Chapter 7
CAMDEN
“Can you get off my ass for one goddamn second? You just got here.”
It’s Nadine’s first official day as the not-nanny nanny, and already, she’s on my last nerve. She arrived with a chip on her shoulder and a small carton of tea bags because she apparently can’t live without her Earl Grey in the morning and a chamomile mint in the afternoon.
“Well, who doesn’t have a teapot?”
I slap my hand on the counter. “Me. I don’t have a teapot. Because why the fuck would I have a teapot?”
“To make tea,” she overenunciates with a curl to her lip that I’d like to bite.
“I don’t drink tea.”
“What about coffee? Can I use your coffeepot to heat up water?”
I shake my head. “Don’t drink coffee either.”
I hate to admit the annoyed, throaty growl of hers really does something to me, and I spin away to show her my state-of-the-art microwave, then proceed to point to the cabinet with mugs. “Help yourself.”
She reels back as if she hit her head and ended up in the sixteenth century. “You want me to microwave my tea?”
I shrug and pocket my wallet and keys, informing her, “I’ll be home in a couple hours.”
“I thought you Midwesterners were supposed to be welcoming.”
I paste on a fake smile and offer her a dramatic bow at the waist. “Welcome.”
Even though training camp doesn’t start for another week, the team has been in meetings, hitting the weight room, and generally remembering what it is to be a professional athlete again.
I’ve been given a wide berth to take personal time, but I need to get back.
I need to remind my teammates and the staff that I’m here. I’m ready.
I have an appointment with the speed and agility coach, and I can’t stand here arguing all day with this tiny she-devil, who’s addicted to fancy teas.
“Paisley is still sleeping,” I say, and Nadine ignores me, jamming her index finger at random buttons on the microwave.
I don’t bother correcting her, but I do send one last parting shot as I leave.
“If you want some help removing the stick from your ass, you’re welcome to use the hot tub to relax.
Though I’m not sure the world would be ready to see what a demon looked like after your human skin melted off. ”
Then I close the door on her grumbles and take the elevator down to the garage, where I start up my brand-new car.
I haven’t been able to sit behind the wheel of my Camaro since the night of my parents’ accident, and I have it covered with a tarp in the corner.
Not that I’d use it for city driving anyway, but this Mercedes-Benz will do.
It was a spur-of-the-moment purchase when Erik mentioned that I’d now be in charge of my sister’s transportation, and my convertible Porsche didn’t seem suitable enough, so I went out and bought this GLA SUV.
“Perfect for a family,” the salesman had said, and I signed the papers on the spot.
Philadelphia appears before me as I pull out of the underground garage, a blend of old brick and modern glass that I’ve come to love.
I easily glide through the streets of Center City that once intimidated me when I first moved here, a grid system of one-ways that took me a while to understand, not to mention how to navigate the chaotic traffic.
After seven years of living in the City of Brotherly Love, I’ve found it’s become a city of ire.
The familiar landmarks blur past me, a reminder of how the life I used to live is gone.
The bachelor nightlife? Done.
The freedom to chase whatever high I wanted? Crushed.
The old Camden Long? Don’t recognize him.
Between becoming the city’s number one enemy and the guardian of my sister, nothing is what I remember.
Except the complex that is the Founders’ headquarters, including the training and practice facilities, front offices, and a media center. Situated in South Philly, not far from the stadium, it’s where I’ve spent the majority of days in my adult life. It is as familiar to me as my childhood home is.
Or, was. Since it’s not mine anymore.
I blink away the sting in my eyes and clear my throat even though no one is around to see. Still, allowing myself even this much emotion is unacceptable. I have too much on the line to break down now.
I have a sister relying on me.
A team depending on me to bring them back from humiliation.
The respect of an entire city to regain.
So with one last deep breath, I step out of my car and into the summer heat. I run my hand through my newly trimmed hair a few times then scrape my knuckles over my clean-shaven jaw, checking my reflection in the driver’s side window.
I may look like my old self. But I feel like a shell.
A hollowed-out log on two legs.
Ignoring the few “fans” booing me from across the street, I jog into the complex, keeping my head down because it’s easier to ignore strangers hating on me than it is the people I’ve worked with for the last seven years.
But I can’t even retrieve my phone from my pocket to pretend I’m busy before I bump into Coach Roberts.
Tall and well-built, he has a way of making me feel like a kid again, especially when he frowns at me, like he’s doing now.
“Long,” he says in greeting, crossing his left arm over his torso, rubbing his right hand over his goatee.
“Hey, Coach.”
“I saw on the schedule you’re here to meet with Monica.”
Nodding, I assume he had this little hall meeting planned, and I’m proven correct when he nods. “Let’s have a chat in my office.”
I follow him down a couple of corridors in silence, the overhead lights reflecting off his bald head. Last year, I would’ve made a joke about it. He would’ve laughed. And then we would’ve had a relaxed conversation among the cluttered space he calls an office.
Now, I’d rather take a hit from Trey Daniels without any pads on than have to sit across from Coach, the whiteboard behind me, trophies and framed photos showing off his famed career, including the one he has front and center of him and President Obama, back when he won a Bowl ring, coaching with his last team.
He could’ve had another.
If it weren’t for me.
“So,” he starts once I finally slip into my seat. “How are you doing?”
“Fine,” I answer automatically because there is no way I’m volunteering any weakness.
“I’m glad you’re back, but if you need more time—”
“I’m fine, Coach. I’m good. I don’t need any more time.”
“What about your sister?”
Despite how last season ended, a lot of my teammates showed up at my parents’ services.
A few dozen men standing like sentries in the back of the room because they couldn’t fit in the chairs the funeral home provided.
My sister, on the other hand, didn’t have that kind of support.
As far as I knew, she had her best friend, and that was it.
We grew up in a small town, and she was the only deaf student in the entire school.
Though she never told me, I assume it must have been a lonely experience for her. Now, even worse.
“Rivera’s sister is staying with her when I’m not home,” I say, shifting uncomfortably.
“Oh yeah. He’s got a whole bunch of sisters, huh?”
“Two,” I correct. “Three brothers. Nadine is a teacher and knows ASL, so it’s kind of a perfect fit.” Why I feel the need to overexplain my decision to hire Nadine, I don’t know. Or use the words perfect fit.
Coach leans his elbows on his desk, fingers steepled by his chin, his dark brown skin showing almost no sign of his near sixty years.
Decades ago, he became one of the youngest head coaches in history when he signed on with Nashville.
Since then, he has become known for remaking teams, which is why he was hired for the Founders a season before they signed Erik and me.
Coach Roberts is responsible for my career.
But I have yet to repay him.
“I don’t want to continue to rehash last season,” he eventually says, and I wipe off my slick palms on my shorts. “We’ve already had conversations about it, and we can’t live in the past.”
Conversations is a funny way to say he screamed at me, but…
“I’m glad you’re here today. I’m glad you showed up, but I’m gonna need you to continue to show up.”
“I understand.”
His brows tick up in silent question. Do you? “You haven’t spoken to Pearce yet.”
The team’s counselor. It wasn’t a question, but I answer anyway. “No.”
“You need to.”
I start to argue, tell Coach I’m fine, but he stops me.
“I’m not asking. You’ve been through a lot these last few years, and I’m not putting you on the field without being 110% sure that you are ready.”
I swallow down the sick feeling in my throat. He doesn’t think I’m ready.
“I can’t imagine what you’re going through.” His tone is the one he uses when we get in our heads after a mistake—missing a block or dropping the pass. I didn’t do that.
What I did is much worse.
I let everything outside of the field become bigger than what I did on the field.
“I imagine losing both of your parents is hell, and I’m willing to give you all the time you need to sort your head out. But I’m telling you now, if your heart isn’t in the right place, none of this—” he sweeps his hand around his office, encompassing all of his success “—is worth it.”
I clamp my jaw shut, unable to lift my gaze up from where the organ he’s so worried about is splayed out between my Nikes, beat-up and barely working.
“You are one of the most talented athletes I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing,” he goes on. “But I need you to remember why you love this game. I need you to find the fun in it again. Not what fun you can have because of it, but why you wanted to play in the first place.”
I clamp my teeth over my bottom lip and nod.
“Camden.”
My attention immediately shoots up because he rarely refers to us by our first names. His dark eyes hold mine, and his chin dips, as if he can imbue his words with extra meaning. “You’re not in this alone.”
I clear my throat of the sudden dust there, but my voice still sounds like it’s been through a wood chipper. “Thanks, Coach.”