Chapter Seventeen
Alexei
Coach has been running us like dogs for two straight weeks, and today is no exception.
“Again!” he barks from the sideline, the whistle already between his teeth. “Ivan, you’re a half-step slow on that rotation. Again!”
I’m not a half-step slow. I know I’m not. But arguing with Coach Royce during playoff prep is like arguing with the weather — pointless, and you’re going to get wet regardless. So I reset, drop into stance, and run the play again.
My legs are burning. We’ve been at this since nine, and it’s pushing noon, with sweat stinging my eyes. Weston’s beside me, breathing hard, his face red from frustration and effort. Even Briggs, who never looks tired, is bent over with his hands on his knees.
“One more set!” Coach yells. “Then film review. Then special teams. Then you can go home and cry about it.”
Weston mutters something I don’t catch, but I can guess the general sentiment.
Playoffs start in nine days. Nine days until the first round, and if we win that, we’re looking at a path to the championship that runs through Detroit and then whoever survives the NFC bracket. The whole building is wound tight — coaches, trainers, front office.
I run the play. Get it right this time — or at least right enough that Coach doesn’t scream my name again, which I’m counting as a win.
The thing is, I should be miserable right now. The hours are insane. My body hurts in places I didn’t know had nerve endings. I’m watching more film than a Sundance jury, eating meals that are measured to the gram, and sleeping on a schedule that would make a monk feel imprisoned.
But I’m not miserable. Not even close.
Because at the end of every one of these days — after the sprints and the film and the ice baths and the meetings — I get in my car and drive home.
And when I walk through the door, Ella smiles a gummy smile at me and babbles when she sees me.
And Ryleigh is in the kitchen or on the couch or sometimes asleep with Ella on her chest, and the apartment smells like whatever she cooked, and I drop my bag by the door and the day just falls off me.
It’s like having a charger. All day I’m draining the battery, and then I walk through the door and plug back in.
I haven’t told anyone this because it sounds soft, and saying soft things in a locker room is how you end up with a nickname that sticks for three seasons.
But it’s true. Ryleigh and Ella are the reason I’m playing the best football of my career right now, and it’s not because they give me something to play for — that’s the cliché version.
It’s because they give me somewhere to not be a football player.
For a few hours every night, I’m just a guy who holds a baby and eats dinner and argues about what to watch on TV with a woman who has terrible taste in reality shows and refuses to admit it.
After practice, I shower, change, and check my phone. There are three texts from Ryleigh.
The first is a photo of Ella sitting in her high chair with baby cereal on her chin, both hands, and somehow in her hair.
The second asks, “What time are you home?”
The third, sent two minutes later, says, “Never mind, not rushing you. Take your time. Ella and I are conducting a very important experiment with applesauce.”
I’m grinning at my phone like an idiot when Slate finds me in the parking lot.
My agent is leaning against my car, which he does when he wants to talk and doesn’t want me to have an escape route. He’s in his usual uniform — suit, no tie, shoes that are probably Italian leather or something equally impressive.
“Got a minute?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.” He falls into step beside me as I unlock the car and toss my bag in the back seat. “Quick update. Media appearance Thursday got moved to Friday. Morning show, puff piece, five minutes. Playoff push, team chemistry, the usual. Smile, say the right things, don’t mention the refs.”
“When have I ever mentioned the refs?”
He gives me a look.
“That was one time. And he was wrong.”
“Be that as it may.” He scrolls through something on his phone, rattles off a few scheduling details I half-listen to, then pockets it. He leans against the car beside me. “Can I say something?”
“You’re going to regardless.”
“You seem different.”
I keep my face neutral. “Different how?”
“I don’t know. Calmer. More focused. You’ve been on time to everything for two weeks straight, which is, frankly, unprecedented.
You haven’t given me a single fire to put out.
” He crosses his arms. “Six months ago you shoved a bouncer outside a club, and I had to talk three outlets out of running the story. Now you’re showing up like a guy who actually wants to be here.
The front office is noticing. I’m noticing. ”
I shrug. “Maybe I’m just locked in. Playoffs coming.”
Slate studies me the way he studies contract language — looking for the thing that’s not being said.
“Sure. Playoffs.” He doesn’t sound convinced.
“Whatever it is, keep doing it. You’re playing the best ball of your career, and your next negotiation is going to go a lot smoother if I can point to a guy who’s stable and not making headlines for the wrong reasons. ”
“Got it.”
“Friday. Morning show. Don’t be late.” He pushes off the car and straightens his jacket. “And wear the navy shirt. Tests well on camera.”
He walks off, and I sit in my car for a minute. He doesn’t know about Ryleigh. Doesn’t know about Ella. Doesn’t know that for the first time in years, football isn’t the only thing I have.
He’ll find out eventually. I’m not ready for that conversation yet — the one where my agent weighs my personal life against my professional value and tells me how to manage it. For now, it’s mine. Ours.
I pull out of the lot and head home.