Callan
“Devine!” Pitty calls as he walks into my house on Friday evening, a parade of Stallions on his heels.
“Brought the herd, I see,” I deadpan as he veers off from the main entrance, taking the hallway into the large kitchen and dining area I completely renovated four years ago especially for hosting team dinners.
There’s an island that separates the huge dining room from the chef’s kitchen, complete with six barstools, the only place I ever eat if I’m not hosting.
Sitting at a table built for twenty by myself is sad.
I tried it once and the vibes were like a Batman villain origin story.
“This is the dream,” one of the rookies announces, spinning his large frame around as he takes it all in.
A few years ago, I might’ve agreed with him. I’ve got the mansion in one of the nicest neighborhoods in Denver, plus places in New York, California, and Costa Rica. I make more in one year than most people make in their entire lifetime. And for a while, that was enough.
And then, it wasn’t.
Now, though, I’ve worked my way back into a better place with the same determination and drive that allowed me to get to where I am today in my career.
“Help yourself to food, guys.” I direct them to the island where my chef is still working to get food into the heating pans as almost all ninety of the current players make their way through my home, having as close to a home-cooked meal as most of us ever get.
The man my chef brought in to help with the steaks is outside, his own ultra-high-heat grill set up next to my state-of-the-art one.
Apparently, the best grill money can buy isn’t good enough for his steaks.
I grab a plate, and tip my head at Pitt, knowing it’ll be better if we start things off so people know I’m serious about eating. Charmaine gets pissy if we eat her food cold.
“Quite the spread you’ve got tonight, Char,” Pitty remarks as he dumps a heaping spoonful of potatoes onto his plate.
Charmaine shakes her head. “You’d eat fast-food cheeseburgers for every meal if your nutritionists would let you. Your compliments mean nothing to me.”
“I don’t know why everyone hates on fast food,” he grumbles. “They’ve perfected it for the masses. Nothing wrong with that.”
“It lacks soul, AJ. Which means you might as well be eating air.”
As we walk away from the food spread and out onto my back patio, Pitty whispers, “I don’t think I want to eat souls.”
“Which is why you’re single-handedly keeping the drive-through burrito place around the corner from the practice facility open.” It’s amazing the man has a GI tract left. I swear that place gives me issues for days when he convinces me to eat there.
“Can I join you guys?” Kenny Barrett asks, his voice surprisingly soft for a linebacker. He waits for us to respond, as if concerned we might turn him away from our exclusive table.
“Of course.” I smile and help shove the chair next to mine out. “How was your first week?”
“Long.” Kenny grimaces. “I mean, it was great. Just—”
“A fuck ton of meetings and logistics and other crap you know is important but don’t actually want to do?” Pitty offers.
“Yeah. And my family has been on my ass about how important this week is, so, at the same time, every interaction feels ultra important.”
“Worried you won’t make it past cutdown?” I ask, mentioning the brutal day in August when teams trim their rosters from ninety players to fifty-three. Rookies are often the ones who don’t make the cut.
“I know I’ve got an uphill battle. I was drafted in the seventh round, and I’m pretty sure that was only because the Stallions have been getting a lot of slack about never drafting players from either of the Colorado universities.”
I hate how defeated he sounds already. Like he’s already decided he’s not going to make it.
“Nah,” Pitty disagrees. “That might be true, but they aren’t wasting draft picks on things like that. If they took you, they want you. Now all you’ve got to do is show up.”
I agree. “All the draft does is get you here. Sure, the team doesn’t want to cut someone they used a first-round pick on, but at the end of the day, they want to win. More than anything else. So, prove you’re the guy they need to do that.”
He runs a hand over his hair. “Yeah. Prove I’m the guy.”
I slowly chew a bite of my steak. “Unless, maybe, you’re not the guy?”
He narrows his dark brown eyes at me before shaking his head. “I’m the fucking guy.”
“There you go, then. You’ll make it past cutdown.
” As we move to lighter conversations, I make a mental note to follow up with Kenny next week.
If he thought this week was intimidating, wait until all the seasoned players join.
That’s when you really start to question what you’re doing.
Or, if you’re like me, you see the opportunity and exactly what it will take for you to get where you want to go.
The table quickly fills up with other guys as the one inside spills over.
Each year, I bring in a couple of rental tables outside, opting for the high-end ones since none of us fit at a standard picnic table.
As the dinner wraps up, the door opens again, a steady stream of wives and kids coming to play and catch up before the season.
Later, the families looking to reconnect before the start of the season will be replaced by loud friends and jersey chasers looking for a good time.
The bar in the basement comes out at that point.
“You got an old lady?” Kenny asks after another of the players’ wives comes and says hello, pulling me into a hug.
Pitty laughs as I reply, “Nope. Just me.”
“Can’t you tell by his bachelor pad?” He gestures to my large backyard and brick house. “I passed two families on bike rides on my way in, and yet, Devine continues to proclaim he’s going to be a bachelor forever.” My choice in homes is one of the many things about me that Pitt finds hilarious.
“Not forever. Only until I’m done playing. I would never want to put a woman through this.”
Pitty rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because no woman wants to be with the star quarterback who already has a family home and a family car and buys those old lady chairs for his grandma’s friends at the nursing home.”
I shove him playfully. “You know that’s not what I mean. I can’t give a relationship the time it needs right now to build a good marriage, so I don’t want to start down that path with anyone.”
“So, do you not date?” It’s a quiet question, like Kenny’s not sure exactly where the line is with personal information. He’ll soon learn professional locker rooms are as ridiculous as college ones, and everyone tends to know everything about each other.
“I date,” I answer at the exact same time Pitty confirms, “Oh, he dates.”
Glaring at my friend, I demand, “Don’t say it like that.”
“Now that you mention it, is it dating? You simply snap your fingers and, poof, a woman is there, willing.” He turns and looks at Kenny.
“He was in these underwear commercials a couple of years ago. As someone who sees him in the locker room regularly, I can confirm there was some generous airbrushing done, but now the women flock to him.”
“Fuck you. There was no airbrushing. That’s all natural.” I catch the small shake of the head Pitt gives Kenny but decide to let it go.
Pitty continues, “So now Devine plays this game where he likes to see how long it takes from him deciding he wants a hookup until he’s balls deep in a chick. His current record is five minutes. And he started counting in his hotel room. Alone.”
“That’s so fucking cool,” Kenny remarks, his mouth hanging slightly open.
“It’s not,” Pitt disagrees. “It’s almost sad to watch.”
“I mean, it’s kind of cool. I don’t see women lining up to ride your cock.” I offer my friend a smirk.
Pitt knows how annoying I find having women everywhere, so he likes to bring it up as often as possible. Though, he’s not wrong about the game I like to play. Not my proudest moment, but it had gotten too easy. I needed a way to bring some challenge to that aspect of my life.
Turns out, I might get a bit of physical satisfaction out of it, but it’s like a slow rot inside me. So, I’ve cut back. Significantly. Like, no one since the season ended. But Pitt doesn’t stick around Denver in the offseason, so he hasn’t been around to witness the new me.
Though I’m not sure what’s going to happen after games. The adrenaline…
Kenny tells us about his girl, who’s finishing up at college this year, the one he plans on marrying. It’s the same story most of the guys on the team have. It’s happened for some of them, but certainly not the majority.
I finally get up and rotate between tables, making sure to talk to everyone I can, from the running back to the rookie punter. It’s my mission that no one leaves without feeling like I’m glad they’re here. Because I am.
The daylight slips away, the Rocky Mountains turning purple and blue as the sky burns orange behind them. When the first girl in a tiny skirt and sky-high heels walks in, all the mamas with babies make a beeline for the door, a number of the players leaving with them. The smart ones, at least.
The house fills with sound, Pitty having finally connected to the Bluetooth system that plays throughout the house.
The latest club music is blaring from the speakers, the whump whump beat encouraging you to find someone to get lost with.
Or poke your ears out. Unfortunately, I’m only one beer deep, so I’m leaning toward the latter.
Pitty can’t stand my party mix. The one with The Killers and Dr. Dre competing for airtime between Flo Rida and Kendrick Lamar. He begs me to get a new one every time he’s at my house, but that’s not my style. Once I find a playlist I like, I keep it.
I’m leaning against the wall in my living room, deep in conversation with Owen Casey about Dallas’ defensive line this season when I catch sight of a pink dress that captures my attention.
Charlotte Langford.
What is she doing here? She lifts an eyebrow when our gazes meet but quickly breaks it as Brewer pulls her into a hug. Interesting.
I continue to monitor her. Despite his attempts to pull me back into conversation, Casey finally gives up, leaving me to silently watch Charlotte as she makes her way from the kitchen into the living room.
Suddenly, she’s right in front of me, as if she’d been making her way over to me the entire time.
Though I know that’s not the case. Greeting the host isn’t Charlotte’s style. At least, not when I’m the host.
Charlotte puts her hand on my shoulder, the warmth seeping through the thick cotton of my button-down. My mind is blank. Because that smile on her face? It looks an awful lot like the face women wear when they want to find out if I’m airbrushed. And that simply doesn’t compute.
“Hey, Callan.”
I jerk back in confusion. What the hell is happening here? Did Charlotte Langford call me by my correct name?
She winces before pulling the corner of her lower lip between her teeth. “Can we talk for a minute? In private?”