Page 16

Chapter Eleven

A one-year deal.

Bryce isn’t pushing. I respect him more because of it, too. Me signing is a huge win for him. Damn, though, but he hasn’t brought that up once. If anything, he’s been throwing out all the reasons I should walk out of here and give them a big middle finger over my shoulder.

“It’s not even a respectable number,” he says, spinning the paperwork back around on the wide mahogany table before leaning back in his chair to level me with his signature expression. “I say fuck ’em.”

He means it, too. I can tell. If there’s one constant about Bryce Hampton, it’s that he’s a shit liar. No poker face at all.

I breathe in deeply and flip through the boilerplate contract they give rookies one more time, as if something in these words is going to jump out at me and help make up my mind.

Peyton left us in here fifteen minutes ago.

She was so offended by the offer that she feared sticking around would only end with her storming into the front offices and wringing Mickey’s neck.

Of course, it wouldn’t be Mickey; it would be his assistant.

And then Jerry would have to help cover up the crime. It would be a mess.

“If you want, I’ll call Jerry back in here. But you and I both know these aren’t his numbers. This is all Mickey,” Bryce says.

“And Phillips. I don’t know what it is he hates about me so much, but there is no winning that guy over.”

Bryce’s brows raise, and he leans his head toward the currently closed glass door.

“Not yet. I’m still thinking about it.”

Bryce’s body slinks into the chair, and he lets out a heavy exhale. He spins in the chair while linking his hands behind his neck. He stops cold when he makes it a full rotation, and his eyes are on me again.

“I should have let Jason handle this, man. I’m sorry. I fucked it up.”

I burst into instant laughter and shake my head.

“Dude, Jason couldn’t have sold me any better. Plus, you got Whisk a solid deal. This isn’t on you. It’s just . . . what it is.”

I lean forward and rest my chin on my fist to take one more hard look at the number on top of the contract—$840,000.

“I pulled in more with my last year of NIL deals,” I laugh out.

“Fuck, Wy. I pulled in more,” Bryce adds.

“Did you know I didn’t want to play football at first? Back when I was a kid.”

My confession makes Bryce sit back, and his brow draws in tight.

“Yeah,” I chuckle. “My dad signed me up for this league, and I wasn’t very good right away, and that frustrated me. But he made me promise to give it a year. One year, son, and if you still don’t like it, we’ll find something else. ”

Bryce smirks at my imitation of my father’s voice. My mom says I sound like him now that I’m grown. I like that I do.

“Looks like you changed your mind on the game,” Bryce says.

I nod.

“By the fourth game, I was the starting quarterback. I mean, it was pee wee ball, so it’s not like I was throwing long passes or anything like that. But I got to be in charge. I got to yell out plays that meant nothing. You know how it was when we were kids; we pretended we were the guys on TV.”

“Ha, yeah,” Bryce agrees, nodding as he smiles.

“That year changed everything,” I recall.

“I practiced every day in the front yard, throwing the ball with my dad. He’d get up early with me before school on the days he wasn’t on shift just to let me get some reps in.

By the time the season was up, I won most-improved player. My dad said it should have been MVP.”

I chew at the inside of my mouth while I live in my memories for a moment. I can almost feel the blast of air from my dad’s truck vents as he drove me home from the end-of-season pizza party. He glued that trophy to his dashboard, he was so proud.

“What a difference a year makes,” I mumble, not fully aware my thoughts are out loud until Bryce responds.

“One year,” he says.

Our eyes lock, and my upper lip twitches as my belly stirs with that long-lost fire. It’s not about the money. It’s about the disrespect.

I pull the contract toward me and grab the pen, clicking it against the table, then scratching my name across the signature line before tossing the pen and paper toward Bryce.

“I do one year, and then you get me the deal I’m worth.”

Bryce stands immediately, rolling the contract up in one hand and reaching across the table to me with the other. I get to my feet, and we shake once.

“Hell fuckin’ yeah,” he says, before marching out of the room and down the hallway to Jerry’s office.

I sit in the quiet of the conference room for a few extra seconds, long enough to hear Jerry shout the same words Bryce did as he left, then I grab my phone from the table and call my wife on my way to the elevator.

“Well?” That’s her greeting.

“One year,” I say.

The line is silent at first, and my stomach tightens. I’m tougher when she’s in my corner. I need her with me on this. I need her strength and stubborn will.

“One year,” she finally echoes.

“One.”

“ Hmm ,” she sounds like she’s pondering. “And then they pay you millions,” she finally adds.

My mouth inches up as I step into the elevator and imagine the hardball look on her face. She doesn’t have to say it for me to know that she might even push for half of my salary to be instantly donated to her mom’s charity.

“See you in two minutes.” I end our call and hold my breath for the short elevator ride, breaking into a jog when I pass by Janice, the sweet red-headed woman with twins at UofA.

“That looks like a good-news jog to me,” Janice hollers after me.

I spin around and give her a thumbs up. She’s Jerry’s secretary, and reminds me so much of my mom.

Speaking of my mom, I have to call her next.

She’s going to worry that I’m settling, but she’s also going to scream with joy.

She’s always wanted to see me set foot on a pro field.

And what this all means for my dad is probably the biggest positive to come out of the deal.

I know he’s watching this play out, and I feel his hands on my shoulders as he tells me to give those doubters hell.

Our rental Escalade is idling as I step into the player lot, and I can tell by the way Peyton’s hair is blowing in every which direction that she’s got the air on full blast. I startle her when I yank open the driver’s side door, but she quickly pounces on the center console, holding herself up with her palms as her body lurches toward me for a kiss.

I cup her cheeks and cover her mouth with mine, and it feels as though time stops.

I live in the bliss as long as I can before, eventually, we both need to breathe.

“I’ve already found an apartment,” she says the second our mouths part.

I chuckle and shift into reverse, checking the lot behind me before pulling out.

“Of course you have,” I say through a chuckle. “And let me guess . . . we need to move in this summer.”

She doesn’t respond, so when I reach the light to exit the stadium and enter the highway, I give her a curious sideways glance. Her guilty, tight-lipped grin says it all, but to punctuate things, she shrugs.

“Woman, you’re not even going to be living here full time, and you’ve got me roped into moving trucks in June,” I laugh out.

“It’s a dry heat,” she tosses in, and now we’re both laughing. I’m not sure whether it’s because we’re happy or because we’re scared. Maybe a little bit of both. But I do know there’s no one I would rather be taking this gamble with.

Three weeks later

“There is nothing dry about this.”

It’s been raining for two straight days, the same amount of time we’ve been moving boxes, sofas, and bedroom furniture into the historic brick building in the heart of downtown.

My shoes are sopping wet, the soles more like well-used Mr. Clean sponges at this point, and Whiskey gave up wearing shoes about four trips ago.

The big man has embraced being barefoot.

“This is the last one, guys. I promise,” Peyton swears over the expanse of the love seat she and I are carrying together.

Her hair is matted to the sides of her face, and there’s no mystery to what her bra looks like.

Everyone can see it through the thin gray T-shirt that’s now glued to her skin thanks to the downpour.

Whiskey pushes the button for the seventh floor on the freight elevator, then collapses into the armchair he carried by himself.

I snarl at him because there isn’t enough room for me to drop my end of the sofa, plus I wouldn’t want to stick Peyton with the rest of the weight on her own.

It is her fault that we didn’t hire movers for this project of hers, though.

“Remind me again why I couldn’t have just clicked around IKEA’s website and had everything delivered?”

She levels me with a hard stare and a flat-lined mouth, and I immediately snap my mouth shut and nod.

“You’re right.” I gulp and drop my gaze to the bulky sofa arm hugged to my chest. “You will live here too, though not a lot. ”

I mumble that last part, but Peyton still hears it, and she pushes the sofa into my gut. I grunt and cough out a laugh.

“Dude, this is why you don’t complain. You simply do as they say. Tasha’s gonna have us doing the same thing once she picks a rental. Only we’ve got two kids, and she wants a house, so this move will take days, and she’ll be spreading it across rooms and streets and yards.”

I exhale and lean my back into the metal wall of the elevator.

Tasha and Peyton like quirky furniture, and they both like to shop.

I guess I should feel lucky that Peyton was able to find the pieces she wanted in two days.

I have a feeling I’ll be moving something around Whiskey’s house every few days for the next year.

We get the last two pieces of furniture through the door, and while Peyton paces through the great room deciding exactly which way she wants things to face, I grab two beers from the fridge and hand one to Whisk.