Reed
Six weeks.
That’s what we said was the magic number.
I marked it off on the calendar a week ago, and I know Nolan’s keeping better track than I am. That six-week date came and went, and for whatever reason, I’m too chicken to ask her if she’s ready to tell everyone. Maybe I’m not ready to tell everyone.
I don’t know what I am.
“You ready?” Jason asks. I hold up two fingers while I walk back into my bedroom to find my phone. I left it charging because I’m obsessed with hearing from Nolan lately. I need to know she’s okay. I worry about her and the baby constantly. It’s literally wrapped up every synapsis in my brain.
It’s the last game of the year. It’s Baltimore, and they’re vicious. Neither of us has anything to play for or anything to lose. Our playoff hopes are gone, but barely. We were in it until the very end. Well, almost the very end. Last week the wrong teams won, making our six-game streak meaningless for the team. It means a lot for me, though.
The interviews have all been the same.
“Where are you finding this renewed energy?”
“How do you think you’ve been able to step into a role you’ve been away from for two years?”
“Why do you think the players respond to you?”
My answers are so memorized, I’m not sure they’re real anymore.
“I’ve always had the energy, but just not the opportunity. It’s what I’ve worked hard my whole life to be able to do—to lead a team. I’m honored to lead this one.”
And… "I just love the game. I think I’ve been lucky enough to find other players who love the game, too. We’ve been able to bond quickly here in OKC. There’s a real passion for what we do out on that field, and I think it’s less about me leading and more about what we do together as a unit, you know?”
I guess that last part is true. I’ve grown close to Waken. He’s going to be a Hall of Famer one day. He’s the Jerry Rice of now. I can see it in how fast he grows, how quickly he learns. He’s a different player by the end of every game. It’s a beautiful thing for a quarterback to find hands like his. He’s football purity—through and through.
I flop on my bed and reach over to the night table, my room still sparse of anything but the basics. I flip over my phone and wish for there to be a message from her. When there isn’t one, I send her a quick note.
Feeling ok?
She hates the doting. I don’t just sense it; she told me last night that she hates the doting. It makes her think about how she should be nervous, which only makes her nervous. But if I don’t ask, it builds up in my head to the very worst.
When she doesn’t write back right away, I shout out to Jason.
“Got it, be right there,” I say, pausing for a few more seconds, considering calling her.
I give up after a few more seconds and follow my brother out the door.
“Chicago wants to talk,” he says.
I bite my lip, mentally adding that to the sick game of Jenga indecision happening in my gut.
“That’s good, right?” Jason leans into me a little at the elevator bay.
“Oh, yeah…no…it is. I was just thinking about all of it. Hey…you hear from Noles today?” I’m not even hiding my preoccupation.
Jason rubs his palm over his face and sighs.
“I’ll ask Sar. I’m sure she’s fine. Dude, you need to tell me what you wanna do. How do you want to handle this? Because I’ve got interest, Reed. I’ve got a lot of interest. It won’t be here, unfortunately. And Arizona’s tied up. But you’ve got a two, maybe a three-year deal in the blueprint if you want it. A good deal, too. Like…ca-ching!”
Jason rubs his thumb to his fingers and I smirk.
“What if I’m a fluke?” I shift my eyes over to him in the elevator.
“Fuck that. You’re a Johnson.” He lets out a laugh and goes back to looking at something on his phone. He’s not just filling my head; that’s what Jason truly believes. I think half of me believes that, too. The other half is thinking about having another baby, and missing more of the other half of my life.
Jason’s smiling with tight lips, so I lean to my side to get a glimpse of his phone. I see Sarah’s name, but that’s all I get before he jerks his phone away and tells me to get the fuck out of his business. I hold up my palms and laugh. He’s smitten, and it’s so cool to see it from this perspective.
I was smitten once too. Now I’m just terrified.
What if I’m messing all of this up?
I flip my phone in my palm all the way to the stadium. Jason set up a service to clear out my condo for me after the game, and I’m showering and heading right to the airport to go home—my real home. The home I’m dying to hear from.
Jason drops me at the back entrance for the players and drives on to the executive lot. He said he has to take a few calls but I think maybe he’s just taking one—and I think it will probably be a FaceTime with Sarah.
The underbelly of the stadium is cold and empty. Almost everyone’s already arrived and either getting work or being taped together so they can get in one last game, a final performance for the next year’s paycheck. This part of the season is always hard. You’re always playing for something. And if you’re not playing for a title or a spot, then you’re playing for yourself. Team goes to shit on nights like this, and this is when that leadership job becomes real damn essential. I better get my head in the right place.
I notice Coach Simms sitting in the boardroom on my way to the locker room, so I pause. He’s in the dark, only lit by the fluorescents of the hallway.
“This a new interrogation tactic you’re testing out? I gotta tell you, I think the dark is just gonna put them to sleep,” I say, taking a chair next to him and rolling it out so I can extend my legs. I’m due for the trainer soon, my turn to get taped back together.
“Ha, you’re funny, Johnson,” he says, tilting his head back with a hard laugh and turning his chair a little to face me more. He leaves his gaze up at the ceiling and stretches his hands behind his head, interlocking them.
“I was just thinking about how it’s been a good run.”
I let his words sit with me for a few beats. I know the deal he was given. They want him back here in OKC, and it’s a pretty penny—two years, twelve mil. That’s almost New England money.
“Good run, huh?” I bait him.
He swivels a little in the chair, then levels me with his eyes.
“Yep, I’m done. Money’s nice and all, and the job is the best there is, but I’m tired Reed. I’ve got things to do, other things to get to, ya know?”
I smirk and nod slowly.
“I know a thing or two about that,” I say.
Our eyes rest on each other for a long pause, and eventually his hands let go of their grip on one another and he leans forward to rest an elbow on the shiny, glass table. My contract was signed in this room. I remember how uneasy I felt in my own skin. I feel at home right now, and I wonder if that’s because there’s nothing at risk. There’s nothing to lose here now.
“I hear Chicago’s interested. Baylor’s a good coach. You’d work well together,” he says, clearing his voice with a hard cough.
I nod.
“That’s what my agent says.”
He chuckles.
“Ain’t that your brother?”
I laugh a little in response.
“Yeah, it is.” Coach’s laugh breaks for just a breath then starts in again, and I join him.
“He’s actually good at the job” I sigh, the itch of laughter leaving my chest. Silence settles into the room, and I get the sense that Coach Simms is content just letting it be there. He’s at peace with it all, even the outcome of today.
“You wanna win?” I ask, lifting a brow.
He mimics me.
“Reed, son. I always wanna win. Even when I don’t really give two shits.”
I lift my chin and smile to the ceiling.
“Ahh, yeah. I think maybe I like how you roll,” I respond.
“It’s gotten me through a lot of tough decisions,” he says.
“What has?” I ask.
“My gut. Gut instincts, really. My gut’s just fat as hell, ha!” I glance at the bulging belly for a second and smile.
“Your gut, huh?”
“Yep.” His answer is concise.
I flit my eyes up to his, and he leans back, this time folding his hands together on his belly before crossing one leg over his knee.
“When you need to make the choice, Reed. You’ll know. It will hit you like a fucking Mack truck. I promise.” He holds my gaze at that, and I take it all in. He must sense my struggle. I must be wearing it more than I thought I was.
I reach to the center of the table and snag a piece of chocolate from the bowl that’s always full. They’re probably old as shit, but I want one. I stand and hold it up to him between my finger and thumb.
“Gut says I want this,” I say.
He lifts one side of his mouth.
“Well then, best give it what it wants.”
He winks at me and leans back a little more, diving back into his blissful bubble.
I knock on the door as I leave and walk slowly down the hall, picking at the tinfoil wrap around the chocolate. I pop it in my mouth and am instantly disappointed. So much for my goddamned gut. I spit it out in the trash by the locker-room door.
My phone doesn’t leave my palm the entire time I’m with the trainer, propped on my thigh while they work my shoulder with deep massage, and then right back in my hand when my ankles get taped. I’m sure everything’s fine, but I just wish she would tell me something.
Eventually, I have to give in and put my phone away to head out to the field. The unsettled feeling grows with the clock’s countdown. By the time I’m lined up for the anthem, my feet can’t stay still. I’m like a kid who has to pee at a wedding. I’m on edge.
The feeling sticks with me out on the field, and I start with a dismal three and out. Six wins in a row will buy me a little forgiveness, but this crowd will start to boo if I go out there and do that shit again. I wish there was some way I could just know. I need to know she’s okay, that my family is okay. I start to pace the sidelines, stopping when others start to notice, but starting again the second they look away.
I bet the color commentary guys are loving this. Shit…I bet Dad’s seeing this. I take a seat and stuff my hands into the pockets of my jacket. I’ve never felt the cold before, but for some reason, tonight it freezes me to the bone.
“Come on, Reed. Out of your head.” Jenkins slaps the top of my helmet as he walks by, my cue to follow him. I try to shake off the strange sensation eating at me and join him to watch tape of my pathetic first set of downs.
“You’re sinking into the pocket. Look…there.” He pauses the video on the iPad and zooms in, pointing out shit I already know.
“Yeah, yeah,” I say, which irritates him and he steps more directly in front of me, between my body and the field.
“Yeah,” he says again, firmer this time.
My eyes lift enough to see how serious his are and I crack my neck to one side and blink as I lower my gaze.
“Sorry, I’ve got some personal things. You’re right. Off the field. I’m focused.” I almost believe my promise to him.
“Good, now the pocket…you have too much faith in our offensive line. I don’t want to get you killed. So how about we start pivoting out, moving those legs a little,” he says, face tilted and brow raised.
“Got it. Lemme watch again.”
I didn’t really watch the first time. This round, I focus, and I see just how slow I am. It’s like I’m carrying elephants around the field, and I hold onto them all the way to my knees until I’m under the two-hundred-forty pounds of flesh that wrapped me up twice in a row last time out.
Our defense recovers a fumble and I get my redemption, this time heading out with nothing but my dad in my thoughts. He never misses a game. He’s watching, and if this is it—if this is the last time I decide to take the field—then it’s going to be damn near perfect from here out.
My time in the pocket only gets shorter. Jenkins was right. After a thrown-away pass for the first down, I roll out for the second and spot Waken about twenty yards out, a foot away from his defender. My window is shrinking; number sixty-six is coming at me with wide-open, angry arms. The next half-second feels like it takes thirty. My eyes look for any other option but going down. All I need is to buy Waken a few…more…steps…
My body going down, he turns just enough that I get a view, and I throw the ball like a third baseman from my knees, whipping it with my elbow as hard as I can and somehow cutting through two defenders reaching in to intercept it. I don’t know if it got caught at all. I know my arm hurts like hell, and I know that sixty-six is heavy as fuck. He pushes my shoulder into the turf hard as he stands, offering his palm to help me up as if that makes it okay. I take it, because I need it; I jump to my feet just in time to see Waken breaking the last ten yards free and into the End Zone.
My body feels an instant injection of victory, however brief, and nothing hurts anymore. Nothing feels impossible, and my problems stay over there, to the side, for the next forty minutes.
There’s no reason for my eyes to focus on the man in the suit. Well-dressed business types float around the space behind the sidelines all the time. The list of VIPs who bought the right to walk almost wherever the hell they want is long. But this guy—he looks different. He’s here for a reason. He’s looking for someone.
I start to stand before I see the Chaplain walk toward the man. My chest empties, and my heart stops. My stomach drops to my feet, and I’m frozen where I stand, somewhere between ready to go in, and ready to collapse.
Coach Jenkins gets waved over; my feet start to dig more into the ground. Suddenly staying right here, in ignorance, feels like the best option. It’s not a practical one, though, and their faces all turn to me in slow motion.
It feels like I’ve been shot—the pinpoint sharpness hitting my chest, knocking the wind from me again. My knees buckle and I lose my balance for a moment, catching myself with a flat palm on the metal bench.
They’re eyes are full of warning and all of that junk that comes along with not wanting to give someone bad news. Jenkins starts to jog toward me. I shake my head in response, as if I can somehow request that we just don’t do this.
“Just tell me.” I must look rabid, because my quarterback coach has gone ghost white; he’s looking over his shoulder for backup.
“You need to talk with Greg real quick…” He’s bad at this. He doesn’t even know how to deliver bad news on his own.
“Jenk, just tell me. Is Nolan all right?”
“What? Nolan? No…oh, no Reed. She’s fine, she’s totally fine. I mean, as far as I know. This is about Jason—” He shakes his head, wanting to take it back the instant my brother’s name falls from his lips.
My head turns a thousand directions. There are seconds left in the half…there’s a whole other half. I can’t though; I can’t. Why would they talk to me now if it weren’t terrible? They always wait for the end of the game for news like this. The team always wants their commodity sharp—why would they make me dull?
“Reed, let’s head in…let me get you inside…” Jenkins urges me to follow along behind him, and my head plays the running commentary.
Johnson’s leaving the field. I wonder if time’s finally catching up to him. That arm only has so many throws left in it. And some of those hits he’s taken today—a man who’s been through what he’s been through can only be sacked so many times before he breaks. I wonder if that’s what we’re seeing here?
I guess we’ll know if we see him at the second half or if they go with third-stringer Jackson Barrett. Good enough time as any to break in the youth.
I make it three steps into the locker room before I insist I get all of the details.
“What the hell’s going on? Does Coach know you pulled me?”
Jenkins’s hands are on my biceps, almost like he’s holding me back from a fight. His eyes are searching mine, trying to lock on.
“Gary’s telling him now. Reed, listen. I need you to listen.”
I can hear my own breath flaring my nostrils, coming out in angry, panicked streams. My cheeks puff out a few times and I feel dizzy. I turn to the bench near us and move to sit, holding my knees with a tight grip and staring at the giant O pattern on the carpet.
“Reed, Jason suffered a major heart attack. Someone found him beside his car in the parking lot...” More words leave his mouth. I don’t hear them. I’m instantly sixteen, waking up in the back of Nolan’s car with my world rocked.
Reed, seventeen years old
My head is pounding. My mouth is dry. I think maybe at some point I threw up, though I don’t remember doing that. I remember Nolan.
Shit. Nolan!
I crack a lid and slide my hand along the velvety cushion that feels only faintly familiar. There’s a beam of sun filtering in through something in front of me. I let my hand explore while I try to force my left eye to open completely. Shapes start to make sense, a car seat head rest—the sunlight glinting off the chrome in-between. Damn, that’s bright!
“Ugh,” I growl into what I have figured out to be a backseat. I pull both of my arms into my body, pressing my palms flat under my face and pushing up until I can sit. That small movement feels like death.
I drank last night. I drank a lot. And Nolan…shit…this is her car.
She came.
Did I call her? I think I called her.
I was so jealous last night…angry. I still am. That’s the only feeling I’m sure of right now. I hate the thought of Nolan being into anyone else. I hate this Tyler guy she’s dating. He’s not right for her, which…gah! Like I am. Look at me. I woke up in the back of her car, and I’m hungover.
Why would she deal with me like this? I must have said something awful to get her to come to the party. I bet I was an ass.
I push my fists into my temples and smack my lips, both wanting and never wanting water. I raise myself enough to catch my wild hair in the reflection of the rearview mirror. My eyes refocus on the hospital outside the window. I blink a few times, willing my memory to replay anything that might give me a clue.
EMERGENCY ROOM
I swallow, splices flashing in my mind. I remember the stairs. I remember Nolan being there. I…I told her I loved her. And then my dad.
“Dad!” I feel a jolt to my heart, my limbs suddenly getting enough life to pull myself from the car—Nolan’s car. I find a sweatshirt on the floor before I shut the door, so I slip it over my head and attempt to hide the wrinkled clothes underneath while I untangle my hair with my fingers.
Nolan drove me here. She took care of my dad. I’m at the hospital…where he is.
I shuffle my feet forward and through the sliding doors at the front entrance and look for my next clue—something familiar. Her brown eyes are all I need, and they’re waiting for me.
She’s sitting next to her parents. I tilt my head trying to piece together how they’re all here and I’m not. She untangles her legs and jogs over to me, reaching for my hands. The way they look together is so familiar and right, and it’s so scary. She’s holding my hands with love and sympathy. I feel her nerves in her touch.
I can’t quit staring at them, but my confusion craves more—I need to know. My mouth open, a question hanging on my lips without the right words to frame it, I look up and meet her waiting eyes.
“Reed, listen to me. Your dad had a heart attack last night. They are performing surgery, but we should hear something very soon.”
She stops there, waiting for me to digest and not knowing that my insides are literally tumbling in on themselves. My dad is everything!
My eyes start to sting and that brief feeling hits my chest, telling me I should push back, keep myself from crumbling, but her hands are on mine, and she’s here—and she took care of my dad. She’s taking care of me. She brought me here. My world is in that room—under a knife.
I step into her, and she knows I need her. Her arms wrap me up and her hands hold my head tightly against her shoulder. I hide myself under the shadow of her long hair and I cry so hard I think I may frighten people coming in. I can’t stop, though. I have never hurt like this. I feel like a failure. I wasn’t there. I was fucking drunk.
She took care of me. Of him.
I love her…so, so much.
Her hand moves along my back and I try to right my breathing with her touch, but I keep slipping back into a wrecked version of myself.
“He’s going to be okay, Reed. I called nine-one-one. They came in time. He’s going to be okay,” she says.
“Reed, son. Come sit with us. We should hear something soon.” I recognize her dad’s voice, but I’m too ashamed to look at him.
Her hand finds mine as she slips from my arms, and her fingers wrap mine up as she leads me to the chairs where her parents are. She moves a few seats down to a couch that looks cold and lonely, almost a hard-plastic material that’s a blue from the seventies. This is the kind of place where people get horrible news. It’s all I can think until she pulls my body toward hers and gathers me up in her arms. I fall into her lap and let her soothe me. I need it, and she knows I do. She knows me—all of me. She knows my worst, and she’s seeing my worst fear.
My dad might die. He’s all I have.
Him, and this girl who I don’t deserve.
This girl who is taking care of me.
Present Day
“Heart problems run in the family,” I say, slipping back into the conversation. I must have missed a question or not have said the right thing because Jenkins is looking at me oddly. Chaplain Cruz is here now, and I realize he was speaking and I interrupted him.
“I’m sorry. That thought just flew into my head. I…I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do,” I ramble.
“It’s okay, Reed. Who can I call for you? Brad from the front office has a car ready. He’ll take you to Samaritan, where Jason is. It’s important that you take this one step at a time…”
One play at a time.
I close my eyes as those two thoughts intertwine. Funny how that rule runs my life.
“Right, well…he has a fiancé. I should call her, though. My dad will want to know. And Nolan. I just…I don’t know what to do.”
“Call your wife,” Chaplain Cruz interrupts. My eyes flash to his, and his are so certain that I finally get a full breath.
“Call your wife, Reed. Always call your wife,” he smiles.
I pull my lips in tight and take my bag of things that Jenkins has pulled together for me. I fish inside for my phone, my fingers fumbling it before I can get a look at my screen where I see three missed messages from Nolan.
She wrote me back. She’s okay.
A tear starts to slide down my cheek, and another one follows so fast I can’t stop them. I lean forward and cover my face, feeling the force of my emotions in one heavy rush.
“I’m sorry. I need a minute,” I say, shuddering with sobs and an overwhelmed feeling that has me grounded and unable to move. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right, Reed,” Chaplain Cruz says, sitting next to me and putting his arm around my body, holding me close to keep me present. I want to drift away, but I can’t. I have to call my wife. I have to call Jason’s fiancé. I have to find my brother. I have to pray.
I let it all out hard for about five minutes, and like a performer, I suck it in and run my arm over my eyes a few times trying to erase the evidence that I felt something so awful. I can’t completely, and when guys start to come in and get immediately directed away from me, I feel the weight of it all starting to crush me again.
My thumb dials feverishly as the chaplain escorts me to Coach’s office, and he closes the door as soon as we get inside. I pace, ignoring his request for me to sit. I walk from one corner to the other, counting the rings until Nolan picks up, her voice confused because I’m sure the game is on there. This is going to freak her out, and I can’t have that.
“Reed?”
“I’m fine. It’s okay, Noles. I’m fine.” I hammer her with those thoughts, but I’m so manic that the effect is the opposite.
“What’s wrong?” There are hints of hysteria in her tone.
“Noles, it’s Jason. He…he had a massive heart attack. I’m going there now. It’s fine…he’ll be fine. I have to tell Dad. And I need to tell Sarah, but it’s fine. He’ll be fine…”
I’m not making sense, but Nolan gets the message, and then she takes over the ship.
“Reed, Reed…listen to me…”
I breathe out hard and lean into the wall, resting my forehead on the cool plaster while I look down at my feet. I want to kick a hole through this wall.
“Yeah…” I exhale.
“I’ll tell everyone. It’s going to be fine. Call me when you get there, and I’ll keep everyone here informed. Sarah’s here, Reed. I’ll take care of it all. Just…is someone with you?”
I shudder with a cry again, but my eyes are just raw and dry.
“Yeah, Jenk is here. And the chaplain. A guy from the front office is driving me. I’m good, I’m good.”
I’m nowhere near good. She knows. As if she’s trying to force me to follow her, she takes in a long deep breath. I can’t help but do the same, and my dizziness lifts just enough to turn to look at the coaches all now standing in my office with sympathy and genuine worry etched into their frowns and sagging eyes.
“Okay, you need to call me when you get there. Every time you find out more. Every time you just need to call me. I’m plugged in, and I’m not leaving this phone. I got you, baby. I got you…”
My eyes flutter closed and I pinch at the bridge of my nose.
“Right. Okay. I’m going.”
“I love you, Reed.”
I vibrate at her words, a deep tickle at my chest.
“God, I love you, baby.”
I end the call after a few seconds because if I don’t we’ll just stand here listening to our quiet lines. She would never hang up first—not now.
“I’m ready,” I lie, meeting Coach Timms’s eyes. He nods once, and the sourness only gets deeper as I get closer. His hand grabs mine before I can get through the door. I pause my steps just long enough to squeeze him back so hard that my knuckles turn red.
One play at a time.