Page 23 of Hard to Score

And yet other than my one shot with the Tigers in my early years with the NFL, I’ve been relegated as the backup quarterback in this league ever since without ever really being given a chance to prove myself.

Sure, I’ve gotten some time in when the starting QB is hurt or we’re winning by a ridiculous margin, but it’s typically in a game where whatever I do doesn’t really affect its outcome. It’s almost as if there’s a clause in my contract that says “second string only.”

And sadly, until Brexton said those words to me, I didn’t realize how much I had grown to simply accept that fate. I’d bought the line I kept telling myself. The one that told me I was still an asset to the team, still vital in preparing my teammates for game day.

I’d talked myself into accepting this norm because between Maggs’ disfunction and my father’s disease, while I might not be taking center stage on Sundays, at least the position allows me to be near my family. And if I were starting QB, it would most likely be elsewhere—another city, another state—since Hobbs is here. With my current family situation, that would make things more difficult.

So is that why I haven’t fought harder? Haven’t been more vocal? Haven’t demanded my agent help fight for me?

Or is it all of that along with the fact that after what happened with the Tigers, I decided maybe less is more. Maybe I convinced myself that if I’m in the spotlight for too long, another accusation will be made and tarnish everything I’ve worked for.

The admission, even if just to myself, is hard to hear. Hard to acknowledge.

When did I become the coward? The guy who didn’t fight for what he wanted because he was afraid? I bulldozed my way into the NFL and then one situation, one incident, and I allowed myself to disappear into the shadows much like my father did.

The facts don’t sit well with me.

It weighs heavily in my gut, much like my thoughts weigh on my mind during my shower, and well into the time I’m about to head home.

I have a zoo date with Charley. One of those perks I get to have by living here in New York. My normal in the crazy family of mine.

As I heft my bag onto my shoulder about to head out to pick her up, I stop when I hear Justin on the phone as he walks into the locker room.

“Did I wait the appropriate amount of socially accepted time before I called you back after you gave me your digits?” Justin asks and then barks out a laugh that is pure ego and cheese.

The man is on the prowl.

Then again, that should come as no surprise considering he always is.

“So you do want me. I knew you couldn’t resist me.” He emits a louder than normal chuckle to make sure we’re all watching him. And by the glance I give some of the linemen on the other side of the locker room, they’re annoyed by him too.

The problem is, you can only stay annoyed with Justin for so long. There’s something about the guy that makes you like him, even when you want to hate him.

“C’mon, you know me better than that by now. I’m expecting grand gestures. Signs in the sky professing your love for me. Hoops for you to jump—or dance—through. Is that too much to ask?” he jokes and then pauses with a shit-eating grin on his face as he listens. “Okay. I guess that will have to do, but I’m telling you, I’m not a man who likes to settle.”

I half listen to the rest of the conversation, curious who it is because Justin’s really turning on the bullshit.

“Who was that?” I ask, with a lift of my chin when he ends the call.

“This chick who wants on my jock.” He winks.

“According to you that would be every chick.”

“Can’t fault me for being good and desired.” He shrugs with his hands up as I shake my head. “I’m a two-for-one special.”

How does a cocky asshole with an arm like he has and a fucked-up attitude get to be a starting quarterback?

I’m better.

I know I am.

“C’mon, Drewski,” Justin says as he takes a seat and starts to lace up his sneaker. “One day, you too, can be like me.”

A player? An asshole? Egotistical? Hated as much as he’s loved?

Oh, the many sides of Justin Hobbs.

He lifts his eyebrows as if I owe him an answer, but the one I want to give isn’t deserved. Mine stems from frustration. A frustration that I’ve been complacent for so long. Discontent.