Seems they had other plans in mind, and now we’re intruding.
I turn to Colton. “Think we can sneak out without them noticing?” I ask just as Presley emits a loud scream.
“Damn! Is he fucking her or killing her?” he asks over a chuckle.
“Kent doesn’t do anything by half. We have shared accommodations with them before, and trust me when I say they areloudin the bedroom.”
“Let’s go. Leave them to their fun.” Colton raises one shoulder, and we creep back out the way we came in. I lock the door behind me, and we set out on foot to the sports bar two blocks away.
“So, how are things?” I ask. “Have you adjusted to the gaping hole in your life yet?” Colton retired from the NFL six weeks ago by choice, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy to adapt when football has been your life for so long. I speak from experience. Injury forced me to retire two years ago, and I still miss it so much. Not the training or the early morning starts but the camaraderie in the locker room, my teammates, and game day. It’s like I have lost a limb.
“It’s so weird waking up every day without a schedule. Even though I don’t set my alarm until eight, my eyes open at five a.m. on the dot every morning.”
“It took me months to adjust my sleeping routine,” I admit as we walk. “I’m still an early riser, but I don’t miss the super early starts.”
“What do you miss?” he asks, pushing through the double-fronted glass doors into the bar. We’re immediately accosted with a multitude of sounds and smells. There’s a preseason exhibition game on the TV, and while they feast on wings, burgers, fries, and pizza, drunk patrons are hollering as the 49ers score a touchdown against the Buccaneers.
“Having a purpose,” I truthfully admit, instantly feeling guilty.
“That sounds serious,” my buddy says as a waitress escorts us to an empty booth at the back of the bar I reserved in advance. We can still see the TV from here, but it will be quieter, which is good. Because I really need my buddy’s advice. And I don’t want to be besieged with well-wishers wanting autographs and pics.
We order a couple of beers and some wings and settle onto opposite sides of the booth.
“What’s going on?”
I rub at the tightness spreading across my chest as I prepare to voice my concerns for the first time. “I’m not sure being a house husband is for me.”
Surprise splays across his face. “I thought you loved being home with the kids.”
“I do, but I need more. I feel so fucking guilty saying that. Like I don’t adore my kids and my husband. As if they aren’t my entire world.”
“No one who knows you would ever doubt your devotion to your family, Austen. You love them. Live for them. It’s plain to see.”
“So, why can’t it be enough? Why do I feel so unfulfilled?”
“I think it’s understandable. You had a busy career with a crazy schedule. You were traveling a lot. You went from that to a stay-at-home dad. Your life altered completely. You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t feeling unfulfilled. What about Tenley Ink though? I thought you were more involved in the business now.”
“That was the plan, but it hasn’t panned out like that. Keats is releasing new cookbooks every year, and the publishers have him traveling up and down the US doing publicity. When he’s gone, I’m busy with the kids and the house. I oversee the accounts, and I’ve been working on our franchise plan, but I can’t remember the last time I got to ink. Finding time to sketch is even challenging. Lia is super clingy and extremely shy. She is so attached to me, and it’s hard to leave her. Alex is the only person besides Keats and me she’s comfortable with.”
“I’m no kid expert, as we both know”—he smirks—“but that seems like something you need to nip in the bud ASAP.”
We stop talking when the waitress arrives with our beers. She tries to be discreet, but the blush creeping up her neck gives her away. Neither of us may be playing in the NFL anymore, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t noticed when we go out in public. Especially with both of us together. We were teammates in college and the first few years in the NFL.
She leaves without saying anything, and I give her major brownie points for letting us be.
“Have you told Keats this?” Colt asks, stretching one arm out over the back of the booth.
I shake my head. “He’s been stressed lately, and I didn’t want to add to it.”
“You need to talk to him. Tell him how you’re feeling so you can work something out between you. The solution is staring you in the face.”
“I know.” I knock back a mouthful of beer. “I want to be more hands-on at Tenley Ink, but the thought of hiring a nanny to take care of the kids doesn’t sit well with me either.”
“At least you have options. That’s what I’ve been telling myself when I start throwing a pity party.”
“And no money worries,” I add. “I know I’m fortunate. It’s why I’ve been feeling such horrendous guilt.”
“Don’t do that, dude. You are entitled to your feelings. It doesn’t make you a bad father or husband if you want more for yourself. Some would argue it’d make you a better one.”
