Provoking the Punter

Chapter 4

CHAPTER

FOUR

By the time Monday morning rolled around, Garrett no longer felt as though he was drowning. The routine wasn’t that much different, and if he clung to it, he would be fine. Yesterday’s game had ended with a loss, and he had cheered and winced, groaned and swore along with every other player on the team.

He had today’s schedule memorized. After the morning weights session, he would attend the team meetings, something he usually enjoyed—it was better to learn what needed to be worked on instead of working on everything. After that, he’d step onto the field to train with the rest of the team for the first time. That was the bit that had his stomach turning.

His father had called again over the weekend and left another message. That was the one call he hadn’t returned, and he couldn’t keep putting it off. With the time difference, calling him on the twenty-minute drive to the facility meant it was late for his dad and he was on a time limit.

As he hit Call he hoped his father wouldn’t answer.

His luck wasn’t that good.

“I thought you were ignoring me,” his father said as a greeting. No one would ever make the mistake of calling him sentimental.

“Moving interstate has kept me busy.” Garrett pulled out of the hotel parking lot. The traffic was crazy busy this morning with everyone heading to work. Austin traffic was a nightmare he wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to..

“So what did you do?”

Not, “How are you coping? Is there anything I can do? It sounds like a shit situation. I wish I could be there for you, son.” Certainly not, “Whatever happens, I still love you.”

No, his father hadn’t said that in over ten years.

It was etched in his heart, in his mind, and on his skin.

“Got into a disagreement with the wrong person.” The wrong person being the coach’s wife who didn’t care that it was a random hookup, not a long-term affair. Was it easier for her to believe it meant something rather than her husband enjoyed hooking up with random men.

He wished it hadn’t been him there, that it had been some other guy who turned up while the wife lay in wait because she suspected something was going on.

He couldn’t even tell his father the truth.

He’d told his mum he was gay, and she’d told him it was best they kept it between them. That if he wanted to play football, he needed to be careful. He’d been taller than her at fourteen, but she’d held him that day as if he would forever be her baby.

He blinked to clear his eyes and pushed aside the memory. He’d remember her properly on the anniversary of her death. He always gave himself an hour to wallow and usually called his brother.

“Couldn’t keep your mouth closed. It’s always getting you in trouble,” his father said as if he still knew him. That first year after his mother’s death, yeah, his mouth had gotten him into trouble. He’d been dropped from the team, and not just because of his attitude, but because of his father’s refusal to drive him, and his brother wasn’t always available. It had been a shit year.

The following year, he’d gotten his license and gotten back on the team. But it wasn’t the same. The pressure had been on to choose: was he going to go to uni or playing football? He wasn’t good enough at either.

“Yeah.” It was easier to agree with his father than to argue. “I’ve already had my balls busted by everyone else.” So I don’t need you to do it. The people who mattered and who impacted his career had taken the first shot. “I’m not up for more of the same. I just wanted to tell you I’ve settled in, and I’m about to head into training.”

His father wouldn’t ask where he was living.

“There’s a lot been written.”

Garrett sighed. “Yeah… I’ve read some of it.”

He’d made himself look on Saturday night, because a few of the guys had asked after training. He kept repeating the same line: it had been an alcohol-fueled argument that happened off the field and away from training. He made a joke about no longer drinking. Except it wasn’t a joke. Not to him.

No alcohol.

No hookups.

He would not make the same mistake twice.

He’d gotten too comfortable, too relaxed, and it was the wake up call he needed.

“I’m surprised another team wanted you.”

Fuck you, too, Dad.

Garrett had bitten his tongue and played nice with everyone for the last week, even as they pulled out the rug and slammed the door in his face. “Most parents would be proud of their kid for even reaching the NFL. Most parents would ask how I was coping with the stress of?—”

“You only have one parent and that’s me.”

And that was his fault, too.

It had already been a long day, and with the upcoming bathtub duty, it wouldn’t be over for several more hours. He’d been instructed to attend for a minimum of two hours, and that they expected him to write a check for the charity. If it would’ve got him out of the dinner, he’d tripled the donation without blinking.

He stood under the shower in the locker room, eyes closed. He hadn’t played on Sunday, but he’d run through every error. He’d spent time with Hulme, catching the snap, dropping and stepping, before finally booting it down the field.

There’d been a bunch of other drills, and the coaches had rotated him through.

James had seethed, and he wasn’t even hiding it.

Garrett had figured out pretty early on it didn’t pay to make enemies because next season they might be your teammates. His job relied on getting on well with the kicker and the long snapper.

He turned off the shower and grabbed his towel.

“Nice ink…what’s it mean?” Ashley Sanders asked.

Garrett glanced at his shoulder, even though he knew what was there. A bit of her handwriting, her favorite flower, a Celtic cross, and the date of the car accident and her death. “It’s in memory of my mother.”

“Sorry, man. It’s a cool tribute though.”

“Thanks.” He gave Sanders a tight smile. If he hadn’t spoken to his father this morning, the question wouldn’t have stung as much as it did.

He dried off and dressed and was almost out the door when James stopped him.

“We haven’t officially met.” James stuck out his hand.

That’s because you’ve avoided speaking to me, but Garrett gave him a grin and shook his hand. What was that saying about never meeting your heroes? “I’ve been following your career since I was in college.”

James glared at him. “Maybe you’re following it a bit too closely.”

Garrett laughed, James didn’t.

Right, he hadn’t been imagining the animosity, and if he felt it, he was sure others did, too. “It wasn’t my choice, mate. You know how it works.”

James stepped in. He was three inches shorter, so had to look up at Garrett. He lowered his voice. “I know you fucked up. And whatever you did, I’m going to find out and I’m going to make sure everyone knows.”

Garrett’s heart lurched. He swallowed hard and kept his grin in place. “Didn’t you hear me tell everyone else? I’d been drinking, and I got into an argument that had nothing to do with football.”

“And now you don’t drink… Good luck with that tonight.”

“I don’t drink at work events, like charity dinners, anyway.” That and he didn’t drink gin—which is what the place was known for—were truths he didn’t have to lie about. He’d done his research; he wasn’t going in blind.

The owner was a mid-thirties guy with perfect hair, who made no apologies for being gay or having several visible piercings—did interviewers not grow tired of asking the same questions and getting the same answers?

Garrett suspected there were several piercings that weren’t visible while in a suit. It was both hot and terrifying the way the owner, Chester Monroe, didn’t give a fuck and was wildly successful.

James considered him for a couple of seconds and stepped back. “You’re a liar.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I’m going to.” He took another step back and laughed as a couple of guys walked toward them. “Great talk. I’ll see you round.”