Page 135 of The Backup Plan

“Nah. I already had enough.” He stops and looks out the sliding glass door to the balcony, his hands in his pockets and shoulders slumped.

I give him time but am pretty sure I already know what he’s going to say before he says it.

And it’s the last thing I want to hear.

“I didn’t make it,” he finally says, confirming my suspicions. “They told me tonight. Cut out of everything. No practice squad. No nothing.”

Oh fuck.

I nod slowly, heart pounding. “I’m sorry, man. You deserve to be here.”

And he does. He’s had an incredible career up to this point—no major injuries, a steady on-field presence, and a great team attitude.

“They picked potential over experience,” he says.

What the hell do I say to that when they most likely picked me for the exact opposite?

“Fuck, man.” I scrub a hand through my hair, at a loss for how to console him.

“I mean, I get it, I’m not getting any fucking younger but”—his voice breaks and he runs a hand over his jaw to combat the tears welling in his eyes—“I moved my family here. Kids just started school. My wife finally unpacked the boxes because we had such a good feeling. And now I gotta pick up and go again. I know that’s part of the game we’ve been lucky to play. But Jesus, Lucas, where do I go now? Season’s started. Teams are set. I . . . I don’t fucking know.”

I listen. That’s all I can do, because this could’ve been me. Because it’s happened to so many of my friends over the years.

“I know it’s the last thing you want to hear, but that experience, the years we have in, at least you’re released and can sign elsewhere.”

“I know. That’s good and all, but fuck—I thought I could play my last years here. I’ve uprooted the kids enough to chase this goddamn dream of ours. At what point does me picking up and leaving again be deemed selfish rather than driven and determined?”

“You’re just trying to provide for your family,” I say.

He chuckles. “That’s bullshit and you and I both know it. I’ve made enough for us to live comfortably the rest of our lives, but walking away is the last thing I want to do. This game is an addiction, and I don’t know how to quit it.”

I reach out and squeeze his shoulder. “I get it, man. I fucking get it.”

“I haven’t told Evangeline yet,” his voice breaks on his wife’s name. “I don’t want to disappoint her. Don’t want to upset the kids. Fuck.”

“You can stay here as long as you need to,” I say. “Until you’re ready to go home.”

He groans and it sounds frustratingly hopeless. “I’m too fucking old to be the shiny new thing, Lucas. Teams want younger. Cheaper. It doesn’t matter the years I bring to the table. Those are looked down upon now.”

“I disagree. Have your agent make the calls anyway. You’ve got solid stats. You’re reliable. You’re smart. Every team needs that.”

He snorts. “You sound like a coach.”

“Maybe someday,” I say quietly.

I think of Emery in the other room—she can hear this. Maybe—just maybe—she’s finally seeing what this life costs.

Sure, it has some incredible fucking highs, but it also has some of the lowest lows. And when it comes down to it, we’re just men, after all.

He finally stops pacing and sinks his hulking frame down onto the couch.

“You’re not done,” I say. “This doesn’t erase the resume and career that you’ve built. It just . . . reroutes it.”

“That’s a flowery way of saying I’m fucked,” he jokes and emits a self-deprecating laugh.

He stays for some time after that. Each minute that passes with him here is another reminder of how close I came to this. To being in his shoes. To being the recipient of this utter devastation.

The minute he leaves, I open the bedroom door to find Emery curled up on the bed, sound asleep.