It was a close call last night. If it wasn’t for Tyler banging on everyone's door, I would have slept right through the fire alarm. By the time the fire department would have found me, I probably would have already been dead.
As I walk down the street, my hands in my pockets and the weight of the world on my shoulders, I wonder if that would have been the better option.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” I growl to myself. “This isn’t the first time you’ve had to fight, and it’s not going to be the last.”
At least until I get signed to the NFL and make more money than I can imagine. Not that money is everything to me. But having some, having enough to not worry where my next meal is going to come from, or if I’m going to have a roof over my head, would be nice.
It’s midday on a Sunday. The thrift store is closed today, so that works in my favor.
Checking my surroundings, I make sure no one is watching before jumping the fence. I make my way around the building, just out of the camera's view, and smile to myself when I see that the donation bin is overflowing.
Looks like the homeless haven’t gotten to these bags yet. Means there might be something in here I could use.
I start grabbing bags, opening them carefully, and picking through them. When I’m done with each bag, I make sure to put everything back in and tie it up to not make a mess.
An hour later, and twenty bags sorted through, I walk away with three pairs of jeans, five T-shirts, two pairs of sneakers, and a backpack.
I draw the line at wearing someone else's used underwear. Unfortunately, any socks I found weren't big enough or had holes.
I’m a prideful man, but I’m also someone who knows how to survive. I’ve been doing this since I was a kid. Coming to the donation bins and seeing what I can use isn’t something I’m new to.
Do you think my father would buy me new sneakers when mine got too small? Or a new pair of pants when I outgrew the ones I had?
That would require him to give up some of his money. The money he says he works so hard for. The money he wastes away on beer, smokes, and other ways to get himself fucked up.
Anything my mother made went to keeping food on the table. Half the stuff my mom got me was from thrift stores.
It’s not stealing, people donated all this. Thrift stores jack up the prices on used clothes. It’s fucked up. Half of this shit ends up in landfills anyway if they don’t sell it.
Still, doing this isn’t a long-term solution. Clothes are one thing, but I need bedding, pillows, and other things.
I need money. I need a job.
Even if it’s a few hours a week.
Instead of heading back to the hockey house, I head down to the local sports bar.
It’s owned by one of Bennett’s family friends, but hopefully, they don’t remember who I am. Not that I’ve ever met them before, but I’m sure my name must have come up at some point in the last ten-plus years.
I remember one of my buddies mentioning the place was hiring, and he was going to apply. Hopefully, they didn’t fill the position yet.
I’m relieved to find that it’s open. Most places like this don’t open until the evening.
At least I think it’s open? The door was unlocked, but it’s dead as hell in here.
“Hey.” A blond guy behind the bar smiles. “How can I help you?”
“Uh.” I clear my throat, wondering if he can tell I just spent hours picking through people's used, dirty clothes. “I heard from a friend of mine that you guys were hiring?”
He gives me a pitying smile, and any hope I have drifts away. “Sorry, man. We filled that spot a few days ago.”
“Of course you did.” I sigh heavily. “Do you happen to know anywhere else that’s hiring? I hate to admit it, but I’m in a bit of a bind. I attend Silver Valley, and well, I’m not sure if you heard about the fire–”
His face drops. “You’re on the football team?”
“Yup.” I nod.
“And you lived in the football house?”
