3. Beckett
Beckett
Pilates is fucking hard. And anyone who tells you otherwise either hasn’t tried it or is a liar.
Beads of sweat drip from underneath my hat, hitting the carriage of the reformer.
Back when I could do my job effectively and score points when the team needed me, the training staff thought it was a great idea to put the proper equipment in one of the workout rooms, so I had a place to do it after meetings on days I didn’t have practice.
It’s a popular workout with kickers. It builds length in your muscles, strengthens them, and opens up your flexibility, and I don’t have the typical body of a kicker so I need it—I’m on the taller end at six two, broader than most, because once upon a time, this wasn’t what I thought I was made for.
I’ve been doing it since college when my time as a just-fine wide receiver came to an end when I fell ass-backwards into kicking. Both our kicker and punter got injured, and in a moment of game-time desperation, our coaching staff asked the team if anyone played soccer growing up, and they picked me because I played competitively year-round until I was sixteen.
I became stupidly good at something most people think is useless. I broke college records. People talked about me on ESPN. I got drafted when I was twenty-three even though kickers rarely do, and I got traded here when the expansion opened the first Canadian franchise team.
I was happy to do it. I grew up outside of Toronto. It’s where I’m from. It’s where my family lives. Canada has some of the best sports fans in the world. But something the general world seems to not understand about Canadians—we don’t forget.
I went from someone everyone loved and wanted to put on their billboards and to sign their jerseys and to kiss their babies because I was going to keep smashing records and keep smiling, to someone who literally had a fucking Timbit thrown at them from a moving car last week.
“Davis, you’re done. Coach wants you upstairs.”
I glance over at the open doorway. Darren stands there, clipboard under his arm and his hat folded between his hands.
“Sure, thanks.” I nod, sitting back on my heels and grabbing my towel to scrub some of the sweat off my face.
“I’ll see you Wednesday. Hit the gym tomorrow, but don’t kill your legs. I want range from your kicks.”
“Got it,” I answer, and he taps his clipboard like that might drive his point home more before turning and disappearing down the hallway. I spend more time with Darren than anyone. His whole job as the special teams coordinator is to develop people like me.
I rarely talk to Coach Taylor one-to-one during the week.
I’ve been avoiding talking to him as much as possible since training camp started, and I certainly haven’t darkened the door to his office. It’s my fault there isn’t a shiny gold championship trophy sitting behind him on the empty mantle.
The sight of my name, spelled out in block lettering along with the number nineteen, stretching across the side of my bag, feels like something I wish I could avoid, too. Like it’s something to be proud of—that I’m so special and so important and so full of generational talent, people should know who I am just by a stupid gym bag I carry around. It has the opposite effect. I hate myself, and I’m really not proud at all when I pick it up on the way out of the studio.
There’s a photo of me in the main concourse that stretches the entire wall I’m also pretty intent on ignoring, so I duck down a set of stairs at the end of the hallway instead and head to the executive offices.
It means taking the stairs instead of the elevator when my legs are already dead, but the stadium is well and truly alive now that preseason is about to start. The stores are putting out the new stock, the restaurants are opening, the staff are all back to work.
I’ve generally made it a point to be nice to everyone who works here, at least before the stadium is crawling with fans. I stop by and get coffee before or after practice instead of making my own because I think they deserve to be recognized, too. There’re all sorts of things that keep a franchise going that have nothing to do with the players on the field.
But I doubt they want to see me, and I don’t want to see them.
My footsteps echo on the concrete stairs against the empty stairwell, and sunlight beats in through the glass windows. The whole stadium has this crazy view of the city—there isn’t a single part of the building that doesn’t give you an angle of the Toronto skyline.
It was strategic construction when the expansion was just a whisper floating around in the ether. There wasn’t a place that could house enough seats, and the league had concerns about the proximity to Buffalo impacting another fanbase.
And some architect came up with this idea to go higher with the seats instead of stretching them out. It’s probably a feat of engineering, because it hardly looks taller than other teams’ stadiums, and it’s great at blocking the wind.
It made me more effective, until it didn’t.
I stop when I get to the sixth floor—the painted white lettering on the polished cherry door seems more threatening than it should. Taking my hat off, I try to smooth down my hair, but it’s useless because it gets even curlier when it’s sweaty.
The hallway is empty, and most office doors are closed—a small mercy. The sound of my footsteps dies on the padded carpet, and I stop when I reach the only open door.
The shiny, gold plate that reads “Coach Taylor” still looks brand-new, and from this angle, I can see the mostly empty mahogany shelves that line his office. We’re a new team, so maybe it’s unfair for me and the rest of the general population to put the responsibility for that on my shoulders, but winning a championship in the first decade of a franchise when we’re the only one in the country is something everyone really, really wanted.
I raise my fist and knock, letting that stupid fucking grin fall into place so it looks like I’m still being a team player. “You wanted to see me?”
He doesn’t look away from the screen mounted to the wall, but I can see his eyes flit to me in between tracking the routes he’s watching. He gestures to the chair across from him, and I say nothing when I drop down in it.
“You’re out there practicing field goals with your headphones in.” His voice is clipped, and he tips his head, watching a successful pass before scribbling on his clipboard.
“I’m trying to concentrate.”
Apparently, I can’t even do that right.
He finally looks away and takes a measured exhale before leaning back in his chair. “One of the things that made you the best wasn’t the fact that there’s usually more accuracy in your kicks than a nuclear homing beacon. It wasn’t the power behind them. It was the fact that you worked with the other guys. You were friends. It didn’t matter that you had separate practices. Worked on separate drills. You ran routes with anyone who wanted to try something out or practice in off-hours even though you shouldn’t have risked your legs like that. You’ve let every backup quarterback we’ve ever had pass to you until their fingers bled. Christ, you had half of them in there on the reformers with you every week.”
And I let them down so colossally some of them didn’t speak to me the entire offseason.
I don’t say it out loud, but the words hang between us.
Coach Taylor appraises me, and it’s sort of like being looked at by your grandfather, like he’s got generations of wisdom on me, not just the seven years older he is. “You could have made that kick. I’ve seen you make that kick in practice.”
He’s not wrong. I’ve broken the record more than once. Two separate practice kicks: 67 yards and 69 yards, respectively. But there was nothing at stake then. I palm my jaw. “I know.”
“I want to switch up your long field goals and points-after-touchdown practice. Wednesday afternoon so I can be there. I planned on using you a lot this season, and I don’t like when my plans change.” He looks back at the screen, the game tape still rolling, and I take that to mean I’m dismissed. “Darren let me know you’re doing some press at the hospital. That ends when regular season starts, got it?”
I nod, pushing up from the armchair and I get halfway across the office before I turn back to him. It’s a childish question, but I’m not exactly sure what the future holds for me here. Or anywhere, really. “What if people still hate me by the time regular season rolls around?”
He doesn’t bother looking at me when he says it. “Then you better start making fucking kicks and scoring points or you’ll be out on your ass with only that stupid grin to keep you warm.”
We both know it’s not that simple, but it feels like it might be.
I’ve only ever really been two things my entire life: reliable and likeable.
And now I’m neither.
Hospitals don’t look any better in the daytime.
At least not to me.
They’re busier, and I think that just gives the illusion that they’re a bright place where good things happen.
And good things do happen in them. But whenever I step through the doors, I can only ever think of the bad.
The volunteer badge hanging around my neck feels more like a noose than anything. I could pretend that’s what’s weighing me down when I cross the lobby towards the elevator, eyes firmly glued to the floor and my face half hidden under a nondescript black hat. I ditched the one with my last name and number—all the information identifying me as someone people hate—and left it on the console of my truck when I got here.
I’ve been dreading this little positive press exercise since Yara came up with the idea. My least favourite place and a sea of people who are already unhappy.
The elevator is mercifully empty, and I press the button repeatedly, like that’s going to make the doors close any quicker. My sister, Sarah, told me when we were kids that the close button is just for show, and it was one of those glass-shattering moments for me.
I really wish it wasn’t true, because I see someone coming towards the elevator, her head down, completely oblivious—and even though I want nothing more than to be alone, I can’t help myself from reaching out a hand to stop the doors from shutting.
She slides in, one hand lifting in thanks, dark hair swinging in a slicked-back ponytail, and her eyes stay glued firmly to her phone.
She’s in a different colour of scrubs today, but I don’t forget anyone. It’s part of the reason people like me so much.
But I don’t think it’s very hard to remember someone. At least not someone like her.
“Dr. Roberts. Nice to see you again.” I grin and hold out my hand—I can’t help myself from doing that either—but I’m a bit hopeful she might shake it this time.
She startles, looking away from her phone, fingers tensing against her coffee cup. Green eyes narrow on my hand before they flick up to my face. She cocks her head, and her ponytail swings across her shoulders. One eyebrow kicks up, she drops the phone in the pocket of her navy scrubs, and she reaches out to meet my hand with hers. “Oh. Dr. Davis’s brother. The one who doesn’t sleep well at night because everyone hates him.”
I pull my head back and my grin fades, but it’s replaced with the real one. “How do you know I don’t sleep well?”
“Your brother has a big mouth when he’s nervous.” The corners of her lips twitch, and her cheeks soften. It’s the closest thing I’ve seen to an actual smile on her. The flecks in her eyes come alive and I think a part of me does, too.
She drops my hand and I wish she hadn’t. She tips her head, eyes assessing, before continuing. “I don’t know if that big mouth happened to pass on my message, but I don’t hate you.”
He didn’t pass on the message. But I nod, wishing he did. “Seems like there’s a thinly veiled insult in there somewhere.”
“There isn’t,” she answers, turning away from me and pulling her phone out again. She’s not looking at me, but she points to the illuminated elevator panel, leaning forward and finally pressing a button. The number eight lights up. “Your brother’s probably on six. You pressed four.”
“I’m not here to see Nathaniel. I’m uh—” I pick up the volunteer badge hanging around my neck and shake it. “I’m here for some positive press. I’m not sure if you heard, but the whole city, and most of the country, hates me. No real plan on how I’m supposed to achieve that, but I thought I’d go to pediatrics for visiting hours. I’ve been told I do a great impression of Chase from Paw Patrol . Maybe I’ll do story time.”
Her eyes cut to me. “And what are the kids supposed to do about that? They don’t control the news cycle.”
I grin, crossing my arms and leaning back against the mirrored panels lining the elevator. “Maybe they’ll be so taken with the impression, they’ll put in a positive word with their football-loving parents.”
She snorts. “How do you know they love football?”
“Everyone loves football.”
One of her eyebrows rises, followed by the shrug of one shoulder. “I don’t.”
“Maybe that’s because you’ve never seen me kick.”
A laugh—it’s really more a cackle—tumbles from her lips. Her eyes are wide, and she looks amused. “Well, if the general populous is to be believed, I’ll consider myself lucky for that.”
“Ouch.” I say it, but I don’t feel it. I think I feel lighter than I have in months.
She cocks her head, eyes flitting back and forth between mine and the volunteer badge. “I’m going up to inpatient recovery. There are a few post-ops I want to follow up on. All adults. It’s visiting hours. If you want to talk to people who might actually care and don’t want to spend all afternoon straining your vocal chords to sound like a cartoon dog, you’re welcome to come with me. You just can’t come into the room until they say it’s okay.”
I scrub my jaw when really I feel like pressing a fist to my chest, so it stops my heart from hammering against my rib cage. My resting heart rate is usually a lot lower than this, but it’s only the second time she’s met me, and it’s the second time she’s been nicer to me than almost anyone else on the planet. “You haven’t told me your name.”
“You never asked.” She shrugs again. The doors to the elevator open on four, but neither of us gets out. “Greer.”
“Greer,” I repeat. “Do you think the adults like story time?”
“Depends on how good your Chase impression is.” Her voice is deadpan. Raspy. I feel it in my chest—strolling across my rib cage and planting itself there, kicking its little feet right alongside the still-too-fast beating of my heart.
I forget I ever wanted to be alone.