Chapter 2
Taysom
Sharp pain.
It hits me hard for a second, and then it goes down to a raw throb.
I’m fine. I plant my hands on either side of me on the practice field at the San Antonio Wolves stadium. If I put most of the pressure on my left arm, I’ll be able to get up. It’s just a stinger in my right shoulder from all the throws.
“You good?” my teammate, Foster Massey asks, extending a hand to help me up.
I shake my head at his hand. Getting up on my own will help work out the throb. I’ve been pushing myself extra hard today at our spring workout due to last night’s news.
Somehow despite the whistle in his mouth, our offensive coordinator Coach Scarloni manages to let out a string of obscenities.
“What’s happening?” Scarloni lets the whistle drop away and spits as he charges the field.
“I’m all good,” I say. “Really.” I’m up now, rotating my shoulder, rubbing it out. “Coming off a three-month break, you know?” I manage a shrug. “Just a little spasm.”
“Did you make contact?” Scarloni asks Foster.
Foster just finished his rookie year, and much of the time, he looked like a deer in the headlights.
It was the same look I had my first year in the NFL, six years ago, so I’ve sort of taken him under my wing.
He’s cool and we’ve become friends. As a linebacker, Foster knows how to hit hard and that’s what he’s here for.
We were just going through the motions with a two-hand touch.
This has nothing to do with him. It has to do with me and what I have to prove, and I’m pushing myself hard today, that’s all.
“No,” Foster says, removing his helmet. “He was down before I reached him.”
Hitting the ground because of a spasm in my shoulder is not the look I was going for. This is one of our first spring practices since the season ended in January and I’m a little rusty. I’m happy to be back…three months without playing football was quite enough. I’d play every day if I could.
And I’ve been trying to read the coaches’ expressions all morning. Are they scrutinizing me…deciding whether I’m good enough to keep around?
“Massey didn’t make any contact at all,” I confirm. “I’m just trying to get back into it. The shoulder’s fine.”
Scarloni shakes his head and swears again. “Go and sit down, both of you. Take a breather.”
I catch up to Foster, who’s already almost reached the bench.
“Sorry you’re hurting, man,” Foster says, tossing me a glance and then continuing with his head down.
“It’s nothing.”
Foster gives me a half smile, like, okay, so we’ll go with that.
We guzzle down the water in our water bottles and breathe, side by side, on the bench.
“Thoughts on the draft last night?” Foster’s brows go in the air.
“I’ve been to better draft parties.” I grumble. “But it’s fine.”
This year’s NFL draft came with a surprise. My team’s management drafted a new quarterback, Casey Riddock—a rookie fresh from college. The problem is, I’m the starting quarterback, so this news has me feeling nervous that the new guy could potentially take my spot.
For the past several years, I’ve felt like a trade was in my future eventually.
I’ve been fortunate to play for my home team for six years now, and no one’s lucky enough to start and then retire from their career with the same team.
The nature of the NFL is change. Trades, deals, shifting contracts… they’re all a part of the game.
But I don’t want to be traded. I want to live and die a Wolf. And now that they’ve drafted Riddock, my position is threatened like never before. He’s good, and so am I, but we’ve had two losing seasons in a row, so I could see them wanting to try him out in the coming season this fall.
“Eh, you won’t lose your spot, Taysom,” Foster says before taking another drink. “You passed for over three thousand yards last year, and TMZ never caught you doing anything stupid, so you’re all good.”
I choke on my water at the TMZ comment. “There is that.”
I haven’t dated much the past few years, so TMZ doesn’t have much fodder.
I did at the beginning of my pro career—it sort of came with the territory—but I eventually learned it wasn’t worth it for a lot of reasons.
I’m out of town most of the weekends from August through January, and I learned from watching my parents that a travel-intensive job destroys marriages.
Besides, you get to the point where you can tell if someone wants to date you for you, or for the fame and money.
I miss the simpler times, back when that question wasn’t so omnipresent.
When I could take a woman out to lunch on the San Antonio University campus and have a solid, down-to-Earth conversation.
My mind goes to Charlotte Mercer, the red-haired younger sister of my best friend, Kyle.
I took her out once, an impromptu thing, when I ran into her on campus one day.
I’d just started playing for the Wolves and she was a freshman in college.
During a break while doing some volunteer work, it was amazing to share a meal with someone I knew way back when.
It didn’t hurt that she’s a skilled conversationalist and insanely pretty.
There’s red hair and then there’s red hair, and Charlotte has that version—the kind that screams from the rooftops to be noticed. It’s such a striking color, especially against her fair skin and freckles. And those big baby brown eyes? Forget about it.
Not that I’ll mention this to Kyle. That’s too weird because she was always just his little sister—nothing more.
But somehow, seeing her again felt like a little piece of home had been restored.
Not that I’ve seen her since. She sort of dissed me when I asked for her number.
I’m stopping by her place of work this afternoon to film a spot for my documentary that I’m doing with ESPN. Should be amusing to see if she still has zero interest in me.
Foster starts talking about something else, but behind me I hear a shout from one of the team managers.
“Hey, Reed! It’s your dad.”
My dad is here?
My heart goes down to my stomach. He’s visited me at practice before, a couple of times, but I can’t get used to it. Every time, I can’t help feeling like something bad has happened—that he’s bringing me bad news.
He comes into view as he shuffles around players standing around in practice gear.
He’s about two inches shorter than me. He’s got a gut now, even though, up until maybe three years ago, he was trim and fit. He’s not exactly that way anymore. But ever since I joined the NFL, he’s started dressing better than he used to. And dating a lot more.
It bothers me. Even though my parents’ divorce was back when I was seven years old, somehow, a part of me has never gotten over it. I haven’t been able to exactly trust my dad since he left, even though he came to a lot of my games—especially the better I got.
“Dad, what are you doing here?”
He reaches up and pats my good shoulder. “I just wanted to stop by, see how you’re doing.”
He gives a little shrug, as if to say that it’s not a big deal, but I know something is going on. I can tell he has news.
I let out a breath. “Well, come watch the other guys for a minute. I’m just taking a break.”
We sit and by now, Foster’s moved to a group of guys watching what’s happening on the field.
“I saw they drafted Casey Riddock.”
That’s a subject I definitely don’t want to talk about with my father.
“It’s fine,” I say. “It’ll push me in spring training.”
My dad winces. “Riddock’s got talent, I can admit it. But he’s not like you. You’re the whole package and your coaches need to start seeing that.”
“I appreciate it, Dad, but can you not say stuff like that right now around my team?”
Dad’s face hardens. “I was only stating the obvious. It would be good for them to hear my thoughts.”
“No, no it wouldn’t. Just, please tell me why you’ve come.”
Dad recoils, like I’ve offended him. I love my dad, and I know he’s proud of me. He’s supported my career from the start, signing me up for expensive camps and trainers and all kinds of cool opportunities that Mom wouldn’t have been able to cover on her salary after the divorce.
But I always feel like it’s never enough for him. I was starting quarterback all four years of high school, and most of four years in college. I’ve worked my butt off for him to approve, but sometimes that isn’t working.
“You remember Jess?”
I sigh. “Is she the blonde?”
“No, the brunette. Come on, son, the one I brought to the extended family barbecue a couple of months ago.”
“Oh, that one. Yeah? Are you still dating her?”
Dad got remarried my rookie year with the Wolves to a woman named Breanne, who was fourteen years younger than he was.
A couple of years later, he was divorced again.
I feel stuck in a time warp from my childhood, still smarting from when he divorced my mom, still determined to get my family back together at all costs.
Obviously, nothing I did worked, and that still stings.
“Taysom, Jess is special.” He twists his mouth to one side. “I proposed.”
“What?” I feel the color drain from my face. “You’re engaged?”
“Yep!” My dad’s smile is wide. “We’re getting married next month.”
“Next month?”
“When you know, you know.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me before now?”
His expression grows serious. “I only proposed a few weeks ago. Yeah, it’s fast, but it’s right.”
“She’s a lot younger than you, Dad. You sure you want to do that again?”
“Jess is nothing like Breanne, Taysom. And fourteen years younger isn’t a big deal when you get to be this old,” he insists with a laugh.
Jess reminds me of the women who troll the NFL players, looking to date them.
“You haven’t known her very long,” I counter. Hearing this news is easier than hearing about Breanne because that was the first time he’d gotten married since our family breaking apart. It’s still strange though, and I worry about him.
“Doesn’t matter, Jess is…” He pauses and does a chef’s kiss. “…perfect in every way. Come on, be supportive.”
My stomach turns when I think of my older sister, Emma. I bet this will be hard for her, too. “Does Emma know?”
Dad bites down hard. “Not yet. But I’m telling her next.” He digs into his shoulder bag. “I wanted to hand-deliver the invitation.”
There’s already an invitation? This whole process is further along than I thought.
I take the envelope. “Thanks, Dad.” There’s an awkward silence before he turns back to talking about football.
“Dowell was looking good towards the end of the season. You sure he’s coming back?”
Dante Dowell is my go-to receiver, and we’ve had a lot of great plays over the years. But I’m not even sure I’m coming back. “Yes, he’s committed to the team.”
I don’t mention that he’s going through a divorce. Dante opened up to me recently about how difficult traveling to away games was on his wife—it was a major contributing factor to her leaving him.
It’s just another piece of evidence that it seems nearly impossible to make a marriage and family work in this career.
Still, I welcome talking about the ins and outs of the game with my father.
Football was the only thing we had as a family—the one thing that pulled us together.
I saw it during my first game playing tackle football at eight years old.
Mom didn’t want me to because she was terrified of injuries, especially concussions.
But they’d only been divorced a year, and she was still trying to find her footing.
Dad talked her into it, and because I wanted to so badly, she said yes.
I was excited to play. I was all about getting to hang out with Kyle and his dad—who was the coach—and getting the snacks at the end. But it was mostly about the game. I started watching games on TV when I was only two, and I’ve been obsessed ever since.
I had a lot of interests growing up, like playing the piano, building elaborate Lego sets, and trying to convince my mom to get us a dog or cat. That didn’t work, but my mom, even in the fog of divorce, always wanted me to try lots of things—to venture out and do what I wanted to do.
But football was always number one, and that first game?
When I snatched a Hail Mary pass from Kyle in the last few seconds of the game and scored a touchdown, causing our team to win?
I saw how my parents, who’d been so angry with each other for so long, held each other as they screamed with joy. I saw how it brought them together.
And I vowed then and there to keep playing. Football would become my world. A world in which I believed I could shine enough to get my family back together.
It didn’t work.
I’m relieved when Coach Whittaker calls me back onto the field.
“I gotta go, Dad. Thanks for stopping by.”
“Hey, work harder than everyone else, okay?” He always says that.
“Sure thing.”
“And come by my place Sunday night? I want you to get to know Jess better before the wedding.”
“I’ll try.”
Again, it’s easier to just not say what I’m feeling and pretend with Dad. He doesn’t like hearing the truth from me; he never has.
But as I jog out onto the turf, trying and failing to rearrange my thoughts back into football and not into my sad family story, I nearly stumble.
Maybe it’s a good thing I’m not dating anyone.
Dad always traveled for work. My whole life.
It caused a lot of problems, the main one being that it precipitated my parents’ divorce.
I can’t do that to my family, too. I can’t have a family until I quit football.
But I can’t quit football. It’s really the only connection my dad and I have ever had.
So it’s a rock and a hard place type of thing. Football, the only thing that connects my dad to me, is my life. But because of that, it’s like my future is on hold.