Page 2 of Librarian for the Jock

Chapter Two

CHET

The stadium was electric, and the pressure was on. With just seconds left on the clock, this was our last chance to win the game. We were just a touchdown away from victory.

I stepped into the huddle, hiding my jitters behind a confident smile. "Alright, fellas, let's do something they'll talk about for years. Make magic happen!" My teammates exchanged glances, some with wide eyes, others trying to stifle their nervous laughter. That's what I loved about my team—we knew how to keep it light, even in the most intense moments.

As I took my position behind the center, I heard the chants from the opposing team's fans who were hoping to rattle us, but they clearly didn't know the power of our camaraderie. The offensive line formed a fortress in front of me, ready to unleash devastation on anyone who dared to come near.

The ball was snapped perfectly into my outstretched hands, and the play unfolded like a symphony of controlled chaos. I dropped back, scanning the field for an open receiver. Defense came at me like a horde of angry bulls, but I remained calm, weaving and spinning through their grasp like a matador.

With all my might, a flick of my wrist, and a prayer in my heart, I launched the ball high into the air. It sailed through the sky with all the grace of a majestic eagle, right on target. My receiver sprinted toward the end zone, jumping over a fallen player, arms flailing like a man trying to swat away imaginary flies. What in the world is he doing?

The crowd held their collective breath, unsure whether to cheer or laugh. Time seemed to slow down as the ball and receiver finally connected in a moment of sheer absurdity.

Just like that, he caught it—barely!

The crowd went wild. We just won the game! We won the whole season! We are the champions!

I replayed that last winning play of the season multiple times in my head, still trying to convince myself it really happened. What was different from the other years? I had no idea but I thought I’d give credit to that prayer I sent with the ball. I was too scared to take all the credit because I knew God could take away my gift as quickly as he blessed me with it.

That winning play changed my life, opening up so many new opportunities. I did multiple commercials, photo shoots for ads, and promotional events. People would stop me in the street or stores to get my autograph. I signed things from napkins to cell phones to body parts. Paparazzi even began following me around.

At first it was all really exciting and flattering, but it got old after only a few months. I missed my quiet life. Even though, as quarterback, I was the leader of the team and often its mouthpiece, I was, and still am, more comfortable hanging out in the back of the crowd.

As I approached Hawthorn Hideaway, I snapped out of my memories. I really hoped I’d finally be able to relax in my grandparents’ small town. A wave of nostalgia swept over me. It felt like returning to a chapter of my life that had been written with a gentler hand, a reminder that amidst the rush and chaos of my profession, there still existed a haven where the memories of my grandparents and the legacy they left behind could live on.

I navigated the familiar streets that now seemed both unchanged and slightly weathered by time. I couldn’t help feeling a surge of emotions. This small town held a piece of my identity, a reminder of the family I came from and the values that had shaped me. It seemed frozen in time, yet greeted me with open arms, as if it had been waiting for my return.

Hawthorn Hideaway is a charming tableau of quintessential small-town Americana. As I drove, the sun hung lazily in the sky, casting a warm glow over the familiar streets. Neatly-kept lawns bordered the sidewalks, and Main Street boasted a row of quaint shops, their facades carrying the marks of decades of history. A corner bakery emitted the inviting aroma of freshly-baked bread, and a vintage bookstore showcased a worn, but cherished, collection of novels in its wide window. The locals, with their genuine smiles and welcoming nods and waves, seemed to recognize me, even though I hadn’t set foot here in years.

My grandparents’ house, the embodiment of classic architecture, was nestled within a quiet neighborhood. The house, now my inheritance, stood as a testament to the enduring legacy of my family. My grandparents were both natives of the town. Grandpa Joe grew up in this house, then brought his bride to it. My mom, their only child, was born and raised in this home.

I gazed up at the two-story abode that held generations of stories within its walls. Its white paint had weathered over time, giving it a certain character that only age can provide. Its white picket fence wrapped around a garden, now overgrown with a mishmash of vibrant flowers of all colors nodding in the breeze, whispering stories of my Grandmother Baba's green thumb.

As I stepped out of my SUV, more summer memories quickly came to my mind and a sense of quiet reverence washed over me. A mixture of emotions quickly flooded my heart—gratitude, remembrance, and a deep sense of belonging. I took a deep breath of the clean, fresh air, unloaded my suitcases and bags, then headed up the stone walkway to the house.

I observed the faded blue shutters and the window box planters, overgrown with weeds. The wraparound porch, with its creaky porch swing, two rocking chairs, and many empty pots, felt like a time portal. The memories of carefree summer evenings spent chasing fireflies and listening to family stories on the porch, flooded my mind.

As a professional football player, my life has been a whirlwind of games, training, and media commitments. I knew this quiet town would be a refuge for me from the demands of fame and the rigors of the game. My grandparents’ home would be my sanctuary, a place where I could reconnect with my roots and find calm in the simplicity of life here. In this serene haven, time moved at a different pace, allowing me to find solace when I needed it most. It was a much needed connection to something deeper—an identity that went beyond my career. It was a reminder that there was more to life than touchdowns and endorsement deals.

The wooden swing on the porch seemed to beckon, offering a place to soak in the tranquility of the surroundings. The idea of spending quiet evenings on the porch, watching fireflies dance under the starlit sky, held a newfound appeal that contrasted with the stadium lights and roaring crowds.

I reminisced about weekends spent playing catch in the yard with my Grandpa Joe, who had fostered my love of football, or of sitting by the fireplace on chilly winter holiday nights, enveloped in the warmth of family and tradition. I remembered other times spent tending to the garden with Baba. She taught me not only how to tend to her plants, but their names and medicinal uses. She was a kind, wise, sweet woman. This place wasn't just a physical inheritance; it held the essence of my grandparents' love and the values they instilled in me.

The sun was just about set when I realized I might have forgotten to make sure the electricity was turned back on before I arrived. I dug in my bag and found the key to the front door. I pulled my stuff into the entryway and entered the dark hallway. I tried the light switch and nothing happened - a problem for tomorrow. I turned on my phone flashlight and took a look around. I explored, getting reacquainted with my new home. I could almost hear the echoes of my grandparents' voices as they recounted stories from their own youth. I recalled parties with family and friends, the aroma of home-cooked meals wafting through the air. This legacy of love and connection would forever tie me to this special place.

I headed to the master bedroom with my luggage. This used to be my grandparents’ room. I shone my light on the queen-size bed with its beautifully carved oak headboard. There always seemed to be lots of room for me to cuddle with them. Looking at the size of the bed compared to my fully grown body, I guessed Grandpa Joe was probably hanging off the bed just a little to squeeze me in with the two of them. I chuckled at the thought.

I took off the dust cover and found some sheets in the closet, then got ready for bed. Twelve hours of driving was exhausting, and I wasn’t hungry since I’d had a huge lunch at my last stop. All I wanted to do now was to close my eyes and pass out. I would figure out my next steps when I had a rested mind. I barely remembered my head hitting the pillow.