Kam
I CLIMB THEstairs of the private jet right behind Rodney. We’re the last to arrive, and as soon as we step inside the luxury liner, we’re showered with boos and pelted with balled-up napkins.
“It was his fault!” Rodney throws me under the bus as he shields himself from the spray of white paper bullets. “He was all huggin’ and kissin’ on his girl.” He wraps his arms around himself and makes kissy faces. I shove him.
“He’s just complaining ‘cause he’s jealous.”
“Just my dick is jealous. You have one fine piece of ass.”
“Don’t make me punch you for calling Laney a piece of ass.”
“You won’t have to, Q, she’ll punch him herself!” Stone, one of the lineman, contributes to the conversation from the back of the plane.
“This is true,” I agree with him. My girl is as rough and tumble as she is smart and feminine.
The whole team is stuffed into the rented plane for Telly’s bachelor party. His wedding is next Saturday, so we are celebrating his last weekend of freedom. The alcohol is already flowing, the music is pumping, and there is a party vibe infecting the small space. Usually, I would jump right on the band wagon, but even though there is a smile on my face, my heart just isn’t in it. Because all I see when I look at my fellow teammates’ faces is failure. I failed them. I failed myself, and I failed New York’s fans. Letting that win slip through my fingers tortures me every second of the day. I hear it, I see it, I feel it no matter where I am. Watching the ball sail into the hands of the opposing team’s defender, an action which essentially relinquished the winning touchdown, will haunt me for the rest of my fucking life.
The rest of my fucking life.
Rodney and I sit in the last two open seats. They’re white leather and sleek as hell. Telly didn’t spare one expense. He went all out with the private charter, five-star hotel in Myrtle Beach, and a round of golf at the most high-end course in the area. We are going to be smokin’ Cubans and sippin’ Cognac all weekend long.
I want to embrace what Laney said, to have a good time. And I want to be in good spirits for Telly, too, but the black cloud of disappointment and defeat is pouring down on me constantly. I barely have enough air to breathe, but I keep pushing forward, hoping the storm will break. But blue skies aren’t anywhere in sight.
“Drink, Q?” Robert, my center, asks with a head nod. “We got beer, beer, and more beer for the plane ride.”
“Hmmm . . .” I contemplate. “I think I’ll have a beer.”
Rob launches a can at me. “Hey, keep up that show and you’ll be QB next year.” I crack it open, and it squirts a bit.
“Shit, please.” He snorts. “Ain’t no one can walk in the great Kamdyn Ellis’s shoes.”
Great. Yeah, right.
I don’t entertain a response. I just smirk and sip my beer. It’s ice cold and goes down way too fucking easy.
I feel Rodney scrutinize me, but I ignore him, pretending to enjoy myself like everyone else around me.
Dinner last night was delicious, and the Bloody Mary’s on the course this morning are even better.
It’s a beautiful, bright day. The sun is shining, the clouds are white and puffy, and the climate is perfectly comfortable.
I haven’t had a chance to play golf in months, so I’m looking forward to swinging the clubs.
I tee up on the first hole and whack a beauty seventy-five yards. It drops right next to the green.
“Nice shot, QB.” Telly clasps me on the shoulder.
“Thanks. Maybe if my football career doesn’t work out, I have a future in golf.”
“Man, you got jokes.” Telly places his ball on the tee. He is wearing the loudest checkered pants known to man and the ugliest lime green shirt on the planet. Why golfing attire is so horrendous, I will never understand. And why men embrace it is an even bigger mystery.
“Yeah, jokes.” Rodney gives me the same look now as he did on the plane. When I pointedly ignored him.
Our foursome consists of Rodney, Telly, myself, and Landon Knobs, a rookie from the Midwest who apparently has zero golfing experience. He can run like hell down a football field, though.
“Everyone take a step back,” Rodney announces as Landon tees up.
“Shut up, dude. I got this.”
