I grin despite myself and throw another. Then another. I run a quick drill, exaggerating my footwork so they can copy it, which turns into absolute nonsense immediately.
For a few minutes, I forget about cameras and contracts and women with lawyers. I forget about words likeopticsandstability indicators.
I’m just a guy on a field with kids who think I’m cool for reasons that have nothing to do with headlines.
Then a small voice cuts through the noise.
“Mr. Drake?”
I turn and see a little girl standing a few feet away, helmet too big, chin strap crooked. She’s holding a football to her chest like it might float away if she lets go.
“Yeah?” I say, crouching down to her level.
She hesitates, glancing toward the sideline where a few reporters are still lurking, pretending to check their phones.
“Are those people being mean to you?” she says quietly.
I open my mouth and realize I have no idea how to answer that in a way that doesn’t drag adult ugliness into a child’s world.
I swallow and steady myself, keeping my voice calm.
“Sometimes,” I say, choosing each word carefully, “people say things that aren’t true.”
Her brow furrows. “That’s not nice.”
“No,” I agree. “It’s not.”
She watches me, serious now. “What do you do?”
The honest question in her eyes disarms me.
“You keep doing the right thing,” I say finally. “Even when it’s hard.”
She nods like that makes perfect sense. Because to her, it does.
“Okay,” she says, satisfied, and runs off to rejoin the drill.
I stay crouched a second longer than necessary.
I straighten and rejoin the drills, laughing when a kid accidentally pegs me in the shin with a football. I play it off. I always do.
The break whistle blows, and the kids scatter toward water bottles and shade.
I drop onto the edge of the bleachers and wipe sweat from the back of my neck with a towel. The sun is high now, bright enough to make everything feel exposed. The kind of light that doesn’t let you hide much.
I stare out at the field while volunteers wrangle kids into some loose version of order, and my mind drifts backward uninvited.
My ex asked for one photo. Then another. Then “just a little more,” until my name stopped being mine and started being her leverage.
When it ended, she kept the audience and handed me the fallout—half-truths, tears, and a story that made her look brave and made me look guilty.
I rub my hands together and stand, trying to shake it off, but the thought lingers.
Love hadn’t just made me blind.
It had made me weak.
I wouldn’t make that mistake again.
