“What’s happening?” Scarloni lets the whistle drop away and spits as he charges the field.
“I’m all good,” I say. “Really.” I’m up now, rotating my shoulder, rubbing it out. “Coming off a three-month break, you know?” I manage a shrug. “Just a little spasm.”
“Did you make contact?” Scarloni asks Foster.
Foster just finished his rookie year, and much of the time, he looked like a deer in the headlights. It was the same look I had my first year in the NFL, six years ago, so I’ve sort of taken him under my wing. He’s cool and we’ve become friends. As a linebacker, Foster knows how to hit hard and that’s what he’s here for. We were just going through the motions with a two-hand touch. This has nothing to do with him. It has to do with me and what I have to prove, and I’m pushing myself hard today, that’s all.
“No,” Foster says, removing his helmet. “He was down before I reached him.”
Hitting the ground because of a spasm in my shoulder is not the look I was going for. This is one of our first spring practices since the season ended in January and I’m a little rusty. I’m happy to be back…three months without playing football was quite enough. I’d play every day if I could.
And I’ve been trying to read the coaches’ expressions all morning. Are they scrutinizing me…deciding whether I’m good enough to keep around?
“Massey didn’t make any contact at all,” I confirm. “I’m just trying to get back into it. The shoulder’s fine.”
Scarloni shakes his head and swears again. “Go and sit down, both of you. Take a breather.”
I catch up to Foster, who’s already almost reached the bench.
“Sorry you’re hurting, man,” Foster says, tossing me a glance and then continuing with his head down.
“It’s nothing.”
Foster gives me a half smile, like,okay, so we’ll go with that.
We guzzle down the water in our water bottles and breathe, side by side, on the bench.
“Thoughts on the draft last night?” Foster’s brows go in the air.
“I’ve been to better draft parties.” I grumble. “But it’s fine.”
This year’s NFL draft came with a surprise. My team’s management drafted a new quarterback, Casey Riddock—a rookie fresh from college. The problem is, I’m the starting quarterback, so this news has me feeling nervous that the new guy could potentially take my spot.
For the past several years, I’ve felt like a trade was in my future eventually. I’ve been fortunate to play for my home team for six years now, and no one’s lucky enough to start and then retire from their career with the same team. The nature of the NFL is change. Trades, deals, shifting contracts…they’re all a part of the game.
But I don’t want to be traded. I want to live and die a Wolf. And now that they’ve drafted Riddock, my position is threatened like never before. He’s good, and so am I, but we’ve had two losing seasons in a row, so I could see them wanting to try him out in the coming season this fall.
“Eh, you won’t lose your spot, Taysom,” Foster says before taking another drink. “You passed for over three thousand yards last year, and TMZ never caught you doing anything stupid, so you’re all good.”
I choke on my water at the TMZ comment. “There is that.”
I haven’t dated much the past few years, so TMZ doesn’t have much fodder. I did at the beginning of my pro career—it sort of came with the territory—but I eventually learned it wasn’t worth it for a lot of reasons. I’m out of town most of the weekends from August through January, and I learned from watching my parents that a travel-intensive job destroys marriages.
Besides, you get to the point where you can tell if someone wants to date you for you, or for the fame and money. I miss the simpler times, back when that question wasn’t so omnipresent. When I could take a woman out to lunch on the San Antonio University campus and have a solid, down-to-Earth conversation.
My mind goes to Charlotte Mercer, the red-haired younger sister of my best friend, Kyle. I took her out once, an impromptu thing, when I ran into her on campus one day. I’d just started playing for the Wolves and she was a freshman in college. During a break while doing some volunteer work, it was amazing to share a meal with someone I knew way back when. It didn’t hurt that she’s a skilled conversationalist and insanely pretty.
There’s red hair and then there’sred hair, and Charlotte has that version—the kind that screams from the rooftops to be noticed. It’s such a striking color, especially against her fair skin and freckles. And those big baby brown eyes? Forget about it.
Not that I’ll mention this to Kyle. That’s too weird because she was always just his little sister—nothing more.
But somehow, seeing her again felt like a little piece of home had been restored.
Not that I’ve seen her since. She sort of dissed me when I asked for her number.
I’m stopping by her place of work this afternoon to film a spot for my documentary that I’m doing with ESPN. Should be amusing to see if she still has zero interest in me.
Foster starts talking about something else, but behind me I hear a shout from one of the team managers.
