Chapter 4 Luc
FOUR
LUC
Practice finally winds down just as the sun dips, casting a warm haze across the field that makes everything look like it’s glowing.
Coach blows his whistle to call it, and the team jogs off the field, sweat dripping, pads heavy.
It was a good practice, one that still has adrenaline buzzing under my skin.
We’re all still on a high from a big win against Detroit this past weekend. It was the perfect start to the season. Our team is tight and meshes well. We have high hopes for what could be a monumental season.
By the time we’re in the locker room, the guys are already cutting up, the air thick with steam and chatter and the stench of hard work.
My locker buddy, AJ León, is in rare form, running his mouth and laughing at his own dumb jokes.
When I’m down to nothing but my jock, he snaps his towel across my ass with a loud smack.
“Motherfucker,” I mutter, turning a scathing look on him, but the corner of my mouth betrays me.
It’s hard to stay mad at AJ. He can be irritating as hell, but it’s part of his charm.
He’s one of my favorite people in the world, and probably the closest friend I’ve got.
AJ always sticks around, even though I don’t make being friends with me easy.
I’m more of a solitary type, and I don’t go out much.
I rarely hang out with the guys, or even AJ, outside of work.
Not because I don’t like them or being around them, but because I’m not into crowds and flashing cameras–and wherever these guys are, the fans follow.
I’m not cut out for the spotlight the way some players are.
I love football, but I don’t love the circus that comes with it.
To be fair, I’ve probably gotten a little too comfortable with my solitude.
The habit is too deeply ingrained. After the draft, I barely had time to breathe, let alone socialize.
Between practice, games, and the endless travel, I was grinding through online classes, determined to finish my business degree.
Dad always said I needed a backup plan, and I promised him I’d finish my degree when he found out I’d be entering the draft instead of graduating.
I wanted to make him proud, so I kept at it, night after night, studying on the bus or plane to away games, passing on going out with the guys, and going straight home, alone, every day after practice.
It was hard, and it took me longer than it would have if I’d stayed in school, but I did it.
And even though I didn’t walk across a stage in a cap and gown, that diploma is framed on a wall in my parents’ home in a place of honor, above any trophy or award I’ve won.
Pushing him into the lockers, I roll my eyes at AJ and tell him to go mess with Dez instead.
Unlike me, Dez Carter is known to walk around with his ass out.
He’s practically a nudist. It used to weird me out, but nobody bats an eye at him anymore.
Then again, Dez looks like he was carved out of marble, so who could blame him for wanting to show off?
This guy has GQ spreads, endorsement deals, the works.
He’s an Adonis with golden-boy charm that earns him every dime.
It doesn’t bother anybody, least of all me.
We’ve all got our quirks. AJ is the class clown, always pulling pranks and laughing the loudest. One of our cornerbacks, Treydon Rocke, likes to trash talk government officials on his social media, where he has like a billion followers.
Monty Nash, our quarterback, dresses like a rodeo cowboy in boots and big belt buckles despite being far from Wyoming, where he’s from.
Our running back Connor Laramie is a total golden retriever with an international supermodel girlfriend who he never shuts up about.
Then there’s me, the quiet guy. The loner. I get along with everybody, but nobody expects me to do the big media interviews or photo ops. They invite me to everything they do, but no one expects me to show up, and they don’t get upset when I decline the majority of invitations.
We’re a mixed bag, but everybody accepts each other the way they are. It’s a hell of a group to share a locker room with, and I thank my lucky stars every day the Cyclones picked me up. Not only because I get to stay in my home state, close to home, but because I’ve found somewhere I belong.
I shower fast, ready to get home for dinner. When I come out of the showers, I notice the buzz in the room has shifted. Excited chatter bounces from one end of the benches to the other.
“What’s going on?”
AJ leans in, eyes wide. “Check your phone, man. The team got invited to see Lest Is Moore next weekend when we’re in New York.”
Quirking my eyebrow, I open my phone’s email app and see a message from the Player Engagement office.
The entire roster for the Shreveport Cyclones has been personally invited to attend the Lest Is Moore NYC concert next Friday before our game in Buffalo. Backstage passes included. All players please respond by Monday if interested.
Around me, the room’s excitement grows. Questions are being thrown out, like anyone might have the inside details about the invitation.
“Isn’t that concert sold out?”
“I thought the entire tour was.”
All the guys are grinning, hyped for the show and making plans for a night out in Manhattan.
I’m less excited, although I’m happy that everyone else seems pumped.
Scrolling back up, re-read the subject line.
I’ve heard the band name, sure. They’re everywhere, right?
I’m not much for keeping up with current music.
My playlists are stuck in the ‘90s, alt-rock favorites on repeat. I almost never bother with the radio.
AJ practically bounces in his seat, shoving me in the shoulder. “Come on, man! Get hyped! It’s Lest Is Moore, dude!”
I shrug. “I don’t really know them.”
His eyes bug out. “How is that even possible?” He shakes his head. “You know what, you’ve gotta go. They’re insane live. I think you’d dig their vibe. Trust me, dude. You won’t want to miss this.”
“I don’t know. I’ll think about it.”
Truthfully, the thought of a packed arena, earsplitting loud music, screaming fans, and cameras flashing everywhere doesn’t appeal to me. I live it enough already.
AJ pouts at me like I just kicked his puppy. “Man, you’re no fun.”
Back home, my place is blessedly quiet. Unlike most of the guys, who live in giant houses in gated communities, I live in the same modest condo I bought when I first started, though it’s still more than I need.
It’s nothing flashy, but there were only so many options for buildings in Shreveport with a doorman that could restrict access to a prescribed list of visitors.
Thankfully, I’m not popular enough to attract that much attention off the field, so reporters haven’t tried to follow me home.
They only bother with me if I brave going out for dinner or somewhere with the team, which is the reason I don’t. I like my quiet life.
While I throw together dinner, I decide I should at least listen to this Lest Is Moore band and see what the fuss is about.
I pull their music up on my phone and push play, the music coming through the surround sound speakers.
When the vocals hit, there’s a flicker of familiarity, but I can’t place it.
More than likely, I’ve heard them somewhere before.
In the locker room maybe, or in a grocery store.
How could I not? They’re global superstars.
Which makes me wonder why the hell they’d be sending us tickets. A young team out of Louisiana that hasn’t won any major conferences yet. Then again, maybe it’s not just us. Maybe it’s a PR move? I heard someone say they might play the Super Bowl Halftime Show, so that might make sense.
Just as I’m plating some of the quinoa jambalaya I meal prepped on Monday, topped with two big, marinated, grilled chicken breasts, a slower track comes on. I stop mid-motion, spatula in hand, the hairs on the back of my neck prickling. That voice. Why is it so familiar?
And then it clicks. A few years back, I’d stumbled on a song.
Something about it resonated with me to the point where I’d played it until the repeat button was nearly worn out.
I couldn’t get it out of my system. It helped me process a lot of what I was going through at the time, the way really good music can sometimes.
The night of that bonfire had left me feeling empty, confused, and more insecure than I was willing to admit, even to myself.
As much as I’d wanted to forget and move past it, I couldn’t.
It took immersing myself in the memories with this song playing over and over to get to the point where I could breathe again.
This must be the same band. I drop the spatula, grab my phone, and scroll until I find the song in an old playlist. Remember My Name by Lest Is Moore. I push play, and mouth along with the lyrics, remembering every word as if they’re burned into my brain.
Your blue eyes cut me wide
In a flickering flame, I couldn’t hide
Moon hung low like it knew
What the hell was I doing smiling at you
We touched like it meant everything
Was it all too much
Breathless in a stranger’s bed
Heart beating like a threat
I never told you who I am
You didn’t tell me about you
Is it stupid I want you to
Remember my name
Even though I never told you
You saw me the night I came alive
For one stolen moment, I couldn’t hide
You kissed me like it was the end
Like you knew you’d never see me again
We broke the rules in whispers
With skin we couldn’t tame
The morning silence buried
The truth I never claimed
I never told you who I am
You didn’t tell me about you
Is it stupid I want you to
Remember my name
Even though I never told you
Remember my name
(The way I’ll always remember you)
Remember my name
(Is it stupid I want you to)
Remember my name
(I wish I’d stayed)
Remember my name