3. Tate
6 Months Later
My ears are still ringing from the roar of the crowd. They’ve quieted significantly—a 4th quarter loss will do that—though I can still hear yells and a few chants of the fans exiting the stadium above the visitors’ locker room.
To think, this stadium used to live in my dreams and now I’m a part of the opposition—the opposition that just crushed the playoff hopes of America’s team.
I shrug off my shoulder pads, then squeeze out of the compression shirt known as a flak jacket, meant to protect my ribs—that’s on the off chance our starting quarterback, the future Hall of Famer Jake Lawson, ever leaves the field.
Granted, I have taken a few snaps this season in games where we were up by several touchdowns in the 4th quarter. But this afternoon, the Ospreys were down two touchdowns to start the quarter. With only minutes left, Jake turned the game on its head. He led the final drive into the red zone, and we won by a field goal with the clock ticking down to zero as the ball flew through the uprights.
In my head, I’m capable of a win like that. Although I haven’t been given much of a chance. Being a rookie, I’m barely allowed on the field.
I seem to always have some sort of escort with me, making sure I’m doing the right things, playing by the rules on and off the field.
Case in point, this meeting after the game with the head of Osprey public relations. I’m a little antsy about it. Nervous. But not because I think I’m a PR problem. I’m not, nor do I plan to be. The reason I’m so in my head is all because of her.
Liana Langston is about as head-turning as they come. She’s a distraction when I see her on the sidelines. She’s the reason I made the ESPN NOT Top 10 last week when my buddy Mal and I were tossing the ball before the game. Liana stepped into my view, and I lost focus. Mal’s throw slipped right through my fingers and landed square on my nose. The ESPN analysts wove it together with that famous Brady Bunch scene. “Marcia, Marcia, Marcia.”
Not that I stand a chance with Liana Langston. She’s off limits. And she doesn’t date football players. Even if her job allowed it, I don’t think she would. Liana thinks she’s better than us, and she’s probably right.
Still, I’m nervous. It shows when I make a grab for my street clothes and the hangers—clothes and all—fall to the bottom of the locker.
Someone whistles behind me.
“Fumble on the play.” My best friend on the team, Malakai Malcom, slaps my bare shoulder. “That’s why you and me ride the bench.”
Mal’s a rookie like me. And like me, he’s been fighting his way onto the starting roster. Unlike me, he gets a decent bit of playing time when our starting safety needs a breather.
“You nervous?” Mal asks, easing down onto a bench between the lockers. He strips off his jersey and pads, revealing the muscles he sculpted in the gym over the last four years we played together at State.
In college, my starting spot wasn’t guaranteed either. I fought tooth and nail to make a name for myself, ultimately starting my junior and senior seasons, winning our conference championship, coming close in the national championship, and eking out a spot in the draft.
I yank my pinstriped shirt from the heap at the bottom of the locker and throw it over my shoulders. Slowly, I button up and say, “Not really.”
Mal sees through the lie but allows it. “I would be.”
“Why’s that?”
He shakes his head, laughing and sending beads of sweat flying in all directions. “Because Liana knows all. She’s the eyes and the ears of this organization. She’s like Santa Claus—she sees you when you’re on Tinder. Knows if you’re on Snap. She knows when you’re up to no good. So, you better not be taking pictures of your lap.”
I can’t help but laugh at Mal’s cheesy jingle.
His eyes narrow. “You aren’t, are you?”
“Aren’t what?”
“Taking pics,” he whispers under his breath.
“Of course not.” My tone is a tad defensive.
I can’t help it. I don’t want to be lumped in with the troublemakers. They’re the reason the Ospreys have such a bad name around the league this season.
Mal just nods. “Trust me, man. Liana has your best interest at heart.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she knows about your stalker. I’m betting that’s why she’s asked for this meeting.”
“Not Mal isn’t a stalker!” If the other words were a tad defensive, these came out worse.
“Damn, dude. You’re still calling her that?” Malakai winces through his perfect teeth. “You know half the team thinks this girl’s catfishing you, right?”
“And the other half?”
“The other half don’t care about your love life.”
“Then I’m flattered you do.” I punch him in his oversized delts.
Not Mal is a woman I’ve been texting with for the past few months. A misdial. Or mis-text to be more precise. I don’t know her real name. I don’t know much about her except I like talking with her.
The real Mal sighs. “You know what we’ve been through this past year. No more slip ups.”
“You mean no more dick pics,” I say.
“That too.”
He doesn’t understand. Mal had a normal upbringing. His father wasn’t his high school coach. His father let him do things, go to parties, have friends outside of football. Have girlfriends.
Mine made sure the only moves I made were on the field.
“Not Mal isn’t like that,” I say. “We don’t exchange photos. We never have.”
Mal finds a towel, then strips down. “The girl says she has no social media presence. No TikTok. No Instagram. Not even a Facebook. Who is this woman?”
“Social media isn’t her thing.” I say it like I’ve rehearsed it. Maybe I have.
I can’t explain our relationship. How one text led to two, then to the exchange of dozens over the course of the first night. It’s been a daily thing ever since. But it’s never moved past text. I’ve never heard the sound of her voice. She’s never asked for more than my first name, which is Leonard. I only go by Tate because I hated being named after the guy who played Spock.
I let out a grunt and tell Malakai, “Not everyone’s as social as you.”
He throws the towel over his shoulder. “It’s not like her account has to be public. On my private Insta, my grandma is the only one who likes my pictures. She comments on them too—usually by accident.”
Now, I’m laughing, trying to ignore the hint of truth in Mal’s words.
Who is this person I’ve been texting? Is she really a woman? Hell, I’m not even sure I’ve asked.
Maybe it’s a man pretending to be one.
Is Not Mal a catfish like everybody thinks?
The real Mal heads for the showers. Since I haven’t broken a sweat today, I tug on pants and work a knot into my tie.
Malakai turns ahead of the showers. “I’ll be honest, Tate. She asked me about it, and I told her she doesn’t have to worry about you. But she’s old school. She wants to hear it from your mouth. Still, I don’t think you’re going to like this talk. Don’t be surprised when Liana asks you to end it.”
I nod. I won’t be surprised.
But I’m not planning on ending it either. There’s no reason I should. Not Mal and I, we’re just friends. That and she doesn’t know my real name or who I really am.