The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

1. Better Luck Next Time

1

BETTER LUCK NEXT TIME

Jason

I’m not taking any chances today.

The second I hit the gym on the first Sunday morning of football season, I tune into my pump-me-up playlist, the same one I listen to before every game.

I blast the swagger music in my earbuds throughout my workout with my buddy and teammate Nate.

When we finish, we head to our regular coffee shop for his post-workout coffee. It’s part of our routine—gym, swagger-mix, Nate getting a cup of joe, and me getting something that doesn’t taste like mud.

Except . . . check out the new menu.

Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium has finally, after months of begging from yours truly, gotten into the breakfast smoothie business with its Good Luck Morning Mango Smoothie.

I’ll have to try that smoothie tomorrow. Can’t risk changing any pre-game rituals today. Too much rides on turning things around.

Wait. Hold the fuck on. I’m doing today all wrong.

I’m giving one hundred ten percent to the old standby routine, but it’s a new season today. The team sure could use a Good Luck Morning.

I smack Nate on the shoulder. “That smoothie is calling our names.”

Nate’s as flexible with drinks as he is with a change of plays in the huddle. “Sold.”

I order two smoothies and pay for them when our drinks are ready.

That’s new too.

Nate clutches his broad chest like he’s overwhelmed. “Whatever did I do to deserve this?”

“You catch my passes, dude. Also, I’m feeling generous because I’m positive we will have a great game today,” I say, drumming up the enthusiasm the whole team needs.

The enthusiasm I haven’t felt all summer.

I don’t place too much stock in luck, but I believe in attitude. Like every guy on the Hawks, Nate’s been in a funk lately. I’ve got to change that with Nate, then the team.

Outside the shop, I take a long slurp through the straw and give a satisfied sigh. “This is now our official good luck beverage. We’re going to get this every day of the season.”

As we head up Fillmore Street, Nate takes a drink, shooting me a doubtful look. “I hate to be all logical and whatnot, but aren’t you putting the cart before the horse, Jaybird?”

I shake my head, dismissing that notion. “We lost our preseason games. We had a shitty training camp,” I say, farewelling the dark days so we can move past them. “From here on out, everything needs to be new. This smoothie will reset the order of balance in the football universe, and we’re going to destroy the Seattle Wolves on the field today.”

Nate is more pragmatic. “That’s a lot to ask of a drink.”

“It’s not a drink. It’s a mindset,” I point out. “We need to have faith and confidence and kick-ass-itude.”

Nate lifts his cup in a toast. “Now that I can get behind.”

I wiggle my brows. “You can definitely get... behind ,” I say, then punctuate the pun with a drumroll.

My buddy groans, like he can’t believe I went there. But I need him all aboard the Good Vibes train today. As two team captains, we can set the rhythm for a game. “I’ll have to dock you a full point for that horrible pun,” Nate adds.

I’ll happily take the hit in our ongoing tally of zingers and duds. At least he’s starting to smile. The last few weeks have been miserable at the Hawks facility.

We shoot the shit until we reach the small-batch ice cream shop on the corner of my street, where we part ways. He heads to his place in the Marina, and five minutes later, I bound up the front steps to my home.

I get ready for work, shaking everything up like it’s Opposite Day.

I shave. I didn’t shave before the last few home games.

I hunt down my red college T-shirt. Didn’t wear that to those bouts.

Then, I fly downstairs and search my kitchen and living room for the cat formerly known as Bandit.

Taco thinks he could be an all-star in a Cat Hide and Seek League, but before long, I spot his furry tuxedo face from behind the books on a shelf in the living room. I march over to give him a smooch on top of his head. That’s another new routine—I didn’t kiss this wily critter before the other home games.

When my lips touch his precious feline fur, he rears back, then instantly licks his front paw to rub his head. Of course. Must scrub the evidence of human affection off his coat. “Excuse me, your royal cat-ness,” I say. He’s ditched all his kitten sweetness and has gone full cat.

But hey, I landed the smooch, so it counts in the Opposite Day Tally.

Then, I hop into my car and head for my dad’s place in Russian Hill.

Because the one ritual I won’t mess with is picking up my dad on the way to the stadium. He’s been to every home game of mine since I was a kid.

I make good time and manage to snag a prime parking spot on the hilly street right outside his home, then jog up the steps,right when he swings open the door. He hobbles out onto the landing on his crutches.

“You beat me to it,” he grumbles, tucking a book and his tablet tighter under his arm. “I was going to show you what I could do and wait for you on the sidewalk.”

I laugh. “You’ve got to wake up early to get the jump on me, Pops.” I wiggle my fingers at the book and tablet. Begrudgingly, he hands them to me. Then, I reach for his crutches, too, and offer my arm. Don’t want him to take any chances going down the steps. I feel bad enough that he broke his leg mountain biking in Costa Rica earlier this summer—on a trip I sent him on. Talk about a dream vacay turned into a nightmare.

After I help him into the car, I pull into Sunday mid-morning traffic, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel in an upbeat rhythm. “What’s cooking this morning?”

But Dad doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he peers at me like he’s not buying what I’m selling. “You okay?” he finally asks.

I keep my brave face on because I’ll need it when I arrive at the stadium, where Coach will be prowling around. “Yep. Had a good night’s sleep at the team hotel before I hit the gym this morning for a great workout,” I say, as cheery as can be, transformed by the mango smoothie, my veins flowing with pep.

But it feels false.

Especially when I slow at the light and give him my best it’s all good grin—a smile that would fool anyone but Dad or my brother.

Dad doesn’t smile back. Yup. He can see through me. Always has. He squeezes my arm in a most dad-like way. “Jason, it’s okay to breathe. And it’s okay if you’re not sunshine and roses every second of the day before a game.”

But is it okay if the team knows I’m massively fucking worried we’re going to suck it again this year? Is it cool if Coach knows he’s stressing us out? The fans certainly don’t need to know the pressure I feel from the clipped tone Coach Killfoyle has taken lately with the team or the speculation in the media about changes for the Hawks. “I’m not nervous, per se,” I point out, dodging his statement.

“Didn’t say you were nervous,” he says calmly as the light changes. “I know that’s not your issue. But you’ve got a ton of manic energy, and I think I know why.”

I grip the wheel tighter as I drive. “Why is that?”

“I know you want to turn things around this season. But you’re taking that all on yourself when this is a team sport. And the great thing is football starts over every year. You don’t have to carry the bad seasons with you.”

It’s good advice.

Truly, it is.

But it’s not so easy with the media breathing down our necks. A local sports talk host named Pigskin Jimbo said our D-line couldn’t stop turtles from crawling.

On the flip side, our local rivals are kings. The Renegades won the Super Bowl last year on the shoulders of their retiring Hall of Fame quarterback, Cooper Armstrong. The Hawks didn’t come within spitting distance of the past postseason or the one before. Doesn’t matter that we went to the playoffs twice in my first five years on the team. Football is a “what have you done for me lately” sport.

When we arrive a few hours before kickoff, I pull behind the stadium, park in the players’ lot, then walk Dad to his regular section by the fifty-yard line.

Seeing him in the same seat he’s had for every game I’ve played here does settle the jittery feeling inside me. “Thanks, Dad. For coming today. And for the pep talk. I needed it.”

“I know, kid.” He gives a warm smile that feels like a calm hand on the ship’s rudder. “Remember, every game is a fresh start.”

I hold on to that thought when I hit the field later.

It’s every nightmare I’ve had since training camp.

Four quarters later, Killfoyle prowls through the locker room, ready to rip heads off. “Blowing a twenty-one to three lead? In all my years, this is one of the shittiest of shitty season openers.”

No one can look at each other. The guys hang their heads, eyes on the floor, and it takes all my willpower to keep my gaze on the coach, but I have to because I’m the team leader.

“I’ve seen turtles play football better. We don’t have time for that kind of sloppy bullshit you left on the field. Clotheslining? Gimme a break. And all those offsides penalties.” He stops, draws more fueling breath for his evisceration. “Do better. A lot fucking better. Do not play sloppy on my watch, ever.”

We lost to the Seattle Wolves thirty-five to twenty-eight.

Coach turns at the end of a bench of sweaty, banged-up players and stalks the other way. “Management isn’t going to be happy with a repeat of last year.”

He stares daggers at the defense, landing on Elroy and Johnson, who both missed tackles. I cringe in sympathy.

I get it, though. Coach’s job is on the chopping block too. If we don’t get our shit together, he could be out, just like any of us.

“Do I make myself clear?” he barks at the fifty-three of us.

“Yes, sir.” It’s more of a collective mutter than a rallying cry.

Coach heads to the exit. “Hit the showers,” he orders without looking back. “And when you come to practice tomorrow, show all the way up.”

After I’ve done my best to wash off the stink of defeat, I escape the dreary locker room with Nate as fast as possible.

“There’s only one thing to do tonight,” I say as we head up the steps from the locker room level to the stands. A casual night with some of the guys might help us forget that game. “What if we?—”

“—never order your Good Luck Smoothies again?” Nate asks drily.

And the cheerleader routine dies a swift death. “Sorry, man,” I say heavily.

Nate slugs my arm. “Jay. I’m just messing with you. It’s not your fault, or the mango’s. It’s one game.”

I get that on a big-picture level, but I’m frustrated that I failed so horribly at engineering attitude. I push open the door to the stairwell, then out onto the first level of the stadium, ready to find my dad. “I got ahead of myself. I was trying too hard,” I say honestly.

Nate pats his chest. “I’m right here with you, buddy. I feel the pressure, too, this season. But maybe ease up on yourself tonight?”

Nate has the right attitude. I should try to adopt some of his chill. When we take my dad home then head to The Spotted Zebra for burgers and karaoke, that’s my plan. Devon and Orlando join us. Orlando’s the tight end, and Devon’s the other wide receiver, so we tend to stick together.

At a corner table, we break down the game until Nate finishes with, “Let’s focus on winning in New York next Sunday.”

“That is a most excellent game plan,” Orlando agrees.

“And if we don’t, you know they’ll trade me first,” Devon adds with a laugh, even though I bet he’s covering up some real fear. As a rookie, he’s the easiest to trade because his salary is league minimum.

His comment hits me differently tonight than it would have this morning. I don’t need to be Mary Sunshine like my dad said. Instead, I can lead off the field with confidence rather than manufactured pep. “Try not to let that worry you, Dev. Unless you have a no-trade clause, we’re all fodder. It’s just part of the game,” I say, then we leave football in the dust as the server brings our food.

We’re eating and debating potential karaoke tunes for the season when a sports clip on the TV behind the bar snags my attention. A replay of Beck Cafferty throwing a beautiful, game-winning pass for the Los Angeles Mercenaries earlier today.

My one-time secret hookup.

I slip back in time to when I met him.

The night before we played the Mercenaries a year ago, Beck hung behind at my house after a barbecue. We talked about handling the media, then binge-watched Unfinished Business on my couch, him inching closer with every episode. He was easy to talk to—awkward at first, then friendlier as the night went on. Then flirtier. I was surprised but stoked to learn he was bi, and one thing led to another. We had a hot make-out sesh in my kitchen and then made a dirty bet as we planned a second date the next day.

But after all his eager interest, Beck didn’t show for our rendezvous.

The foolishness I felt waiting for him curls through me like it’s happening again.

Shaking it off, I snap back to the present, catching the tail end of the report by the local sports anchor. “And in breaking football news, Los Angeles’ second-year starting quarterback Beck Cafferty has just been traded to last year’s Super Bowl winner, the San Francisco Renegades.”

If I were holding a drink, it’d fall out of my grip and crash on the floor.

The no-show from the blow job bet has just become the rival quarterback for the city’s better, more decorated, much more popular team.

Today can suck all the mango smoothies in the city.