“Speaking of goats, we have to talk about your quarterback. He’s got to be in that greatest-of-all-time conversation. Some of the plays he’s able to make I think leaves all of us scratching our heads wondering how the heck that just happened.”
I watch as Ford sits up straighter and leans forward a bit. His dark features soften as he begins to speak about his friend and teammate.
“Liam’s the best. He kind of had this chip on his shoulder when he entered the league, right? High expectations and a shadow he really wanted to get out from underneath. I think a lot of people doubted him, and sometimes they still do. But he’ll go down as one of the greatest quarterbacks of all time. When he was drafted and we started camp together, I remember he wasn’t the quickest guy or the biggest. But he had a good arm. Everything this league likes to see physically from a quarterback, Liam didn’t have at first. Now, he’s exactly what every coach wants.”
Ford smiles to himself and it causes me to picture a younger Liam, a kid who simply loved the game of football and had a dream of being in the NFL and kept running with it.
“He’s so smart. He fools people, though, because everyone sees this flashy guy who goes out and has a good time, but anyone who knows him can tell you what kind of man he really is. He’s so fucking—oh sorry, can I curse here?” He covers his mouth and the crew laughs.
“Technically, no, but go on.” My lips curve up.
“I’ve just never known someone who knows the game the way he does. We all know how much he likes the spotlight, he has that cool guy swagger, the game day fits, all that extra stuff…I mean, you see how he carries himself. Liam won’t shy away from a chance to joke around or a moment in front of the cameras. But ask any one of the guys in that locker room and they’ll tell you how his switch flips for game time. He’s smarter than I think people realize.”
Ford doesn’t mince words when he sings his praises for Liam. None of the guys I’ve ever talked to about him do. The respect, admiration, and just overall commitment they have for their quarterback shines through in the way they speak about him.
Although, if someone were to judge Liam based off what’s in the press or how they see him through a small lens on social media or in the tabloids, they’d probably never believe a word any of them say about his work ethic and maturity on the field.
Liam screams playboy. He screams everything about the fast life that so many people think would be a distraction. But regardless of how he spends his time off the field, he doesn’t let any of it affect how he performs on the field. I’ve watched him on film and in games for years.
On the gridiron, he’s magic. But off it? There’s no telling who he really is.
“Hey, Birdie girl,” I say through a yawn as I reach for my phone on the nightstand.
I feel her tiny paws kneading on the comforter by my thigh. “Making biscuits this morning, are we?”
She faintly meows as I sit up, lean against the headboard, and take a deep breath. There’s rain gently hitting the window outside, and I can hear a low rumble of thunder as I sit there staring at an email from my agent. It’s short, but I’m hung up on the words “after this season” because I didn’t realize how quickly we were approaching the end of my contract.
Playing anywhere other than Tampa seems fucking crazy to me. I can’t picture it. And I’m sure the fans would feel the same way. But I shake my head out of the looming thoughts, I can’t let any of that cloud my mind and distract me from the season at hand.
Tonight is Ford’s surprise party, and I’ve been tasked with helping Nate set up this afternoon. The girls have given me crumbs on party details. Something I’m told was intentional because of a surprise I ruined a few years ago. How the hell was I supposed to know that Summer would use her icy blue eyes to trick me into telling her about the celebratory dinner Abby was throwing her after landing a nursing job here?
Birdie follows me from the bedroom to the living room, making her presence known the entire way with small meows and little sprints between my strides. As I’m making coffee, I hear the same knocking sound I’ve been hearing for a week straight, and I almost lose it.
“There it is again, Birdie. What are we going to do about this guy?” I motion her to the window where there’s a bird pounding its beak into the eaves of my building.
It feels like this fucking bird has been trying to become my new neighbor ever since the apartment next to mine became empty.
Taking a seat at my breakfast nook, I watch as Birdie paws at the sliding glass door. Her tiny body pounces and makes sounds at the bird beyond the glass as I sip my coffee and scroll through my phone. This has practically become routine at seven in the morning these days.
Coffee—black. Bird—annoying. Kitten—rambunctious.
A post from the Tampa Wildcats pops up, and I stop my scroll to look. It’s a carousel of the top ten most iconic plays in recent history from the team. The Wildcats are Tampa’s less than stellar basketball team. Sure, they’ve got talent, but their management has no fucking idea how to run a team, and it shows.
A highlight of Brandon Nells, the team’s power forward—and Demi’s ex-husband—drills a slam dunk over two opponents after a sweet rebound. He’s talented. And someone six foot eightshould be, considering he was the talk of the town when he first got drafted. It’s a shame he’s such a piece of shit human, otherwise I could’ve been a fan of his.
Shaking my head, I scroll past and put my phone down so I can get myself ready for the day.
“Keep at it,” I say to Birdie as I head into my bedroom.
“Are we sure about the quiche?”
Abby, Mia, and Summer all turn their heads slowly in my direction as I close the oven in Ford and Abby’s kitchen after peeking my head in.
“Yes. For the third time, I’m sure about the quiche,” Abby clips.
“Do you even know what quiche is? Your continuous questions make me think you don’t understand how popular of a dish it is.” Summer’s ring-clad fist taps me in the chest as she walks by.
