Chapter 36 TJ
The idea hits me in the shower. I’ve heard that’s where many great ideas strike.
I was doing a mental inventory of things I’m good at: playing soccer, doing social media.
Then I made a list of everything I’m not good at: everything else.
It doesn’t help tremendously with career planning.
Normally, I’d think about reading a self-help book about finding fulfillment in life and then berate myself because reading is hard.
That seems like a bad cycle to venture into.
Watson Ross suggested I look into audiobooks and podcasts as source material since people with dyslexia often find those easier to glean information from. And then—BOOM—it hits me.
Podcasts.
I could start a podcast. I could talk about soccer things, but also about life after soccer, when the time comes.
Maybe I could try out different jobs and talk about my experiences.
I bet a lot of people would be willing to let a professional athlete shadow them for a day.
It could help drive business to those places.
I immediately think of Rachel’s account for Oh Crap!
I could use my name for good, especially helping small businesses.
Would anyone even tune in? Yes, I think they would.
Even if I was bad at a job. Especially if I were bad at the job.
I’ve been the butt of jokes for so long that this wouldn’t even be a stretch for me.
My videos of my teammates have hit all-time high views for me on ClikClak.
I record a note in my phone to talk to Leora, our public relations person.
She might have some ideas for me. Joey might be able to help, too. Maybe we could do the podcast together.
Putting notes in my phone is new for me, too. The simple act of recording the note helps me remember that I have a task to do. Look at me, getting my shit together.
This is killing an entire flock of birds with one stone.
As soon as I talk to Joey and Leora, I’m calling Rachel. I’ll have a plan. A direction. An adventure to go on that she can ride shotgun for. Or maybe she drives sometimes, too. It’ll be a journey we can take together. Our own bucket lists.
I step out of the shower, energized by my brilliance. This is going to be great. Then I hear it. There’s a thumping sound. It takes me a moment to realize it’s the door. Someone’s knocking.
Dripping wet, I fasten the towel around my waist. No one ever knocks on my door. Ma has a key and lets herself in. This can’t be good. I yank open the door, expecting to see police or something like that.
I do not expect to see Rachel standing there, her feet planted, trying to make her petite frame seem big. She doesn’t say anything. Her eyes do a slow blink, and her jaw goes slack. I glance down. Oh yeah, I probably have that effect.
"It’s not like you haven’t seen it before," I offer.
"Yeah, but it’s wet and … hot." She licks her lips. She’d better stop looking at me with so much lust in her eyes. This towel isn’t forgiving, and my reciprocated feelings are about to become very physically evident. I turn around. "Give me a second."
In my bedroom, I grab the first thing I see, which are my gray sweatpants. Why is she here? What does she have to say? Will she listen to me? Will she give me another chance? I slide them on without even bothering to put on underwear.
"Yeah, I don’t know that’s much better. Can you at least put a shirt on? It’s hard to think with all that"—she makes a circle motion with her hand—"on display."
"Fine." I stomp back to my room and grab a T-shirt. She wants me fully dressed. That doesn’t bode well for … anything. I pull the shirt over my head. She wants something from me. No matter what it is, I’ll give it to her, even if it means letting her go.
Rachel is perched on the edge of the couch. "I deserve love," she announces before I’m even close to her.
I cross the room and kneel in front of her. "Of course you do." I want to take her hands in mine, but they are knotted tightly in her lap. Her body language is screaming, "Don’t touch me!" I have to respect that.
"I am worthy of love." Her voice breaks.
"Of course you are."
"Will you just let me finish?" She stands up and brushes past me. She starts pacing the length of my living room and then takes a deep breath. Her voice still shaking, she says, "I deserve love. I am worthy of love. I am lovable. I’m ready for love."
I wait for her to continue.
She turns and looks at me. "I deserve love. I am worthy of love. I am lovable. I’m ready for love."
Almost imperceptibly, I nod.
Rachel throws her hands in the air. "I’m ready for love! Ready for love with you. To love you and to be loved by you. And maybe we’re not there yet. Maybe we don’t know each other well enough yet, but the keyword there is yet. So maybe you’re not ready for love. Can you be ready for yet?"
I wait for a minute to make sure she’s done. The silence fills the apartment. Okay, I think she’s done.
"Can I talk now?"
She nods, those big, hot fudge eyes taking up her whole face.
Now I’m pacing. Then I turn back to face her.
I have to see her expression when I say this to her.
"Before I met you, I was lost. I didn’t know who I was or where I was heading.
I was stuck in an endless cycle of doomscrolling and self-pity.
Turns out, at least if the team psychologist is to be believed, I’m having an identity crisis, which is totally normal for athletes toward the end of their careers.
My whole life has been soccer, and it’s going to end within the next few years.
I don’t know what comes next. I’m in a little bit of an anxiety-depression-panic cycle because of it. "
"I can relate," she says flatly.
I smile. "I bet you can. You just unknowingly jumped into the middle of my downward spiral. And all I could think of was that I wasn’t enough. It turns out that it’s not really because I’m not enough, it’s just that I don’t know who I am yet. Outside of soccer, obviously."
"Obviously," she echoes.
"And how can I be with you if I don’t know who I am?"
"I don’t know who I am either, but I’m starting to branch out," Rachel says quietly.
"ME TOO!" My voice is entirely too loud for the situation. I don’t care. I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve. I’m expressing my thoughts with feeling and volume.
"But I’m working on it. I … I have a life coach, and now I have a plan.
Can I tell you my plan? I think it’s a great plan.
It came to me in the shower, the plan. This plan is the answer to everything. "
"You can tell me if you don’t use the word plan. You sound like a book that didn’t go through enough editing." I see a hint of a smile. "It’s a serious pet peeve of mine."
"Okay, my … idea is a podcast. Maybe even with Joey, because he can be funny occasionally. I want to interview other athletes and talk about sports, naturally, but then about life after sports. Career planning and career readiness. I was also thinking about a segment where I try out different jobs." As I’m saying it, I realize the problem. "Shit, that wouldn’t be good for a podcast. That’s more visual. "
"But you could probably spin that off into a YouTube series. It would definitely be good to cross-post on ClikClak as well."
I look at her. "You don’t think it’s stupid?"
She shakes her head. "I think it’s brilliant. I think you and your brother will be good together, and it will help both your careers."
"And I was thinking that it would help the businesses that I feature when I try out jobs."
"Yes. They could sponsor an episode, which would help with production costs, as well as get the publicity and traction. Cramer-Romero has sponsored all sorts of things over the years. Never a podcast, but it’s not out of the realm of possibility."
When she doesn’t comment about my idea, I prompt, "So?"
"So what?" she asks.
"So I have a pla—an idea for what I’m going to be when I grow up. When my time with the Boston Buzzards is done, I’ll have the roots for this in place so I can step seamlessly into a new career."
"That’s great, Tyler. I’m happy for you." Is Rachel looking at me expectantly? She holds my gaze for a moment before standing up. "I’m happy you have your plan. I think it’s great. You’re going to be just fine." She turns and walks toward the door.
I grab her wrist, spin her around, and pull her back to me. Her body collides with mine with a soft thud. "Where do you think you’re going?"
She keeps her head down, her arms hanging limply at her sides. I reach down and, with the most delicate touch I can manage, gently lift her chin with my fingertips. "Where do you think you’re going?" I repeat.
Her eyes brim with tears. "I told you I was ready for love, and you told me about your podcast."
Holding her chin steady, I lean down and give her lips a soft kiss.
I can’t stop there. I kiss her again, parting her lips with mine.
She opens wider, inviting my tongue in, meeting it with her own.
My hands move to the sides of her face and then back into her hair, the silky short strands sliding through my fingers.
I will never tire of kissing this woman.
"I was telling you my plan so you’d know I’m ready. I’m not some screwup who’s going to drift aimlessly. I’m getting my shit together, and you’re going to get your shit together, and our shit will be together and we’ll be together, shitless."
Rachel pulls back slightly. "I’m not sure if that was romantic or terrible."
I laugh. "How about terribly romantic?"
It’s her turn to laugh. "I happen to know for a fact that no one is ever truly shitless, but I think I know what you mean."
"I’m ready for yet and whatever comes after yet. I’m ready for it all, as long as we can do it together."
Her body presses into mine. I slide my hands down her shoulders and back until I’m cupping her petite ribcage in my hands. It’s not enough. I bend forward so my hands can reach down further, underneath her buttocks. In one swift move, I scoop her up. Reflexively her legs wrap around my waist.
I carry her to the bedroom and make a plan never to let her go again.