Jamar leaned back in his office chair and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. The pounding in his head had lessened to a dull ache, but he could feel it ratcheting up again. If he had to listen to his agent bitch for another second, he was going to hurl the computer through the window.
“Micah, you don’t understand.”
“Damn right I don’t understand. Do you know how many strings I had to pull to make this workout happen? A lot of fucking strings, Jamar!”
“And I appreciate it, but—”
“I don’t want your appreciation. I want your ass at that training facility so you can show these scouts you’re ready to play. For weeks you’ve been talking about all the work you’re putting in, how you’ve been training for hours and hours every day. Was that all bullshit?”
“No!” Jamar sat up in his chair and glared at the screen. “I’ve been busting my ass in that gym. I’ve worked harder for this than I’ve ever worked in my life.”
“So why the hell do you want me to call this workout off just days before it’s supposed to happen? I have reps from a half-dozen teams—teams I had to convince to come here because no one believes you’re ready to play ball. I promised them that this wasn’t going to be a waste of their time. I put my reputation on the line for this, Jamar. Not just my reputation, but Hill Sports Management’s.”
As he listened to Micah rant, Jamar fiddled with the face mask on the mini Longhorns football helmet he kept on his desk, anything to avoid looking at the computer screen and the disappointment he knew he’d find staring back at him.
“I know you have a lot riding on this too,” Jamar said, swallowing past the thick layer of guilt coating his throat.
“Yeah, I do. Which is why I deserve an explanation,” Micah said. “What’s behind this change of heart? How’d you go from being willing to put everything you had into returning to the League to all of a sudden backing out? I thought this is what you wanted?”
“I did,” Jamar said. “You know I want this.” He paused before spilling the truth. “I just don’t think my knee will be able to hold up.”
“You said it was strong—”
“I know what I said. I thought it was, but I’m not so sure anymore.”
“I expected more from you,” Micah said. “You’ve always been straight with me, Jamar. When you say you’re going to do something, you do it. Have you thought about how this will look once the rest of the football world finds out about it? They’re going to think you chickened out.”
Jamar sat up. “How would it get out? I told you to have the teams sign an NDA.”
“A nondisclosure doesn’t mean shit in the age of Twitter. Do you think this story won’t leak like a fucking sieve if I have to go back and tell these scouts ‘Oh, never mind, he’s decided he’s not up to playing after all.’ Give me a fucking break, Jamar! You know how this business works!”
He did know, which was why he went to such lengths to keep his plans a secret. This is exactly what he’d feared would happen.
He’d been denigrated by nearly every blogger and podcaster in the sports world. The message boards were filled with faceless assholes who thought they had the right to criticize him. They went on and on about his downfall from being the most exciting rookie in years to a has-been in the span of a few games. He’d endured their ridicule and had vowed not to be fodder for any more of their stories.
“This is why I didn’t want it to get out,” Jamar said in a strangled whisper. “I knew the backlash would be brutal if I failed.”
“Jamar, have you thought this through?” Micah asked. “Why don’t you take a day or so to reassess. The workout isn’t until Friday.”
“Taking a day or so won’t make that twinge in my knee go away,” he pointed out.
“Has a doctor seen your knee?”
“It’s my knee. I don’t need a doctor to tell me that something isn’t right. I can feel it,” Jamar said. “Even if I did manage to get through the workout, I honestly don’t think it would hold up past training camp.”
“Will it hold up past the workout?” Micah asked.
Jamar cut him an incredulous look. “What does that matter?”
“Hear me out,” Micah said. He placed his elbows on his desk and tapped his fingers against his lips. “It won’t be easy, but there’s a way that you can still save face, even if you never play another down of professional football again.”
Jamar hated to admit just how high up saving face was on his priority list. There were so many more important things he should be concerned with, yet his mind chose to focus on all the naysayers who’d called him a has-been, and how humiliating it would be to admit they were right. If Micah had devised a strategy that would help Jamar avoid that, the least he could do was hear him out.
“How do you propose I do that?” Jamar asked. “You don’t think those team reps will be eyeing my knee like an eagle?”
“It doesn’t matter what the reps think. All you have to do is convince the public that you can still play. The key is to spin it in a way that makes the teams the bad guys here.”
Jamar shook his head. “I don’t know about this, Micah. There are no bad guys here, just bad luck. I got hurt. It happens. It’s taken me a long time to come to terms with it, but I now understand that no one is to blame.”
“Fine. You’re enlightened. You’ll still be dragged like a rag doll on Twitter if we cancel.”
“How do you think you’re going to stop that?” Jamar said. “You still haven’t explained how I can save face by going through with this workout.”
“We’ll open the workout to the media.”
“I told you—”
“Hear me out,” Micah repeated, holding up his hands. “I know you wanted it to be private, but that does you no good. Let the people see how far you’ve come. Give SportsCenter a few shots for their highlight reels. You make some key catches, add a little razzle-dazzle to a few runs, and you’re set. We can still hold it at the facility on UT’s campus, because that coming-full-circle shit is ratings gold.
“And then, after all is done, we’ll say that you decided not to take any of their offers because it wasn’t enough money to make it worth your while.” He dusted his hands off. “Easy.”
Jamar leaned back in his chair, physically recoiling at the blatant dishonesty in Micah’s plan.
He shook his head. “Something about this just doesn’t sit right with me.”
“Are you kidding? It’s the perfect solution.”
“Knowingly deceiving the teams? Putting them through the expense of coming here when I know I won’t be signing anything? That’s your perfect solution?”
“Are you the team accountant now? Why do you care how much they’re spending? Besides, the only in-person scouts we’ll have are from Dallas, Houston, and New Orleans. These guys don’t care about the money. They see it as a free trip to Austin.”
“I don’t like it,” Jamar said.
“Fine, we make it all virtual. I can call the teams right now and tell them to cancel their flights and tune in to the livestream. How does that sit with your damn conscience?” Micah asked. “And before you give me any more of that bullshit about how this isn’t fair to the team owners, I want to make one thing clear. None of them are going to offer you what you’re really worth. The best you could have hoped for is five million for three years. Being that you have me as your agent, I could get you another half mil or so, but with the way the League’s set up these days, even I can only do so much.
“We can make it so that it looks as if you’re walking away from them, and not the other way around. Trust me on this,” Micah pleaded. “Remember, these are the same people who gave up on you. You don’t owe them anything.”
Jamar chewed his lower lip and tried to ignore the uneasy feeling roiling in his gut.
Even if he removed his aversion to deceiving the NFL teams from the equation, did he really have enough confidence in his knee to put it through that hellish battery of endurance tests? Was it worth the risks?
The better question: Was it worth the reward?
He considered all that he would gain if he signed on to Micah’s plan. The naysayers wouldn’t have any ammunition for their attacks, not if he showed them that he’d gotten back into playing form. More importantly, it would give him the chance to showcase Taylor’s work. He would give her all the credit and make sure it was understood that without her help, he would never have gotten through any of this.
Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was wrong to hold this workout under false pretenses.
Unless . . . unless he didn’t hold it under false pretenses.
He could be up front with the teams from the outset. Or even if he waited until the end of the workout, he could immediately level with the scouts, let them know that he would not be entertaining any offers. If all it cost them was an hour of watching him perform the drills via a video stream—that wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Not if it meant holding up the end of his bargain with Taylor.
And, at the end of the day, he was still leaving the game of football on his terms. Even better, he could convince himself that he’d given all that he could to make the dream he’d taken away from Silas a reality.
He would eventually figure out what to do about Big Silas’s care. Maybe he could do as Taylor had suggested and downsize. Between the sale of the house and the couple million he had in the bank, he could take care of his family, Silas’s family, and Taylor, and still live comfortably until he figured out his next step.
He could do this. This final test, this final stand, would be enough. It had to be enough.
“Okay,” Jamar said, the word coming out in a raspy whisper.
“What was that?” Micah asked.
He spoke up. “I said okay. If it’s all virtual . . . ” He paused. “If it’s all virtual, I’ll go through with the workout. Hell, try to get even more teams to tune in if you can.”
“Excuse me?”
Jamar jerked around at the sound of Taylor’s voice. His eyes never leaving hers, he said, “Um, Micah, I’ll check in with you later.” He clicked the computer mouse, ending the FaceTime call.
“So you’re not canceling the workout? Even though, by your own admission, you could barely dance on Saturday night?”
“Don’t jump to conclusions, Taylor. It’s not what you think.”
“Really? So what is it? Based on what I just heard, not only are you planning to go through with this, but you want even more teams there.”
“It is just the workout,” Jamar said. “I’m not playing football again, even if I’m offered a contract.” He explained his plan to her, underscoring how it would provide him with the opportunity to end his football career on his own terms.
“This will benefit you too,” Jamar pointed out. “It’ll be streamed live. The entire sports world will see the job you’ve done training me.”
“Do you really think I care more about my business than about you permanently injuring yourself?”
“But this is what you wanted. This was our original deal.”
“I don’t care about our original deal! What I can’t figure out is why you don’t care about yourself?”
“It’s one workout, Taylor! An hour of me going through a few drills, and I’m done.”
She paced back and forth, from the edge of his desk to the trophy display case. “All it takes is a bad landing when you perform the vertical jump, and just like that”—she snapped her fingers—“your kneecap is dust. It’s gone, Jamar. And for what? For me?”
She stopped her pacing and stood before him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Or is it to show some stupid bloggers that you’re not the washed-up athlete they say you are? To prove to yourself that you can still play? Well, guess what, you can’t. It’s time you accept it.”
Her words ripped at the thin barrier he’d built around his pride, raking over barely healed wounds. His jaw ached with the effort it took to temper his rising anger.
“I could still play if I wanted to,” Jamar said.
“My God.” She sighed up at the ceiling. “You can’t,” she said. “I don’t care what you’ve told yourself, nothing is worth this kind of risk.”
“How the fuck do you know what’s worth it to me!” Jamar snapped.
She jumped back, her eyes wide, her mouth falling open.
Jamar ran both hands down his face. Shame over his outburst gnawed at his conscience, but she didn’t understand. She could never understand.
His shoulders slumped with the weight of despair that washed over him. “You just don’t get it,” Jamar said. “This is bigger than me.”
Her furrowed brow flattened into a thin line as awareness slowly traveled across her face.
“This isn’t about you proving anything,” she said, awe lilting her voice. “This is guilt. You still think you owe this to someone who’s been dead for eight years.”
“Don’t,” Jamar warned. “You know nothing about this, so don’t act as if you do.”
Anger and hurt flared in her eyes. Her body shook with it.
But then a calm seemed to take over her, and Jamar found that more alarming than her rage.
“You know what?” she said, her voice sharp as cut glass. “You do what the hell you want. But don’t expect me to stick around and watch.”
With that, she turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.
Jamar told himself to go after her. If he let her leave this house without talking this through, it would be the biggest mistake he could ever make.
But the concoction of fury, anguish, and fear flowing in his veins wouldn’t allow him to take a single step.
She was wrong. This wasn’t about guilt. It was about him doing what he had to do in order to be able to look himself in the mirror.
He would fix this with Taylor. He would figure out a way to make her see that he was doing this, in part, for her. Because he cared about her. For now, he just had to get through the damn workout.