My phone buzzes with a text as I make my way down the corridor outside the locker room.
Mom
Talked to Maggie, she just moved into her new place
And Johnny wanted me to tell you he ordered us matching jackets for your away games! Forget the Rollers! Go Kings!!!
I press the button to darken my screen. I know she means well, but I don’t know why my mom thinks I need an update on my sister. Up until a few months ago, she’d been my best friend. I mean, we grew in the womb together, shared a room until we were seven. How could we not be? We’ve always been close. She was even going to move into my house for a while to save up money for her own place. But that all went out the window after our most recent argument. Sure, we’ve had disagreements from time to time, but never like this. And now she’s moved to a different state altogether, throwingaway her dreams of city living for some guy. No one asked me, but that’s about the dumbest thing I think someone could do.
I book it down the concrete corridor, watching as the other players make their way to their cars. Showing up for a stranger in their time of need is something I can admire, and I let my gaze search the hall for someone else who has been shot in the heart in the way I have. As a newbie to both the Kings and Vista City, I have yet to establish a core group of friends here. Which means most walks to the parking lot are spent solo as the others joke and talk—or at the very least—walk together. As my eyes leap from one guy to the next, they finally land on Decker Trace, our tight end. He nudges his way between a couple of linemen as his gaze locks with mine, and then it grows cold and shifts to another target altogether. The interaction leaves me feeling more alone than I typically do, despite being surrounded by the team. Going home to an empty house will only be salt in the wound.
I divert my attention back to my phone. Which is painfully inactive at the moment. If I wasn’t currently on Maggie’s “no contact,” she’d be blowing it up with memes to distract me. Still, somehow, I don’t regret what I said to her. My stomach knots at the memory of her face twisting with anger as she accused me of being too guarded with everything from my time to my “impersonal” house to the fact that I haven’t dated anyone in over a year.
It isn’t that I’m guarded, it’s that I’ve been focused on my career. Maybe personal relationships have fallen to the wayside because of it, but it happens. These days, most people prefer surface-level interaction anyway, and I’m fine with that. But that accusation isn’t whatsent me over the edge. It’s the curveball she threw at me right afterward that still burns me up inside. That’s when I lost my temper and said some things I can’t take back. That dispute was the beginning of our downfall, the wedge hammered between my once-tight-knit family and me. I squeeze my phone like it’s to blame, but someone interrupts me before it becomes shards in my hand.
“Hey, man, glad you could make it.” Ramiel, our quarterback, jogs to catch up as another text from my mom rolls in, and I quickly shove my device into my pocket.
“Hey,” I say.
He strides in step with me as we make headway toward the parking lot, leaving everyone behind as they say their goodbyes. “That meant a lot to that kid. I don’t know if you could tell. He told me he played strong safety until the illness took him out of peewee football.”
I eye him as he catches up, not sure what to say. The boy told me the same, and I did my best to handle it. Still, I can’t imagine what it’s like to deal with so much at such a young age. And that’s why I’m here right now. Because life is incredibly short. Things change in a second, sometimes for the better, and sometimes for the worse. The least I could do is show up for this kid, and I’m glad I did.
“Yeah, he told me,” I say.
Ramiel scans my face. Out of everyone on the team, he’s the easiest to get along with. There’s something about him that’s pleasant to be around. He isn’t cocky. Doesn’t let the quarterback title go to his head. He’s a team player through and through, and I respect that.
“Thanks for telling me though,” I add, hoping that’s what he wanted to hear.
“You’re a real one, Ty.” His hand comes down on my shoulder as he leans closer, a twinkle in his misty eyes.
“You crying?”
He backs away, his face flattening into some offended expression. “No.” He shakes his head. “No. Nah. It’s the allergies. No tears here.”
I press my lips into a tight line. He was definitely getting teary-eyed, but I don’t blame him.
“I’ll catch ya later, just wanted to let you know I could tell it meant a lot to that kid. You being here. It meant a lot.” He slows to a stop.
I nod as he waves and backs away, joining the other guys behind us.
As I walk to my car alone, I can’t help but be grateful to be here. It’s not the same as the Las Vegas Rollers, but since being traded, I have to admit that this team—this state—is finally starting to feel like home. I never thought I’d be a California guy, but so far I’ve acclimated better to this place than to the team itself. Even if I’m not everyone’s first choice, I’m glad to at least have Ramiel in my corner.
I stop mid-hallway to admire the original Vista City Kings 1959 logo. The hand-drawn crown and swords are something to marvel at. As someone who isn’t the least bit artistic, I can’t imagine creating something as iconic as this emblem. This artist left a legacy.
Pressing my shoulder against the cool brick wall of the corridor, my mind skitters to what I left behind in Las Vegas and what I’ve started here. It’s a stupid—pathetic—thing to wonder, but I can’t help it. I was supposed to flourish there, yet somehow my stats tanked, and even though I know it’s part of this profession, they gladly let mego. Honestly, it stung. You can put hours and hours of time and energy into something—hold it as sacred, even—and still get short-changed when the people in power change their mind. The Rollers found someone better. Someone who was “less of a liability” with fewer “performance gaps.” Someone younger, more likable, and most importantly, cheaper.
All I can hope for with the Kings is that I can prove to them—and maybe myself—that I’m worth the time. I’m worth keeping on. If I lose another team, that could be the end of my career, and I’m not done yet. Irefuseto be done. Twenty-seven isn’t old. I’ve still got years left in me. If anyone is calling the shots on my career, it’s going to be me.
Sucking in a deep breath, I take in my surroundings and notice something. The Kings logo I’d been admiring is smeared. The paint is wet. I push off the wall, grabbing for my shoulder that had been pressed into it seconds ago. How I didn’t notice the smell of wet paint, I’m not sure. Maybe the Rollers were right. I need to stay alert—apparently that translates to life off the field too.
Every four-letter word I know bursts from my mouth as I beeline for the men’s room.
CHAPTER THREE
AVERY
“Freaking heck,”I mumble as I run my painted fingers under the faucet.
