CHAPTER 14 Tanner Banks
A Blonde Woman with Two Kids
Every Saturday, Monday, and Wednesday, the Storm opens up training camp to the public for a couple hours so they can come watch us practice. It’s strange to me since a lot of what we do is supposed to be under wraps, but the stands are filled with people eager to get the first look at this year’s team, and it’s also a time for kids to have some fun while they’re introduced to the game their parents love.
We run very basic drills during this time, and we run a little scrimmage where I swap places with the two backup quarterbacks so we all get a few turns at signal calling.
But every time I step onto the field, the crowd goes wild. It’s a good feeling. It’s a warm welcome. People are excited to have me here after the promising rookie quarterback the team drafted last year underperformed.
It’s why they took me in the biggest trade deal San Diego has ever seen. I’ve proven my performance, and I have a lot of years left in me. I’m ready for this new challenge with the players who are here with me…and the rather healthy payday didn’t hurt matters by any stretch of the imagination .
On Wednesday, I watch as the third-string quarterback, Jonathan Thomas, sets up a play. Even in scrimmage, he’s a bit unsure of his footing. But that’s the thing about quarterbacks. They have to be sure. They have to be confident and poised, and Jonathan doesn’t have the pocket presence he needs to avoid sacks. It’s almost like he’s scared of the defensive line, which part of me doesn’t blame him for since he was injured early in his career. Part of healing from an injury includes getting past the psychological effects from it, and I’m not sure he’s fully recovered in that respect.
Ford Turner, our second-string quarterback, organizes the offensive line for the next play, and he’s a good backup. Between the coaching staff and me mentoring him, I think we could see great things out of him in the future. He’s a rookie this year drafted out of Michigan, and he was set to start before the big trade went through. Even so, he welcomed me in with open arms, and he seems like a good guy.
I run the next play, and I call the play. I toss a bomb down the field for Spencer to catch. It sails easily into his arms, and he runs it into the endzone. The crowd shouts their approval, and I grin at my teammates. I hope it’s that easy when we’re playing real opponents rather than our own defensive line.
And I hope our defensive line puts more pressure on our opposing quarterbacks, too.
Coach Q, also known as Quinten Walker, the quarterback coach, approaches me after that play. He has some words of praise, and then he turns to Ford. “Can you head up to the kids’ zone after practice for a meet and greet?”
Ford nods, and I knew some of the guys would be asked, but the coaches usually don’t ask the starters.
Still, I say, “I’ll go up with you.” I don’t have anywhere to be immediately after practice today, and it’s not like we’re going to have an offensive meeting without Ford there. Besides, I like meeting the next generation of football fans. I’ve always liked working with kids, and it’s why I started a foundation benefiting kids. I can’t wait to find ways to make an impact on the youth right here in San Diego, whether it’s starting up a youth league like I did in Arizona, creating scholarships, running camps, or doing something else entirely.
Coach Q looks surprised that I volunteered. “Why don’t you stay on the field and greet some of the fans in the stands?” He nods over toward where the fans are already lining up for the chance to get something signed by one of the players, and I nod.
We finish our scrimmage, and I glance at the crowd. A long line of people has formed in the stands as fans hope to meet one of their favorite players, and I can’t help but feel a rush of excitement that all these people here are excited to meet us.
Us. We’re just a group of dudes who like to play football, and somehow that has elevated every one of us on this field to a status we couldn’t have been expecting when we first picked up a football.
And as a quarterback, the spotlight is even brighter on me. I’m looked upon as a leader, which has its benefits as well as its drawbacks. I like being a leader, but I don’t love when I’m blamed for a loss. It’s a team effort that can’t be drilled down to one single person, but the truth is that if I’m having a shit game, it affects the field more than if anyone else is having a shit game.
I’ve had to grow a pretty damn thick skin over the years, and I’m at a point in my career where I’ve learned to allow the positive voices to be louder than the negative. Or that’s what I tell myself anyway. I try not to be affected by the negativity.
From beneath my helmet, I eye the long line of people hoping some of us will come over, and I wonder if I’ll hear any negativity when I walk over. And that’s when my eyes fall upon a blonde woman with two kids. Her head is bent down as she tries to corral her two kids, but there’s something incredibly familiar about her even though I can’t see her face. She’s talking to a crying little girl with hair a few shades lighter than her own, and then she turns to a boy who looks as if he’s insisting upon something. She seems to be holding onto her patience tightly with the two of them from her body language, and I can’t put my finger on why she seems familiar to me from the back.
I guess I’ve been to San Diego before. Maybe we’ve met.
I study her another beat, and that’s when she turns forward and looks up from her kids toward the skies as if she’s asking for divine intervention. She glances at the field, and even though I’m wearing a helmet, I swear her eyes fall onto me.
Holy shit.
It’s her . Cassie. The woman from Vegas.
She’s here in my new city. In my new stadium. A mere forty or so yards away from where I’m standing at this very moment.
I thought I’d never see her again, and as I watch her turn to the boy and say something, I piece together why she left that morning wanting nothing more than one night with me.
She has kids. She has an entire life that’s clearly not in Vegas, and she’s one of those people who subscribes to the what happens in Vegas theory.
I guess I am, too. I am now , anyway.
I’m rooted to my spot for a few beats as I try to figure out what to do. One half of me wants to run over to her. To talk to her. To ask her if she showed up here today to see me, if she wants to exchange numbers, maybe go out again.
The cocky part of me believes that of course she’s here to see me. She knew who I was when she turned to me and asked if I’m a football player, and that’s how our entire unforgettable night started.
The other half of me wants to run far, far away—to avoid them at all costs and leave the past in the past .
I don’t know anything about her or her life. Clearly she hid a very big part of who she is from me since she’s here with what are presumably her children since they look like little miniature versions of her. She hid it because we were only meant to share that one night.
And maybe seeing her here today with her kids is proof of that.
It feels like more lies, like I can’t escape them. Like everyone in my life, including strangers, is lying to me.
Maybe she wasn’t celebrating a divorce at all. Maybe she’s married and went to Vegas for some conquest with her friends only to return home to her family and play the role of happy mother and wife again.
Maybe this was the thing I needed to fully get over that night. It’s closure.
Except…
What if it isn’t?
For a guy who preaches confidence on the field, I’m sure as fuck at an impasse in my own mind about what to do.
Miller sidles up beside me. “What are you doing?”
I clear my throat and glance over at him. “Debating whether I should go sign some shit or hit the locker room.”
He nods. “Come on. I’ll go with you.” He takes off for the stands without another word, and when I glance up at Cassie again, she’s not where she was standing a moment ago.
Instead, I watch her ass as she holds the little girl’s hand and the boy walks in front of them as they make their way up the stairs and toward the concourse.
I guess that’s my answer, then.
I follow Miller over, sign a few things, fake a smile, and head to the locker room as I try to piece together why the fuck I can’t seem to get over that night.