Page 65 of The Backup Plan

I turn the shower on, knowing even if these thoughts were true, that doesn’t mean I get to have him.

Even if wanting him has made me feel more alive than I have in years.

Lucas

The party is exactly what you’d expect.

Party? More like a team bonding barbeque at Rodney Cook, the Rebels’ center’s, spacious house.

Too much food. Not enough shade. Coolers and fridges packed with beer I’m not touching. And someone’s playlist that’s cycling between country, hip-hop, and whatever the hell counts as “throwback” these days.

I’m perched on the edge of the pool in a rare spot in the shade. I swish my feet back and forth in the water as I listen to a couple of linemen argue about whether a hot dog is a sandwich.

And I’m not exactly sure what that says about the intelligence level of athletes.

“It is one,” Mason says confidently.

“Says the man who’s downed about six of them in ten minutes,” Connor says, clearly not missing any meals himself. “Regardless, it’s still a hot dog. Not a sandwich.”

“That’s not an argument though. It has two pieces of bread on either side. It—”

“So does a hamburger and we don’t consider a hamburger a sandwich.” Connor lifts his eyebrows like he just delivered the coup de grâce.

To save my brain cells from dying a slow death from this conversation, I decide to prove how ridiculous they sound. “You’re both wrong. A hot dog is a taco.”

They both whip their heads my way and stare at me like I just insulted their mothers.

I just shake my head and laugh. “It’s not as serious as you guys are making it.”

They mutter how I don’t understand, and then I welcome the fact that they decide to go get a beer and have the disagreement elsewhere.

“Crazy, the two of us being here,” a voice to my right says, followed by a groan as Mark Jensen, one of our linebackers, drops into a lounge chair.

“It is. Completely. But that’s how the league works.”

“Either that or we’re just two old fuckers who are still convinced we’re young.” He laughs. “And by the way my knees creak, I’m beginning to not believe that lie.”

“No shit. What’s it been? Ten years?” I ask.

He squints and his fingers move like he’s counting. “Yeah, ten.”

“Jesus, where has the time gone?”

“Right?” He shakes his head. “It feels like yesterday we were freezing our asses off in the Chicago cold.”

“No fucking thank you. Not ever again. If we think our bones are groaning now, can you imagine what they’d feel like playing in that shit every day?”

“God, no. Luckily you got traded and won your Super Bowl,” he says.

“And you, what? Stayed for two more years and then went to Phoenix?” I ask and he nods. “From one weather extreme to another.”

“Yeah, but it’s a dry heat,” he jokes. “Not like this muggy shit we have here.”

He’s not wrong.

The seasons we played together make up some of my favorite years. Strong teamwork that pushed every single one of us to live up to our potential. Helped me get to where I am today . . . well, before the shoulder injury.

“We’ve done well for ourselves, haven’t we, Mark?” Fortunate to still be playing at thirty-four.