CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Lucas
The sky is doing that thing where it looks like it’s both on fire and calm.
Brendan and I sit side by side in patio chairs on my apartment balcony watching the sunset bleeding orange and pink over the buildings.
Neither of us say much.
We don’t need to. We’ve spent the better part of our lives together and understand each other without talking most times.
At the same time, it’s so damn good to see him. To have him here.
“The fresh air is good. I’ve been cooped up since my surgery,” I say.
“Seems to me it’s more like you’re being taken care of than being cooped up,” my little brother says, clearly leading this conversation.
“Just say whatever you want to say.”
“Emery.” He nods and takes a long sip of his beer. “She seems like the real deal.”
I purse my lips and copy his nod. “Something like that.”
He snorts and it’s part frustration, part disbelief. “Sometimes you refuse to see what’s right in front of your face.”
“What’s right in front of my face?” I ask, voice raising and anger bubbling up.
“What’s right in front of my face is that I’m being forced to walk away from everything I’ve worked toward for the past twenty-plus years.
Everything I’ve ever known is about to be erased so yeah, fucking sue me for not wanting to see what’s in front of my goddamn face. ”
He lets my anger simmer there. It’s just beneath the surface and I swear to fucking God, it’s so much easier to stay medicated, to stay under the haze of whatever the fuck they’re giving me than to face the truth.
And I know Brendan knows that. I also know he’s going to fucking call me on it like I expect him to.
“So,” he says eventually, voice careful. “What are you gonna do, Lucas?”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and stare straight ahead. The question feels too big for the space between us.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. My throat tightens. “I really don’t.”
He nods like he expected that answer. “You’re not thinking about trying to play again, right?”
He exhales sharply and leans forward, forearms on his knees.
“Don’t even think about it. You’re a fucking idiot if that’s where your head is.
That ship’s docked. Not sailed, but fucking docked.
You’ve pushed your body far enough. Long enough.
Go out with your head held high instead of going back and eventually being pushed out as a fraction of the player people remember you to be.
Don’t taint your legacy by holding on too long. ”
Fuck you.
The words are there and adamant and real, but I don’t utter them. Instead, I draw in a deep breath and say, “I know.”
And I do.
I just can’t admit it out loud yet. Saying it feels like sealing something shut forever.
“I know I promised you I’d start thinking about life after football, about what I’d do with the rest of my life, but fuck me, did that come much sooner than I expected,” I say, more to myself than to my brother.
“I know. And I’m sorry for that. I truly am.”
I lean my head back, scrub a hand over my face, and exhale. “Fucking hell, Bren. What’s next? What is there for me?”
It’s rhetorical and when he starts to answer I almost stop him, but don’t. As much as I don’t want to, I need to start listening.
“How about you have a woman who loves you sitting across the hall? She did everything in her power to keep you playing, and now that you can’t, she’s stepping up and taking care of you.
She’s here, dealing with what she feels are her own shortcomings while trying to brace for when you actually face your future.
She’s stable and real and not scared by any of it.
So, what is there? I’m pretty sure that’s what there is.
Emery. Not to mention, me and my family.
A good fifty or sixty years of life left for you to live.
I mean . . . I know you love football and all that, Lucas, but you need to pull your head out of your ass and look around.
What’s next—your backup plan—is right in front of you, plain as day. ”
“It’s not that easy.”
“Of course, it’s not. But neither was making it to the NFL. Or lasting this long in it. You’ve done both. Now it’s time you challenge yourself with life . . . and maybe love outside of football.”
Fucking hell.
“Start a foundation to help kids learn football who can’t afford it.
Start coaching a high school team—it’s fucking Texas, so there are a thousand of them.
Have your agent put feelers out to see if any front offices have job openings for scouts or player development roles.
Or I don’t know, decide you want to start a company building fucking igloos.
It doesn’t matter what, it just matters that you do. ”
“Igloos? In Texas?” I say but smile.
“Of course, you pick that to comment on.” He groans.
“I get that right now you’re hurting. That you feel like life has ripped something important from you.
The bright side is that all those years, all that hard work, has left you fucking loaded.
You don’t have to work if you don’t want to.
And if you do, it can be whatever you want because it’s not because you need the money. It’s because you want to.”
“Bren—”
“There are so many people out there who have to work three jobs just to keep a roof over their family’s heads. Be thankful that’s not you. Be thankful you can take time to rehabilitate before you have to consider returning to work.”
I twist my lips and watch the horizon. He’s right.
This fucking hurts for a dozen different reasons, and yet .
. . he’s made some pretty valid points. He’s also helped me see a much broader picture.
So many hardworking Americans don’t have the time or money to simply focus on rehabilitating from injuries. I have both.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
“For?”
“Putting me in my place. Forcing me to take my head out of the sand and see options. For being here.”
Brendan reaches over and ruffles my hair like I used to do to him when we were kids—after bad games, scraped knees, and broken hearts.
It makes my chest ache in a way I don’t have words for.
“It’ll all work out,” he says, sure and steady. “I promise you, it’ll all work out.”
I swallow and nod once.
I don’t know what working out looks like anymore.
But for the first time since everything fell apart, I let myself believe—just a little—that maybe it exists.