2. Breaker
CHAPTER 2
brEAKER
Now
NFL Draft Weekend, Day 3
Northeast Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
My palms are sweaty. My shaking knees are making my teeth rattle. The cuticles on my left thumb are bleeding from where I picked them to shreds. I can't stop thinking about…
Spaghetti?
Why on earth am I thinking about spaghetti right now?
Oh fucking Christ. I had to think about my sweaty palms, didn't I? Great. I'm about to have the 8 Mile soundtrack stuck in my head during the draft, AKA the most important day of my freaking life.
It's gonna suck associating Eminem with the day I didn't get drafted.
"I just don't see why they'd have you working out with the team if they were going to snub you like that, Booger!" Ma says, again. As a born and bred Delaware County — or DelCo, as it tends to be referred to — girl, my mother's hatred for any professional sports team that is not based in Philadelphia is already pretty high. It was hard enough on her when the Dallas Longhorns — the Philadelphia Bullies longtime arch rivals — started sniffing around me, waving the promise of an NFL career in my face. Now that they passed me over?
I'd be surprised if Ma isn't burning Dallas jerseys in the fireplace tonight.
I shouldn't complain. Even the honor of thinking I might get drafted to the NFL right out of college should be enough. Granted, I had an incredible college career. My team at Pennbrook University went to the College Football Playoffs three times during my four years, and won the championship this last season with me as starting quarterback and captain leading the pack. I had a few franchises calling, inviting me to facility tours and training sessions. The goddamned Longhorns seemed the most interested, so that's where I focused my attention. Their head coach came to see me play more than once in the regular season. I ran plays with the team.
I bought a blue and silver Longhorns coffee mug, for fuck's sake.
And they passed me over. That early round draft pick should have been mine, but instead, that fucking twatwaffle Josh Abrams from Alabama is going to be suiting up in Texas. I know it's just the nature of the league, but I can't help but feel super dicked over.
Whatever. I never wanted to put Ma through the turmoil of seeing me in Dallas colors anyway.
So here I am, sitting in my childhood home, my mother's living room in Philadelphia, having wasted the early spring with a team who doesn't want me, praying for a chance to be Mr. Irrelevant, last round draft pick to a team whose head coach has no idea who I am.
Fat. Fucking. Chance.
The last announcer takes the stand, a young woman holding a red and gold jersey with number 262 on the back. This is it. My last chance. I don't bother holding my breath. There's no way it's going to be me.
The blonde woman on the TV reads off the name.
No. Not the name.
My name.
My college headshot fills the screen behind her, 'Breaker Lawson – San Francisco Redwoods' in bold letters underneath.
Somewhere in the distance, I hear Ma screaming. I feel her shake my shoulders, ruffle my hair, jump up and down behind me. I don't move from my seat. My eyes are wide as I watch the fans on TV in red and gold cheer, waving flags and taking pictures of my face. The announcers read off my stats. 31 wins, 13,170 passing yards, 85 career touchdowns.
Six feet tall. Two hundred and twelve pounds.
Breaker Lawson.
“Tough, quick, gritty, this kid is. He's got some issues in his passing game, he can hold on to the ball too long, takes a lot of sacks, but—” The announcer continues to go through my ups and downs, my accolades and weak spots, on and on.
I don't hear it.
I drown out the noise.
I shake my head and run a hand through my hair. Holy fucking shit.
I was drafted.
In true Philadelphia fashion, Ma is out on the lawn banging pots and pans like it's New Year's Eve. From the echoes, I can tell that at least half the neighborhood has joined her. The Flannigans next door wanted to host a 'Draft Party' in their basement bar, where I know they have at least three brews ready to go on tap.
"BOOGER DID IT! HE'S GOING TO THE BIG LEAGUES!" I hear her screaming, using the nickname I hate but wouldn't dare ask her to stop because even at 5'2" and 100 pounds soaking wet, my mother scares the shit out of me.
Fuck. Once it all settles in — the fact that I was FUCKING drafted to the National fucking Football League — at least one bottle of Hennessy will be smashed after I finish it.
At least one car will be set on fire.
Okay…I probably won't set a car on fire. But I'll probably climb a light post.
I mean, fuck it, it's Philly.
My phone vibrates on the coffee table in front of me. Unknown Number is flashing on the screen. Shit, this is it. It's gotta be Dan Elliot, the Redwood's head coach calling to congratulate me. Oh my god, the team just got a new owner, the tech billionaire who now teaches fitness classes on the Spin Sync platform. I've taken his rides before! James…something. I'm too excited to remember his last name right now. Maybe it's him? I steady my breath and swipe to answer the call.
"Hello?" I say in my most professional tone, praying that whoever is on the other end can't hear the ruckus going on outside.
"Breaker, my bro. Congrats, man." My stomach sinks when I recognize the familiar voice. I've been avoiding Lennon Griffith for months, ever since he was drafted and went on to play for the Knoxville Crushers as their starting center last spring. I've gotten really good at dodging my old friend, always too busy for more than a few check in texts. He must've gotten a new number, or maybe he'd assumed I wouldn't have answered if I saw his name on the screen and borrowed someone else's phone.
He would've been right.
"Ah, Lennon. Thanks man," I say, thankful he can't see me rubbing my hand nervously over the back of my neck.
"How do you feel?" he asks, and I can practically see him bouncing up and down the way he always does when he's excited. It's ridiculously endearing for a three hundred pound professional athlete.
"It's a trip," I answer. "I don't think I've processed it. The team hasn't even called yet."
"Hell yes! I knew I'd be first. I had your number up during the whole draft so I could call you the second I saw your face. You did it, dude."
“Yeah, thanks. Listen, I should probably keep the line clear for when the Elliot calls?—”
"Oh, for sure, for sure," he cuts me off. "I'll let you go, but first, you're never gonna believe it. It's still on the hush hush, but brother, I was traded. We're both gonna be suiting up in red and gold! Together, just like the old days. GO WOODIES!" He barks a few times and hangs up before either of us can say goodbye.
I was drafted by the San Francisco Redwoods.
Lennon Griffith was traded to the San Francisco Redwoods.
My dream came true. I get to play professional football. I should be ecstatic, but instead my stomach sinks.
I have to play professional football with the man who unknowingly broke my heart, slowly and then all at once.
All because of one stupid goddamn sentence.
You're like the brother I never had.