Page 7

SEVEN

TRENT

“Are you here to work or here to sit around?” Coach Henson wrinkled her nose and gave a curt shake of disgust.

“Here to work, Coach,” I answered, setting down my phone and finishing the set of leg presses.

The running backs coach lingered, clearly as bored as I was in the mostly empty gym. The cleaning staff had scrubbed away the musty aroma of sweat after division championships, and other than an annoyed guy from the business suite holding a one-sided conversation on his phone as he walked on a treadmill, the room was silent. No clattering weights or grunts of effort or loud conversation.

“Enjoying your off-season?” I asked, slipping off the machine and wiping it down behind me.

She waved a hand, her blonde ponytail bouncing. “I was u ntil Jonas had to come back to train the rookies.”

Jonas Olsen was a trainer and possibly Coach Henson’s boyfriend, although both of them kept their personal life locked up tighter than Fort Knox. Hell, I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard her call him by his first name before. But, apparently, even Danielle Henson loosened up during the off-season.

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Staying out of trouble.” I shrugged. “Or at least trying.”

“I don’t even know how you’d get in trouble this time of the year. There’s no one here to catch you doing anything.” She frowned at the empty room, glaring at the business executive before returning her focus to me. She raised an eyebrow. “Did Coach Baker make you stay?”

Unlike Coach Henson, a young coach with her entire career ahead of her, my receivers coach was a grizzled old man close to retirement. He’d ignored the lure of a head coach job in college ball and just wanted to ride out the last couple of years of his career in relative comfort. And despite the trouble I got into off the field, I didn’t cause him any troubles on the field.

I shook my head. “He took off for his summer home the minute we lost playoffs. Haven’t heard from him since.”

“I’m sure Simmons loves that,” she muttered, the name of our head coach falling off her tongue like a swear.

“I wouldn’t know. I’m keeping a low profile.”

“Probably a good call,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially as she leaned closer. “Coach Simmons’ secretary said he’s trying to lure in some free agents out of California and will be out of town for at least the next week.”

“Good to know.” At least I wouldn’t have to skulk around the stadium until he came back. Coach Simmons had his hands full with our starting quarterback last season, and I’d slipped under the radar. But now that Salazar had righted his own PR nightmare, I’d be back in the spotlight.

Not that I’d minded the attention. Coach Simmons could threaten whatever he wanted, but even only half-interested in the game, I was head and shoulders above any other receiver in the league. Letting me go free agent would be a death knell to the Breakers.

Coach Simmons knew that. Coach Baker knew that. Hell, even Coach Henson knew that. No one was letting me go.

And for my first few years in the NFL, I ignored the critics and followed the gossip columnists who hand waved away my off-field antics. I charmed my way through interviews and happily believed that I’d grow out of the more damaging habits I’d picked up on the way to superstardom. A huge contract and sponsorships padded my mistakes.

I wasn’t some drunk loser. I didn’t crash at my mom’s house in between benders. I had an apartment, a job, and a future.

And then I’d run the 40-yard in 4.30 flat.

Not 4.25 or six. Not even a tie for my previous year’s effort of 4.29.

I’d gained 0.01 seconds. A fraction of a fraction. Within the margin of error. But I’d never done it before. I’d never gotten worse.

And in that one one-hundredth of a second, I could feel my dominance over the sport slipping away. The late nights and the drinks and the sleep deprivation that I could overcome during my first year in the NFL faltered. I botched a catch in the playoffs. Lost my focus and let a defender strip the ball from me in the opening game. I showed up to a game hungover and nearly threw up on the sidelines, earning an ass-chewing from the head coach.

At twenty-five years old, my body might have started a slow decline, and I couldn’t say for sure until I’d purged it of booze and bad decisions. The late nights and the snack food. The women and the occasional drug use.

“Hey, Coach!” I called to Coach Henson as she turned to walk away. She stopped, tilting her head, her face impassive. “What do you do when you’re trying to get through the off-season?”

She pursed her lips, a slight dimple forming on her right cheek. “Paintball.”

“Paintball?”

The answer took me off guard. Despite her sideline outburst, Coach Henson would have looked as at home dressed in a skirt and holding pom-poms as she did with a headset and whistle. Not that I’d ever dare say that to her face.

“It’s good for getting out aggression. Sure, it’s not like game day, but it’s close enough. It’s a rush.”

A rush. My heartbeat picked up at the thought. Sure, paintball wasn’t a week drunk in Mykonos or cave diving in Mexico, but it was a hell of a lot more fun than morning yoga and kickball.

“And the head office allows it?” I asked.

The list of things I wasn’t allowed to do under my NFL contract was extensive. Wakeboarding, horseback riding, basketball. Sure, I’d done them all, happily ignoring the contract stipulations, but that was before. Back when I could spend a night out drinking and play a flawless game that weekend.

And I’d only done those things on vacation, never in Norwalk. I didn’t dare risk it now.

She nodded. “It’s fine as long as you’re wearing safety equipment at a legit paintball place. Don’t take an ATV behind some friend’s house and go after each other without pads. The front office would flip their shit. But at an actual paintball course with refs and rules, you’re fine.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I said, settling back onto the bench for another rep as she exited the gym.

Paintball. I’d never done it before. It sounded exciting. And maybe it’d scratch the itch I had to get into some kind of trouble.

“Rob!” I held up a growler of beer in one hand and a basket of candy in the other, a peace offering as I approached my teammate’s subdued country farmhouse. Well, subdued except for the expensive cars in the driveway and the copper tankards poking out from the brewery in his backyard.

“Candy? Is that candy?” Rob’s daughter darted out between his legs, pigtails bouncing as she raced off the white wraparound porch and beelined toward me.

“Mila!” Rob barked. She froze, wide eyes darting back at him. “What did I say about answering the door?”

She cast her big brown eyes onto the porch, holding her hands behind her back. “Don’t rush visitors at the door. It’s rude.”

“I’m pretty fast. You can rush me at the door if you want,” I said with a wink. I handed her the basket.

“We haven’t had dinner yet,” Rob grumbled as Mila returned to the porch with her gift, picking through the pile of candy. Alright, maybe the gesture was a little much, but Rob was the only other player in Norwalk for the off-season, and we weren’t exactly close.

Sure, we’d hung out together, but begrudgingly on his part and always with his best friend to act as a buffer. But Noa was on an extended baby moon, so I chanced visiting Rob by myself. But not without bribing Mila first. Rob might be a beast on the field, but he melted when it came to his daughter.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, raising a bushy eyebrow.

“I came over to say ‘Hi.’” I smiled and held out the growler. He took it, holding it at an arm’s length as if it might explode. “Can’t I stop by to see my favorite defensive captain?”

“Your favorite—?” Rob couldn’t get his exasperated question out before Mila interrupted him.

“How many pieces can I have? Ten?” She arranged the basket onto the porch, Skittles and Sprees and candy bars separated into their corner of the basket.

“One,” Rob huffed.

“I’m almost six. So, six.” She scooped up three pieces, pocketing them before her tiny fingers cupped her cheek as she contemplated the other three.

“You’re five.” Rob stepped back, his eyes on his daughter, leaving enough room for me to slip onto the porch.

“Okay, five. That’s fair.” She selected two more, stuffing them into her pocket.

“That wasn’t what I?—”

“Thanks, Daddy! Thank you, Mr. Vogt!” Mila stood up, resting the basket in her arm and skipping into the house.

Rob closed his eyes, rubbing his beefy palm over his face. “Don’t bring her candy.”

“She likes it.”

“She likes lots of dumb shit. Last week, she fell in love with a plunger because it was pink. You can’t keep feeding into whatever half-cocked idea that pops in her head, and you can’t feed her candy at all hours.”

I raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re telling me there’s a pink plunger in your house?”

Rob groaned, tipping his head back. “I need a drink.”

“Perfect, same. Lead the way.”

The challenges of parenting in the off-season had obviously worn on Rob because he jerked his head toward the backyard and stalked off the porch. It was as close to an invitation as I’d get, and I took it, following him into his backyard brewery.

I slid my hand down the polished oak bar top, eyes wandering down the set of ten taps on the far wall. “Seems weird to have a whole ass bar at your house and never invite anyone over.”

He flipped up the door in the bar and positioned himself behind the bar. “Noa comes over.”

Noa Kweame, Norwalk’s offensive center and Rob’s best, and maybe only, friend could charm a hermit. Not through straight charisma, but through an earnest interest in nearly everyone he met. Rob considered the rest of the team his colleagues, but Noa was his friend. Or at least the one person Rob didn’t subject to verbal takedowns on a nearly weekly basis.

Rob grabbed two glasses from behind the bar. “What are you drinking?”

A TV above the bar displayed a set of ten beers. “Do you make all these yourself?”

He nodded, pouring a stout into his glass.

“Pick your favorite.” I took a seat on the leather bar stool as Rob surveyed the list of taps, selecting a double IPA. “How do you even finish a keg before it goes bad?”

“My mom holds her book club here and I let staff use it for events.” He took a sip of his beer before adding under his breath. “And a couple of charity events.”

“Charity events? Seriously?”

I didn’t know Rob to joke around, but I’d also never hung out with him one-on-one…ever. Maybe he joked. Maybe he was a fucking cut up.

He set my pint down in front of me with a scowl. “Yeah, charity events. What of it?”

I flashed my palms. “Nothing. Nothing at all. We’ve just stood next to each other for the past few seasons at Noa’s celebrity auction deal and you didn’t seem all that into it.”

“People change,” he spat, taking a swig of his beer.

He laid the statement out like a matter of fact. People change. People can change. And hell, if Rob, a dickhead who by all rights should be past his prime, could change, I could too.