Page 54 of Playing for Love

But tonight wasn’t normal. Sure, I’d arrived early. Did all the things I needed to do. Had the massage, got myself examined, taped, and dressed. I sat in the chair in the middle of the locker room, my helmet in my hands, and yelled at my teammates. Sent the usual messages.

But on the inside, I was on auto pilot. I didn’t feel it. The urgency, the energy wasn’t there.

At halftime, whipping my towel at a cornerback, I yelled at him to move his ass.

Hunter slid into the empty chair across from me, the only person in the locker room who dared to take it.

“What the hell, Wyatt?”

“What?”

“You have less bite than my grandma.”

I gave him the finger. What else could I do?

He shook his head and stood. I stood too, then walked out of the room into the tunnel. He followed and fell into step beside me. I knew he would.

“We need this win,” I said.

“I know that. Do you even care?”

I shot my eyes at him. “What the fuck kind of question is that?”

“The kind that comes from watching your distracted ass all day. Shuffling instead of jumping. Your halfhearted, worn-out trash talk.”

I turned away from him, because what the hell did I say to that? He was right and I had no idea why. Not really.

“Maybe I have the flu.”

“Maybe your mother is in the hospital and you’re heartsick.”

“That shouldn’t take away from football. Playing is what saves me from heartache.”

He snorted. I walked away before he could ask me about Mia. She was the last person I wanted to think or talk about. I walked onto the field, hoping I had the flu, knowing I didn’t.

* * *

After the game,on the way into the locker room, my teammates avoided my eyes. I couldn’t say the same for Coach Marini or QB Coach Parker. The game had been a disaster and I was ground zero for all that went wrong. We’d lost by the biggest margin since my rookie year here four years ago.

I’d fumbled the ball on a hand-off on the first play of the game. There was no explanation for how or why I went out there on our second possession and took a sack for a twenty-yard loss, my normally unerring scrambling powers out of order, temporarily I’d hoped. But no such luck—or whatever had possessed me. Because after that I threw two interceptions, had no touchdown passes, and if it wasn’t for our running game we wouldn’t have scored at all.

The team gathered in a sweaty tired huddle around Coach Marini.

“The loss is on me, Coach,” I said into the silence.

“This is a team sport, Wyatt.” He paused, boring his eyes into me. I didn’t flinch but I wanted to vomit. “That said, I acknowledge you had your share of mistakes.” He moved his eyes around to the others, taking everyone in. “Suck it up, men. No one’s perfect. Next game, we get better.” He paused. “Next game, we win.”

We shoved our helmets into the center of our circle and shouted our usual team cheer, albeit without the usual team enthusiasm. Normally, I wouldn’t have put up with that shit, but today, since I was the major offender, I fell out of the huddle and went to my locker, peeling away the uniform, then the pads, concentrating on each layer, trying not to think about anything. Especially not what the hell I would say to the press. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a game like this—because I never had.

Coach came up behind me. “My office, Wyatt.”

I nodded and took off my shoulder pads.

“Now.”

I followed him through the locker room to the training room and through that to an unoccupied inner office. He didn’t take a seat, so neither did I. It didn’t feel comfortable, especially since I was half dressed and he was fully clothed. Especially since everyone in the locker room watched me follow him behind closed doors.

At least I wouldn’t be keeping my family waiting since there was no family dinner tonight. They were all at the hospital with Mom watching the game. I’d need to call my dad. He’d want some answers. Not that he was a hardass—okay, he was a hardass—but he knew I was better than this and he’d know there was something wrong. Same as Coach.