Eleven months later
I’m replacing a broken fence post high on the hill along the southern property line of the Grape Ranch, a winery known for its peppery pinots just off the Oregon coast, where I’ve been interning all summer. My old boss from the wine bar hooked me up since he’s good friends with the winery’s owner, Hector. Lucky me, because after my fiasco last fall, I was forced to pick myself up by the big-boy curlies and put together a plan F.
F is for fucked.
Let’s face it, though, I was never going to play football forever, and that degree in liberal arts wasn’t going to cut it in the real world. So I switched majors—business with a minor in viticulture. I figured it made sense given all the winery jobs around here. And if that dries up, I’ll have a business degree.
Look at me adulting.
Only now I’ve got a serious problem: six classes for the fall semester. All starting next week.
I figured I would have more time to study since I anticipated being benched for the season. Life doesn’t give passes to arrogant fuckers unless they deliver. Give ’em a championship trophy, the world will forgive just about anything. But act like a cocky asshole and then fuck it all up? You’re dead to them. Which is precisely why I loaded up on classes.
Unfortunately, switching majors means I’ve got two and a half years of classes to take when I’m already a senior, and my full scholarship runs out after this school year. That leaves me another year and a half of college to pay for on my own. I plan to apply for financial aid, but that won’t give me money to help Flip. For that, I’ll need a full-time job. And then some.
I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make things happen, but then two days ago, life took another turn when Coach pulled me aside after practice.
“Everybody’s behind you, Dean,” he said.
When I asked what he meant, he told me everyone knows how hard it’s been dealing with my brother. “But let’s face facts,” he added, “the scouts want to see your head in the game no matter what’s going on in your personal life. Don’t fuck up again.”
So, basically, the football world believes last year’s fuckup, the one that cost us big, was because of family issues. I get another chance, but that’s it. Just one.
I remove my baseball cap and run a hand through my sweaty hair before getting back to my fence. I clip the last wire and inspect my work. A damned good repair job.
I really enjoy this kind of stuff, too. No noise. No cameras. Nothing complicated to remember. It’s just me, the fresh air, and lots of grapevines that don’t say much. It’s peaceful out here, for sure.
I step back and stare out at the long stretch of deep blue ocean off in the distance and watch the fog roll in. Soon the sky will go dark, and the air will turn drizzly and cold. Reminds me of how fucked I am.
Here’s the thing: If I play well this season and pick up a pro contract, I’ll have enough money to really help Flip. I would be able to afford a real therapist and private rehab for him instead of the shit, underfunded state facility he’s at that only makes him worse. They’ve introduced him to people who keep telling him he’s a victim of society and not to feel bad for being an addict, instead of giving him tough love. Bottom line, the past isn’t an excuse to keep using, robbing, and being a general fuckup. He has a future, just like everyone else, and it’s what a person makes of it that defines them.
I chuckle bitterly at myself and slide off my work gloves. Listen to me. There I go with my fucking PSAs. I’m preaching BS, like a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing, when I should be working on my game plan.
How am I going to play this season like I mean it, which requires me to practice five times harder than anyone else, while carrying six classes? Then there’s this paid internship here at the winery. It’s part of the viticulture program. A big part.
I could drop all my classes and take some basket-weaving shit—see where things go this season—but if football doesn’t pan out (and there’s a good chance it won’t), I’ll be exactly where I started: with a pile of classes to take, short on funds to graduate, and having to borrow even more money, all the while Flip rots away in that place.
Worse yet, they’ll eventually let him out when he doesn’t have his shit together, so he’ll just end up robbing some poor person again. Of course, he’ll get caught. He always does. And next time, he might land in prison, not rehab.
Point is, the clock is ticking on any possibility of a future for him if I don’t get him some real help. I have to take this shot at football and not fuck up this time. But I also can’t afford to ease up on classes and add even more time to my graduation.
Hector, the owner of the Grape Ranch, already told me he can hook me up with a job after I graduate. He hinted at fifty grand a year to start, plus benefits. It’s a job I’ll need if I’m not drafted to the NFL.
Part of me prays I’m not. The pressure is insane. The other part of me wants to prove myself to the world.
I stand silent, watching the fog roll in and obscure the low-lying hills below. Row after row of lush green grapevines disappear under a blanket of pure white. For one brief moment, the horizon line above the fog turns into an amazing display of sherbet oranges and fiery reds as the sun sets.
Incredible.
I really love working here at the vineyard—being outdoors, using my hands, feeling part of something that doesn’t require an audience. I don’t know if I want to play ball anymore, but I have to try to go pro. For Flip and me. Millions of dollars is life-changing money.
That’s right, Dean, only an idiot would turn away from a second chance at a dream life.
“Dean, what do you mean you’re dropping classes to play this season?” says Nina, my neighbor who lives downstairs in our fifty-apartment complex. I’ve known her for about a year, ever since I moved into my three-bedroom place with a couple of teammates, Mike and Igor. Both play defense. Igor doesn’t speak much English—he’s a student from Ukraine—and Mike comes from the Rust Belt. He hates Oregon with a passion, but he got a full ride like me.
I plop down on Nina’s blue plaid couch, and she hands me a cold beer from her fridge.
“Thanks.” I ignore her comment about school, pick up the remote on her coffee table, and switch the channel from that nasty Lifetime to ESPN.
“Dean, I’m talking to you.” She snatches away the remote and turns off the TV.
“Hey. I wanted to watch that.”
She rolls her eyes and sits next to me. “You always do this when you’re stressed out.”
Huh? We barely know each other, even though we hooked up after I first moved in. Mike and Igor were having a party, and she showed up. It happened. The next day we both decided it was a mistake. Better off as friends. Also, she’d just gotten in a fight with her manwhore boyfriend, and while they’d technically been broken up, she wasn’t over him. They got back together the next week. Then they broke up again. ’Cause he was fucking his way through her friend list.
Like I said, manwhore.
Now Nina and I hang out every once in a while. She’s dragged me to a couple of family functions as her date to keep her parents from ragging on her about being single. In exchange, I get a friend who’s completely removed from the whole football thing. A plus when you’re questioning the sanity of the people around you who eat, sleep, and breathe football. She gets how hard it is since she’s on the university’s track team, and her circle of friends is like a cult, too.
“Dean, what’s going on?” She folds her arms across her chest. She’s kind of flat. Mostly because she’s a runner. No body fat. Add in her short brown hair and you’ve got the complete tomboy look. I’m cool with it, though I do prefer women with more curves.
Also, too often, Nina and I dress alike. I’m all about jeans—like today—and sweatshirts. Hoodies are great too since it’s always drizzling around here.
“What?” I ask.
“You only come down to my apartment when you’ve got shit to unload. So unload.”
“Not this time. I just want to watch TV on a real screen, and Mike’s hogging ours.” He’s on some war movie kick. Says it helps him get ready for the season. Killing. Battle. Really?
I reach for the remote, and she slaps my hand away.
“Hey,” I protest.
“Dean, I’ve known you for a minute, so I’m going to give you a piece of advice: You worry too much.”
I frown. “That’s not advice. And no I don’t.”
“Bullshit.” She laughs. “I’ve never met a guy who’s so wound up, he literally reminds me of a catapult. And I’m talking those medieval ones they used to launch flaming balls of exploding tar at castles.”
I’m not getting the analogy. “I’m intense. Not wound up. There’s a difference.” I turn toward her on the couch. “And even if I were wound up, what’s your point?”
“You need to start getting real about your life—make a plan that’s focused and practical. Right now, you’re just pushing yourself as hard as you can on every front. That’s not a plan. That’s just a path to a mental breakdown and imminent failure. You need to be strategic.”
Stupid advice. She doesn’t understand where I come from or the burden on my shoulders. My life is about plans. And backup plans. And backups to my backup plans.
“I’ll get right on that,” I say, “just as soon as I figure out how not to fuck up the season and throw my plan B,” really my plan F, “into a shit pile, in case I fuck up the season.” Which I probably will if I don’t figure out how I screwed up in the first place.
Nina shakes her finger at my face. “See. That’s what I’m talking about. You’re trying to control everything. Plan for everything. Work for everything. Make it happen,” she says, mocking my voice. “But it’s not sustainable, Dean.”
“Oh no?” Now I fold my arms across my chest. “Then do tell, Missy Perfect.”
She narrows her eyes. “Dean, I’m being serious.”
“Me too.”
She takes my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You have to let go of this delusion you can spin every single plate on your table. At some point you’ll drop them all and end up with nothing because you’re such a perfectionist—you’ll kill yourself trying to ‘make it happen.’”
Make it happen is my mantra, and why not? When I face impossible obstacles, like coming up with ten thousand dollars on the fly to pay for a good lawyer for Flip after he stole a car and crashed it, I made it happen. I worked overtime, moved furniture on the weekends, and I even gave private sessions at the gym. All while I took a full load of classes. Of course, it had been during the off-season, but I managed to come up with the money. Kept Flip out of jail. It was just a Band-Aid, of course, which is why I need to make this new plan happen.
“I don’t see anything wrong with wanting to be the best at what I do,” I say. “But let’s keep it real; I’m no perfectionist. Did you see that game last fall?”
“I can’t believe you’re still spinning over that. One bad game. One. Poor you.” She chuckles condescendingly. “But of course I saw it. I’ve also listened to you cry at least three times.” She mocks my deep voice, “It’s over for me, Nina. Over…”
That’s not fair. In my defense, it was only one time, and I’d had four beers. Also, I teared up, not cried. Mostly because I still don’t understand where it all went wrong. I had my plan. I executed the plan: Practice. Practice. Practice. A dash of homework and studying. More practice. Gym.
“I hear you, Nina. And I appreciate you trying to have my back,” I lower my voice and teasingly add, “because it really makes my dick hard. But I thought we both agreed we weren’t going to be fuck buddies.”
She stares, shooting daggers with her angry, twitching brown eyes. “You think you’re so funny.”
“No. My dick is really hard right now. Wanna see?” I reach for my pants.
“Stop it. I know what your dick looks like, and if it were hard right now, it would be pretty damned visible.”
She means it’s big. “Thank you.”
“And,” she adds, “I’d be pouring my ice-cold beer on it.”
I stick out my lower lip. “Sure you don’t want to see it anyway? Maybe pop it in your mouth?”
“You’re a pig.”
Sometimes. But right now, I just want Nina to drop the anti-pep talk. If I wanted to have a deep conversation about my work ethic, fucked head, or life plan, I’d be talking to Coach. Or Igor. Fine, I do talk to Nina once in a while, too, but right now, I just need to chill. Watch the game. Drink a beer.
“I’m sorry, but your comment has offended me,” I say jokingly. “I’m going to have to rescind my offer. No dick viewing for you. But how about this awesome fucking game on TV?” I snatch the remote from her hand.
“Dean!”
“What?”
“You can’t keep burying your head in the sand. Your tactics are going to catch up to you. I know firsthand. I had to walk away from my dreams of going to the Olympics because I wouldn’t stop pushing myself to be perfect—perfect student, daughter, sister, friend, and athlete. After a while, I stopped sleeping, eating, enjoying life, because I was killing myself to be everything to everyone instead of focusing on me—my future, my dreams, and my goal.”
I sigh. My dick jokes didn’t work. She’s not going to let this go.
I stand to leave. “Thanks for the beer.”
“Where are you going?” She stands, too.
“Look, Nina, I know you care, but what do you want me to say?” I finally lose my patience. “I was living my dream. I was happy. I had everything figured out. And look what happened.” I blew it.
“Because you told yourself everything had to be so perfect that you crumbled under the pressure. You felt trapped.”
“How the fuck do you know what I felt?”
“Because when you talk, I listen.”
Oh. “Well, thank you for that.”
She reaches for my hand again. “I care about you, Dean. More than you know.”
I suddenly realize she’s looking at me a certain way. The way a woman looks at you when she has feelings. Relationship-type feelings.
I thought we agreed to just be friends.
I pull my hand away. A girlfriend is not a plate I can spin right now. “Nina, I really don’t want to go there—”
“I can tell you’re about to say something stupid, so just don’t.” She walks over to her front door and opens it. “I haven’t asked you for anything because I don’t expect anything. But right now, I need you to go.”
“Thanks. You’ve been a good friend.” A hot friend, too. Maybe that’s part of the reason I like talking to her. She’s nice to look at. Sort of a bonus. “And you can look at my dick anytime. I mean it.”
She shakes her head. “Jackass.”
I kiss her on the cheek and leave.