7. Peyton
peyton
. . .
T o say I’m nervous would be the understatement of the century. I thought Noah’s proposal in front of thousands, not counting live television, would’ve prepared me for anything. But no. Not even close. I swear I’m about to pee my pants from all the shaking I’m doing. Even the tricks I’ve learned in therapy aren’t helping. My palms feel like they’re dripping with sweat, and my legs are bouncing so fast the receptionist probably thinks I’m jonesing for my next fix.
“Get yourself together, Peyton. You’re better than this,” I say to myself, closing my eyes in another attempt to calm down. I have absolutely nothing to lose if this interview doesn’t go well, but I also feel like I have everything to gain. Ever since Mr. Bowen called, I’ve imagined myself breaking down game film with the players and staff. I can see their eyes on me, their pens scribbling furiously over the papers in their notebooks, hands raised with questions, and plays executed like I suggested. Most of all, I see the team winning.
The problem is, I also see Noah. I see him there, doing what I suggest. I see the other Pioneers clamoring around our living room, listening to what I have to say. Not the Rams. Not ESPN or any of the other news agencies who have offered me jobs.
“Peyton James?” A man dressed in a jet-black suit marches toward me with his hand out. I stand, giving it a firm squeeze. “Leo Bowen. Thank you for coming out on such short notice.”
“Well, as you pointed out, I’m not working, so I have time.”
“Yet,” he says.
“Yet?”
“You’re not working yet, which is why we wanted you to come out sooner rather than later, plus the season is about to start and we really want to fill this position with you.”
I smile. “That would be great,” I tell him for lack of a better response. He asks me to follow him behind the large glass wall. In fact, everything is glass, making me wonder how much they spend on window cleaners every year. The space has an industrial feel. Everything is stainless steel and white, with very few pops of color.
Mr. Bowen leads me into a conference room where a couple of the players and coaches are sitting around a large table. The nerves I had while waiting are back full-force. I swallow hard and smile. Introductions happen, even though I’ve already figured out who the players are before they say their names. The thought makes me smile and I wonder how proud Noah and Nick would be of me right now.
“Would it be too forward if we asked you to break down a couple of plays for us?” Mr. Bowen asks, pointing at the wall.
That’s when I notice the game footage frozen on the screen. I shake my head slowly. “I’ll need a few minutes to look at it.”
“Be our guest,” Deniz Emery says. He’s a running back who can’t seem to find a gap once he’s handed the ball. Any coach should be able to point this out to him. Taking a seat, I start watching the clip, rewinding, taking notes, and rewinding more until I believe I can fix the issue.
“Okay,” I say, turning toward the group. I close my eyes briefly and remind myself that I can do this. This , breaking down film, is what I love to do with Noah. Doing it for these guys shouldn’t be any different.
Picking up the remote, I start the play and talk about what I’m seeing. To me, it seems they’re very basic, common mistakes and easily correctable. I go over how Deniz’s feet are too wide, that his push-off is slowing him down, making his timing off, which means the gap that was open is already closing by the time he reaches the line of scrimmage again, almost always giving them a loss of yardage. And because I’m a glutton for punishment, I point out that the linemen aren’t doing their jobs. That Dua Mellor isn’t blocking. When I finish, I set the remote down and wait for a response. Deniz is smiling, but the coaches are slack-jawed, while Mr. Bowen is glaring at his coaching staff.
He finally clears his throat. “Peyton, I have to say, we already knew about Deniz, but Mellor… well, that’s something we hadn’t noticed yet, which is exactly why we would love to have you on staff here, if you’re interested. My secretary is preparing the offer as we speak.”
“All because I pointed out a lineman issue?”
“Not just any issue,” Deniz speaks up. “I’ve been saying this since last season and no one wants to listen to me. I know I’m missing a step, which you so kindly pointed out, but the gap should be open longer than a second. The linemen aren’t giving me a chance.”
“It’s not just the linemen.” I turn the video back on and set it to slow motion, pointing out what others are doing and how fast the play breaks down. “I wonder if your count is off. Maybe the cadence needs to be changed.”
Leo Bowen throws his pen down onto the table and chuckles. But it’s not one of those haha moments. His hands go up in the air. He points at the coaches but says nothing. When he glances at me, his face has softened. “Peyton, clearly we need someone with your objectivity and knowledge on our staff.”
Mr. Bowen’s secretary walks in and hands him a folder, he promptly slides it in my direction. “Our offer,” he says. “Think about it and let me know.”
“How much time do I have?”
He fiddles with his pen. “Obviously with the season starting soon, we’d like an answer as soon as possible, but we also recognize that you have a big decision to make. You’ll either be on the sidelines as a coach or a reporter.”
The waves crash against the shore angrily. There’s a storm coming, I can feel it in my bones. Another side effect of the accident. I ache, constantly. The cold bothers me so much, and it makes me wonder if standing on the sideline is such a good idea, and I don’t like the idea of being stuck in the press box where I wouldn’t be able to talk to all the players. Being a reporter, I’d have breaks. I’d be able to seek comfort from the tent, stand by the heater until it’s time to go on air. I pull my knees toward my chest, protecting the envelope with my job offer, from blowing away. I came to my parents after the interview, needing to think.
“Don’t you want to come inside?” My mom’s voice fills me, and the blanket she drapes over my shoulder gives me a bit of warmth. I turn my head slightly as she sits down next to me. “It’s so cold out.”
“It’s going to rain,” I point out the obvious.
She nods. “Maybe it’ll stay out there, although we need it desperately. The mountains are so dry.” Every year the fear of a wildfire threatens, and almost every year one happens because someone wasn’t paying attention to their surroundings, forcing people from their homes and wildlife to the beach to seek shelter. Mom turns to me and smiles. She brushes my hair out of my face. “Tell me how today went.”
I can’t help the smile that spreads across my face, even if my heart is tearing in two. “They offered me the job, with a really nice compensation package.”
Her grin matches mine. “That’s amazing, Peyton. I’m so proud of you.”
“Thanks. Leo Bowen opened my eyes to a job that I didn’t know I wanted.”
“Oh, I don’t know. You were always on the sidelines with Nick when you were younger. I just think that once you joined the school paper, you saw another part of the sports world that you didn’t know about. But if you ask me, I think coaching has always been your passion. It was your father’s.” Mom pauses and turns her attention toward the ocean. It’s a long minute of silence between us before she starts speaking again. “He loved it. Coaching and football. I know you don’t remember him much, but each night he’d come home, and you guys would go over game film. He would point everything out to you, and you’d repeat every word. And on Sundays, you’d sit on his lap, watching the games, calling out plays, and throwing your hands up in the air when someone would fumble. The funny part was, you didn’t have a team, so you rooted for everyone.”
She’s right, I don’t remember. I don’t tell her that though. Sometimes when she talks about my father, I can see the pain in her eyes and the longing in her voice. But then reality hits and I wonder what would’ve happened if my father hadn’t died, and my heart hurts because I love my dad so much, and only know that I do because of what happened when I was five.
“I don’t know what to do, Mom. If I take the job, I’d have to move here, and Noah and I would be back to commuting.”
“And the other job?”
I shrug. “I commute with that one too, but not as much.” I leave out the rest of what’s weighing on my mind with that job.
My mom shivers and I move closer to her so we can share the blanket. “You’ll make the right decision for you when the time is right.”
“Time might be my enemy. The companies who have made job offers want an answer, but I’m waiting for Noah to get back from camping. I want to get his take on everything.”
Mom nudges me. “He loves you, Peyton.”
I smile so hard my cheeks hurt. “I love him. I always have.”
“Geez, do neither of you answer your phones?”
We both turn around to see my sister trudging the last few steps toward us with her phone in her hand. She sits down in front of us, with her back to the ocean. “I’ve been calling for like,” she pauses and looks at her phone. “Twenty minutes.”
“Cry me a river,” I tell her.
“No thanks, Justin,” she smirks. “Tell me what the pow wow is for.”
“Peyton was offered the job.”
Elle sticks her hand up for a high-five, which I gladly return. “You taking it?”
“I don’t know yet, I need to speak to Noah.”
“You know he’s going to tell you to do what you want,” Elle says.
“I know, but he’s going to be my husband and I want to discuss it with him.”
Elle raises her eyebrow at me. “Speaking of, what’s the deal?”
I look from her to my mom and smile. “I picked out the flowers.” I show them the pictures I took while in Beaumont. After they look, I take my phone back and glance at them one last time.
“Have you picked a date?” Mom asks.
“Noah has. Well, he’s suggested one. Christmas.” I look at my mom and sister for their reaction. The timing doesn’t seem to faze them. “But I’m not sure. It’ll depend on my job. It’ll probably be sometime next summer, once the season is over.”
Again, Elle and my mom don’t say anything. Not that I’d expect them to, but I would like them to give me some thoughts.
“Well, whenever you decide, let me know so I can clear my schedule. I want to be the best maid of honor ever.”
“I haven’t asked you yet,” I point out.
Elle shrugs. “Are you going to ask someone else?”
I shake my head. “No, but I thought you’d want something formal, like those ‘promposals’ that everyone’s doing.”
Her eyes go wide. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
My mouth drops open. I was joking, but I think I’ve just shot myself in the foot.
“Close your mouth. The wind’s blowing, and you don’t want something disgusting landing in there. Anyway, I want to be your maid of honor, and the last thing I want to do is stress you out. So,” she says, letting out an exaggerated exhale. “Let’s get to planning your wedding!”