11. Connor
CONNOR
THREE WEEKS LATER (LATE AUGUST)
“Thanks for the detour to New York from LA,” Grace says as I duck into the town car to join her. “This is Jeff. He’s been driving me everywhere.”
“Nice to meet you.” The driver nods to me in reply. I suspect Johnson insisted she hire him because Grace wouldn’t normally indulge in such things herself.
We’re here in NYC for two events. The first is the National Athletic Managers Conference. They’ve asked her to be part of a session on athletes-turned-managers.
As Jeff pulls away from the airport, I turn to my sister. “You ready for your panel?”
She clears her throat. “I think so.”
“You’re gonna be great.” I know it might not be the last time I have to offer reassurance.
My sister isn’t shy, but she’s also not comfortable being the center of attention.
When she invited me in the name of “learning more about what we do,” I knew another likely reason was to have a support system.
I couldn’t say no.
As the second event, the Waves have a preseason away game against New York the day after the conference ends. From our current location in Manhattan, there’s no excuse not to attend, and she really wanted to make a weekend of it.
So instead of officially being back in Orlando this week, I’m in New York.
Another delay in spending time with Eden. Like two comets streaking toward opposite ends of the sky.
On the flip side, the distance has helped us get to know each other better. We’ve continued messaging the last few Saturdays via Instagram; granted, during her U23 camp week, it was abbreviated.
We’re friends now. Peeling off the false filters of our lives, layer by layer, week by week.
But that’s not all I want, and I’m fucking determined—when I’m back in Orlando, I’m taking her out on a date. No more delays.
“We’re staying in the hotel where the conference is,” Grace explains. “It’s nice. Once you’re checked in, I’ll introduce you around. The opening keynote speech is tonight.”
“Great. I’ll let you lead the way.” Not that I have a choice.
Although Grace is one person I don’t generally hesitate to follow.
We have a relationship distinct from our brothers.
She was an academic star in school, skipping a year when young and graduating from Princeton right before my freshman year.
We’ve always bonded over our shared interest in scholastic success, and when I was a kid, she was the one to help me with schoolwork.
We also have the same complex dynamics with Mom. Grace and I were the focus of her ambition for “her children.” In contrast, she largely left Landon and Rawley alone, because their school years were spent surviving, not thriving. In her words, she had no time for “anyone content to be mediocre.”
In some families, it may be nice to be the favored ones, but not in ours. When your mom is a raging narcissist, it’s better to be out of the spotlight.
To be clear, that’s my unofficial diagnosis for her—no one’s ever forced her to address her issues with medical professionals. Based on my reading up on the subject, it wouldn’t do much anyway.
“How are you liking the internship so far?” Grace asks, interrupting my thoughts.
The honest answer is I’m not certain yet, but I don’t give Grace that response. Better not to throw any negativity her way.
“Milo’s been great, and it was nice to learn from the LA group while I was there. It’s dynamic like I thought too. No day is the same.”
“That’s for sure. Good.” She looks satisfied by that answer.
“The tickets are all set for the game?”
“Yup. You know I’d never let that fall through the cracks,” she says with a wink.
She’s right, I didn’t even need to ask. Same as me, Grace loves to be in charge. Though for her, it’s joyful to take care of those she loves, whereas with me, it’s about coveting control.
I smile back at her. “Never should have doubted, Gracie.”
Two hours later, we’re headed to a lounge area in the hotel for a Welcome Meet & Greet. I internally fight the urge to bail—networking with a bunch of business managers sounds tedious as fuck, but it’s part of the gig. Grace is a manager, and you like talking to her, I try to convince myself.
We grab whatever cocktail they’re offering as we walk in before she beelines for a crowd of people talking.
“Oh Grace, it’s wonderful to see you again,” says a forty-year-old-looking man dressed in a sports jacket.
“Hi, Grace,” adds the woman next to him, around the same age.
“How have you both been?” She gestures my way. “This is my brother, Connor. He’s interning at SLP this year.”
“Oh, wonderful.”
“Connor, this is Sally and Darrin. They both work at an Atlanta-based company.”
I try to muster up some energy for small talk. “Atlanta’s a great place. Do you work with soccer players too?”
Darrin shakes his head. “Golf players are most of my client base.” Shit, I’m clueless about that sport. “Sally primarily works with track athletes.”
Grace smiles. “That’s how Sally and I got to know each other. We have some clients who train at the same complexes.”
“I ran track competitively twenty years ago,” Sally explains. “Now I just chase after my kids.”
We all laugh politely, and Grace pats her arm. “How are the twins? The Instagram stories you post are so cute…”
“Oh, they’re little troublemakers, but I’m trying to soak up every moment before they finish elementary school this year.”
“You have to do that,” Darrin responds, a grin on his face. “My fourteen-year-old wants nothing to do with my wife and me right now.” More polite laughter follows.
As they chatter away, I zone out. Nothing against Sally and Darrin—they seem perfectly nice, and Grace is feeding off the back and forth—but this is not my happy place. At all.
“So Grace, you have to tell us about the wedding,” says Sally.
“Oh gosh, yes…” She gives them a short synopsis before waving to me. “And of course, Connor was part of the wedding party.”
Their attention returns to me, and I straighten, trying to seem like I’ve been listening the whole time.
“Lovely—” Sally starts to say.
“Hi everyone,” a booming voice says. It’s another man. Maybe our father’s age?
“Connor, this is Bernard.” Grace introduces us, a different energy in her voice. Disgust? Annoyance? Both? “He manages several football players.”
He grabs my hand to shake it, his grip sweaty. “Good to meet you, young man.”
I wipe my hand off on my pants after he lets it go. He ignores me the rest of the time, bellowing and interrupting the others that filter in and out of the circle. It ruins the cheerful-if-dull vibe of the event, and soon we leave.
“Sorry about him,” Grace says in a low voice as we head to the elevator. “He’s not my favorite.”
“No one ever tells him to shut the eff up?” If I wasn’t a lowly intern, I might have.
Grace gives me a half smile. “Nah. You’ll have to deal with lots of personalities in this business. You get used to it.”
I don’t know. If dealing with this kind of person is what’s required, I’m not the man for the job.
I push that thought from my mind as I accompany her to the keynote dinner shortly later. It drags, though everyone at our table is nice at least.
But the next day reinforces my earlier assessment. The small talk, the networking, the long panels about marketing and contracts—most of it isn’t my thing. I load up on Red Bull and muscle through, for Grace.
Ultimately, I’m glad I’m here for her, because when her panel comes up late in the afternoon, she nails it.
HOST: Grace, as many people in the audience may know, you’re currently competing in international track events. What drew you to the management side of the industry?
GRACE: Well, I’ve always loved planning and organizing things. Who else is an eldest daughter here?
Several laughs join with applause.
GRACE: Some may find the coordination and scheduling side of the business not as enjoyable, but I’ve always liked bringing order to chaos. With my MBA, I also gained tools for assessing and nurturing business opportunities. Being able to bring all of that to the table for clients is satisfying.
HOST: So interesting. And how does being an athlete help you in the business itself?
As she answers, her confidence grows. It’s fucking amazing that she’s found this role, truly something she loves. The fact that she can still run competitively while doing it is a godsend.
When her panel’s over, she comes back to the table, ecstatic—and relieved. “It was okay, really? I was okay?” she says softly.
“You were perfect,” I reassure her. “I’m so proud.”
She grins from the praise, and several of our other tablemates give her kudos.
Seeing my sister in her element confirms my earlier instincts.
I don’t think this is what I’m supposed to be doing with my life.
But it’s my job for now, and until I have a better option, I must stay the course. Not to mention, Grace recommended me to Milo, and the last thing I want to do is embarrass her by quitting the internship early.
When the evening is over, and we return to our hotel rooms, my head is swirling in ways I can’t share with my sister—so I instead reach out to someone else.
CONNOR: Hi from NYC.
CONNOR: [sends pic of skyline from hotel]
EDEN: Pretty!!
CONNOR: You excited for your game tomorrow?
They’d won the first four, while I was in LA.
EDEN: Yeah, to start the season 5–0 would be major. So hopefully we pull it off.
EDEN: How’s the conference? Did your sister feel good about it?
CONNOR: She crushed it.
CONNOR: The whole thing gave me food for thought, though.
EDEN: How so?
CONNOR: I don’t know, it just feels like I’m playing a part right now? Like going through the motions. I’m learning a lot but…
EDEN: Managing athletes is not your life’s passion?
CONNOR: Exactly. This doesn’t feel like my calling.
CONNOR: But I don’t know what to do. I have the right connections for it, and based on how Grace explained they’re paid, I could make a decent living if some of my network signs up for management. Assuming I get a role after the internship is done.
EDEN: It’s not terrible to take a job to pay the bills for a while if you need time to figure out a long-term path.
CONNOR: Yeah. I’d rather that than be dependent on anyone.
EDEN: I get it.
CONNOR Anyway, I’ll be back late tomorrow after the Waves game, and maybe we can schedule something this week?
EDEN: Don’t jinx it
CONNOR: Yeah, we won’t talk about it. I’ll just randomly show up at your dorm.
CONNOR: JK.
EDEN: You may need to at this rate.
EDEN: I’m at Anderson House, Room 210. But quick, delete that before something interferes.
CONNOR: Shit, for real.
EDEN: Have fun at the Waves game tomorrow.
EDEN: And see you later this week. Hopefully.
Needless to say, I screenshot her dorm address and save it to my favorite photos.
The next day, it’s the life goals of Landon, Johnson, and Rawley we’re focused on.
Rawley’s now been on the Waves for three years as a starting wide receiver, and Landon and Johnson, six. They’ve made it deep into the playoffs every year since Rawley was drafted, but they still haven’t won the whole thing—the Super Bowl.
They reached it two years ago, but lost badly. Last year, they lost in a tight game in the conference championship, a round earlier.
Grace’s phone rings as we’re on the way to the stadium. “Hey, honey,” she says as she answers. It must be Johnson. “Yeah, we’re fine. On our way.”
She laughs at something he says. “If you’re lucky. Anyway, please remember, no heroics today. It’s just a preseason game.”
It’s the last bout before next week’s regular season start, which means the first-string players will get decent minutes, including all three members of our family.
“He’s nervous for the game?” I ask when she hangs up.
“Not really. He’s just determined for the team to start this season on the right foot. Boost up the guys’ confidence.”
“That makes sense.” As quarterback, Johnson’s acutely attuned to his role as a leader.
“But he doesn’t need to risk an injury, because that wouldn’t help anything.”
Thankfully, Johnson has nothing to worry about. The first drive of the game, he hooks up with Rawley for a twenty-seven-yard pass, and Rawley books it down the sideline for a touchdown.
“YESSSSS,” Grace screams, while the New York fans near our suite shoot us angry looks.
“Whoops,” she whispers to me after she spots the looks, and I chuckle.
My attention is drawn by something else, though. Jeremy runs out for the extra point kick, and I might be the only one catching all the nuances of what he’s doing.
The exact distance he backs up along the hash marks.
The small hand movements he makes right before the play starts.
The little hitch in his step as he begins his strides to the ball.
The speed of his movements, so he beats the defender’s attempts to block the kick.
The specific part of his shoe the ball connects with.
The crowd buzzes around us, barely paying mind to what’s happening. For most NFL fans, these extra points are automatic. But that’s only because of the simple beauty of Jeremy’s routine.
“The extra point is good,” the announcer confirms, voice echoing across the stadium.
I’ve watched so many NFL kicks in my life—by Del, and now Jeremy, for the Waves, in particular.
This kick, this moment, is different. Because it cements a reality that’s previously been a quiet weight in my gut.
Another possible life path is definitely gone. With the NFL season starting, the first since I finished college, it doesn’t look like I’ll ever be kicking professionally.
As I digest that revelation, I glance over at my sister, weighing whether to say it out loud.
She looks so joyous, though, so I keep my mouth shut.
Instead, I try to feel gratitude for everything I do have.
Flailing, and failing.