132. A Fucking Lot
A FUCKING LOT
LAYTON
I’ve lost track of the days again. The last time was because I didn’t care. This time is because I’m so fucking focused that it doesn’t matter what day it is.
Last time was vacation. This time feels like two-a-days. My body would swear it’s four-a-days.
And it might as well be. Therapy. Quiet time. Physical therapy. Group time. Exercise. More therapy. More quiet time.
Never in my life have I spent so much time thinking about what I need to be thinking about. I’m about two days away from becoming a Sherpa.
Not really. I think about my mom, Pop and the ranch, my brothers and sister. I think about the NFL and everything I did to get there.
Every sacrifice.
Every clinic.
Every sore muscle.
Every early morning gym session.
I think about losing it all.
I think about reconnecting with George. A man I assumed would take care of me in a manner he had neither the means nor motive to do. A friend who didn’t help me become the worst version of myself. But at my worst, he gripped my hand and asked how he could help. And then did it.
I think about my teammates. Whether Reed’s wife had the baby, and if it was a boy or girl? It’s been long enough, I think. I think about a night out with Mattis, Marshall, and Carlson, just catching up and hearing how they’re doing.
But mostly, I think about Livy. Livy who knew me during my hype, during the NFL days, during the pinnacle of my success, but who really wants to know me now.
A woman who didn’t care that I wore a jersey except that she wanted me to be healthy and even offered to help make me faster and stronger.
A woman who hasn’t asked about my money. Who, when I brought up the topic, flung sand and indignation in my face. Who is the polar opposite of what Bright assumed.
I think about heading to Florida and walking on the beach hand in hand with her and learning why she painted her house pink.
I think about making her mine wholly and completely.
And legally.
And wonder how long I can wait for that to happen.
And I think about sex.
A fucking lot.
That’s because my dick seeks Livy at all times. He’d deal with my hand. But after the first time, when I was so fucking excited to see him rise and shine that I gave him a high five for as long as he would allow, I’ve refused.
I want her.
On my first night here, I shaved my beard.
I hadn’t looked at myself or seen my face since the accident.
It was mental more than anything. I dig the beard, but I needed to stare at a lot more than hollow cheeks and pallid skin.
Shaving was a symbolic way of removing the mask and reminding myself over and over again that I had one goal.
One ridiculously hard, ugly, brutal goal — own my life with nothing owning me back.
No football, no ghosts, no what-might-have-beens, no numbing.
I get one life. One that includes an amazing childhood.
Call it privileged. Call it whatever. We had space and freedom and parents who loved us.
I had siblings who were good to me and still are.
I had a natural talent that took me to college and set me up financially.
It let me meet some of the most interesting people on the planet, some amazing friends, and, ultimately, the love of my life.
I’ve taken my time here seriously. So much so that I haven’t allowed a visitor other than Sarah.
And that’s because she fits with the one goal.
I can deal with pain. I’ve done it my whole life.
But I need to make my body something I can be proud of.
Something that can play with Kyle without being winded.
Something that can pleasure Livy… protect her, hold her, and make her come.
Something that will allow me to hold our babies or toddlers, however we make that happen.
My pen scratches across my journal. The sound is soothing now where it used to grate on my nerves.
“Layton?”
I look up to see Cynthia from the rehab management office holding a cordless phone. “You have a phone call.”
“Does that mean—?” I stand and head to the door, accepting the handheld unit. “Hello?”
“Hey, son. We’re in a clock run-off situation.”
I can accept that reference without it hurting. “Yeah?”
“Willa’s water broke. Contractions aren’t close yet. They’re not on their way to the hospital, but I wanted you to have some heads-up.”
“Thanks, Pop. Any idea how long now?”
“No clue. I’d say within twenty-four hours.” There’s a heavy pause. “Do you still want to be there?”
“Hell yeah, I do.”
The fact that I hear him exhale says so much about how he’s worried.
“Pop?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m okay. And I’m on my way to being better than okay.”
There’s nothing in response.
“I’m sorry I worried you. I’m sorry for taking your worry for granted. I’m okay. I’ll tell you more about it soon, but I wanted to apologize and thank you for all you’ve done. Not the least of which was dropping everything to rush to my bedside and stay with me for who knows how long.”
“It was a rough go. It’s been a shit couple of years. But I’m glad you’re back. I’m so damn proud of you. Don’t know that you’ll ever know how proud I am of you for all you’ve accomplished.”
“That means a lot. Now how long do I have before I see you and the family and Livy?”
“Keep doing what you’re doing. I’ll head your way when Exton and Willa head to the hospital.”
We hang up a moment later, and I return the phone to Cynthia.
Pop never answered my question about Livy.
I leave my journal in my suite and go for a walk.
No earbuds, no music. Just the Texas wind blowing in my ears, the sound of Purple Martins screaming, and the leaves dancing in the trees.
I stride in the autumn sun and revel in how my cheeks tingle from the rays, the feel of the hair on my arms shifting in the breeze.
Things I couldn’t feel a month ago.
I wasn’t there for Colt’s birth. Hell, I was in Florida and got to know him over FaceTime. And this one—my father’s namesake—will come with me in the waiting room cheering my brother on as he becomes a dad himself.
I don’t sleep well. I was always this way before the first game of the season, like pregame jitters. It isn’t the nightmares that may never leave me. It’s the excitement I felt in the huddle before a great pass play. Or the vibration in the stadium during a play-off game.
I have a new nephew coming. A birth. A moment when life begins. Or begins again, for me at least.
A knock sounds on my door, and I spring from my chair… well, as much as any retired NFL footballer can spring, much less one with a career-ending injury.
“Mr. Ranger?” a young woman asks.
“Yes.”
“You have a phone call in the main office.”
I don’t say more but follow and take the proffered handset when it’s extended to me. “Hello?”
“It’s go time, Layton. I’m in the truck and should be to you in about thirty minutes. Do you need to do anything official to leave? Shit. Is the truck okay? Do you want me to ask Emberleigh for her car?”
“I’ll tell them now, and I’ll make it work. It’s not ideal, but nothing right now is, so I’ll figure it out.”
“Can’t wait to see you, son.”
“Same, Pop. I’m looking forward to it.”
I hand the phone back to the attendant and ask for Cynthia. She knew this was coming, and we planned for it. “Do you have your gum?”
I tap my pocket and remind myself of the two packs I have there. “Yes.”
“Is there anything that you feel like could trigger you?”
Of course.
“Yes.” I pause to honestly evaluate the situation. “And no.” It was never fear or frustration. It wasn’t people pleasing or performance. It was grief and loss. And being numb to both.
That hasn’t changed. But it has in some way.
I’ll always miss my mom. I’ve lost her twice. Once a year and a half ago, and again in the wreck. I’ve lost my career and my dream. Only once but for good.
And if I can survive both of those things, I can do anything. Including surviving the pain of them and living to see another day.
“My triggers are no different inside these walls, Cynthia. It’s not like my family puts them in my face. They live there. If I can handle it here, I can handle it there.”
“No one is above falling. Ask for help if you need it. Okay? But Layton?”
I nod.
“Know this… Lots of people never do the work you have while you’ve been here.
They figure the chemical dependence is just that.
They fail to see that it was never about Xanax or oxy or alcohol.
It was always about what that offered them or saved them from.
You’re leaps and bounds ahead of where most would be.
But that doesn’t mean anything if you need help and won’t ask. ”
“I’ll ask. I promise.”
“And you’re back tonight.” It’s half question, half statement.
“I’m back as soon as I meet my nephew. If he takes after his uncle”—I point at myself—“and is fast, then definitely. If he’s slow, it might be tomorrow.”
She grabs a sticky notepad and scrawls across it. “This is my number. Keep me posted.”
“Aw… You gave me your number.” I give her a wink. “If I weren’t taken, I’d slide into your texts.”
“Shut up.”
The door slides open and in walks Pop. “Now, that man, on the other hand…”
“Ew.” I turn and walk to my father and wrap him in a big hug. He slaps my back but only after pulling me a little tighter than usual. “Hey, Pop.”
I toss a look over my shoulder at the rehab manager and hold the sticky up between my index and middle finger, before stuffing it into my pocket.
“You look good, son. I expected the beard.” He gestures to my face.
“You say that like it was its own person.”
He shrugs and moves behind me to the passenger door, acting nonchalant, but I know better.
He’s an extra hand or two if I need it. I’ve been working with Sarah and I have a plan for this.
Right hand on the oh-shit handle. Right leg on the step and push with all my might up.
My weaker leg swings right where it needs to go. It’s not graceful, but it works.
“Atta boy.”
Pop closes the door for me and rounds the hood, slipping into the truck with ease.