Page 127 of Hard to Score

Fuck.

“The funny thing is, the more you make, the more you bet. What’s a huge dollar amount to someone else is chump change to you.” He sighs and leans back in his chair, his hands trembling as they try to clasp in front of him. I can’t take my eyes off them.

“I started betting more and more, began loving the high I’d get waiting to see the outcome of a game and whether or not I was right or wrong. I’d reached every pinnacle that could be reached playing football and placing huge bets was the next closest feeling I could find to say winning the Super Bowl.”

“You were addicted.”

“I didn’t see it then, but yes, I was addicted.”

“Did Mom know?”

“I hid it from her. Or at least I thought I did. But you can only hide something like that for so long before the lies run out.”

“So you threw the game.” My voice breaks when I say the words.

I wish I were wrong. I wish I’d come here and received any other response—anything—because it would be so much easier to accept. So much easier to process. So much easier to save face.

“Let me finish. Please?” When I don’t say anything, he continues. “I got into trouble with bookies. It started around the time we were in the Keys. I spent that whole trip stressing how I could keep pretending I was living the high life when all my money and then some was going to bets. I had loans to pay. Big amounts, and it wasn’t like I could make any more money than I was making.”

“Bookies? Are we talking about loan sharks and mafia—”

“Yes. Drew. I owed money—a lot of it—to some very bad people.”

Jesus Christ.

I stare at the man before me and wonder how someone so strong could fall into that trap, how he could have been so weak, but it’s not like he’s the only one who ever has.

“I was so in the hole, and I was convinced that I could make one more significant bet and win, and that would turn things around. But it never happened. The payout never came and they wanted their money back.” He falls quiet for a beat before continuing. “They came to the house one night. You were in the street playing catch with the Merriman kid, and they pulled in the driveway and let me know that they were done waiting. That I either pay up or they’d take my pride and joy away from me.” His breath hitches and he averts his eyes to stare at his hands. A tear drops onto where they are clasped as he takes in a shaky breath. “I’ll never forget that feeling when they threatened your life.”

The words are deafening to hear.

The memories faint. My dad in the driveway. Three guys talking to him. Me squinting from down the street trying to figure out who they were. The SUV driving away and my dad telling me to get inside. I asked what was wrong but he said nothing.

“They made sure to let me know they knew everything about your schedule. When your practice was over. The name of the girl you’d been kissing at the party you’d gone to the night before. The route you jogged when you went for a run. Fucking everything, Drew,” he says when he finally lifts his eyes to meet mine. “And it terrified me because I knew they weren’t joking.”

I move for the first time since I’ve come into his office, and perch myself on the edge of the chair across from him. I’m looking at a truly defeated man. One I barely even recognize. Have I ever seen that in this man?

“They let their threat sink in for a few days before I heard from them again. That’s when they told me how I could clear my debt.”

“Throw a game.”

“Not just any game, but a game against the Colts. We were, by and large, a huge favorite, and a win against them would have put us in the AFC Championship.” His sigh sounds like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. “They were going to bet on the long shot, the Colts, and when they won the point spread, they’d make back what I owed them plus interest.”

“Why didn’t you go to the cops? The league—”

“Because they told me you were the consequence. If I told the cops, if I didn’t throw the game . . . you were the consequence, Drew.”

Chills snake down my spine. This conversation went in a direction I never expected it to go. I’m at a loss, trying to comprehend it all.

“So I did it. I missed passes. I dropped handoffs. I threw the game even when every bone in my body revolted against doing it.”

“You threw up on the sidelines during the game.” The memory comes out of my mouth without realizing it. I remember it though. The commentators wondering if he was ill and trying to play through it. The speculation afterward that he was using—his excuse.

“I did. I was so sick to my stomach but I had no choice. It was you—my everything—or a game I loved. There was no question who to choose.” He shakes his head. “But I was naïve. I thought I could throw the game and no one would know. I thought I’d be able to pull it off. But weeks later, someone tipped off that a large bet had been made on the game. The gamblers were long gone with their winnings but their threats were still present while I took center stage.”

I remember those first days after the accusations came. The yelling behind my parents’ bedroom door when they thought we’d fallen asleep. The press camped out on our lawn. Their sudden clinginess to Maggs and me and our every move.

“I thought I could ride it out. I thought it would blow over. Kenyon was trying to tell me what to do, but I shut him out. I knew if he looked closely he’d know the truth. He knew me too well, and I couldn’t stomach letting him down either. So I went to meet with my team without telling him. They told me the NFL was launching a full investigation into the game and my actions. They told me that the NFL was possibly going to strip the club of our Super Bowl win the year before. They were questioning if I let the Colts get closer in points because I was betting the split.”