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Austin

I t’s a nerve-racking day for college football players all over the country. But not for me.

It’s NFL draft day—which is actually a three-day event, not just one day.

Over two hundred talented athletes will get picked to join NFL teams. Some of my friends might be among the lucky ones.

I know a few guys who are in New York City right now, attending the draft.

Roger Goodell, the NFL commissioner, will call their names, and they’ll walk to the stage, posing with the team owner who just drafted them.

They’ll get a new hat with their team’s logo to go with their fancy, flashy suits.

Meanwhile, I’m in my basketball shorts and Cincinnati Bearcats shirt, legs stretched out over my mom’s coffee table.

My dad is on his recliner, two of my siblings on either side of me on the couch.

Olivia, my Irish twin—born almost exactly one year after me—is in her Bearcats sweatshirt, her legs tucked beneath her as she bites her lip.

My little brother, Will, is taking up too much space on his side of the couch with his long limbs akimbo, his hair swooping into his eyes.

“Shouldn’t you be in New York?” Olivia asks, her hazel eyes darting from the TV to me and back. “Isn’t that, like, a thing on your draft day?”

“It’s not my draft day, Livvy.”

“You don’t know that,” her soft voice chides.

“I do,” I say quietly. My family has their hopes up far more than I do.

Our oldest sister, Emily, sweeps into the room carrying a tray of pigs in a blanket.

She shoos my feet off the coffee table and sets the food down in the middle.

“Maybe if you’d gone to the combine it would be your draft day,” Emily says with a huff.

She’s my older sister, but she fancies herself a second mom, which is why she thinks I should have been invited to the NFL combine—a showcase event where top college athletes are evaluated through drills and tests by pro coaches and scouts.

“I wasn’t invited to the combine,” I say, keeping my voice level.

“Trevor said if you’d hired an agent like he suggested then you would’ve been invited to the combine.”

I shrug, looking away from her. Her lawyer boyfriend Trevor thinks he knows so much about everything. In this particular instance he’s not wrong, but I wasn’t about to seek out an agent. It’s just not my style.

I’ve never had delusions of grandeur.

In fact, it feels wrong to even be watching the draft with my family—like I’m sending the wrong signals to them about my prospects.

My pro day was a disaster. My athletic measurables—the forty-yard dash, broad jump, bench press, and so on—were in the lowest 20th percentile for my position as quarterback.

I’ve always had the right feel for the game and pinpoint accuracy, but I’ve never been an elite athlete.

And I never will be.

So here we are, watching as my fellow collegiate athletes get called up to various NFL teams, while my family’s hopes are poised to be dashed. Even though I’ve prepared myself for this, watching my friends get called up still feels like watching the ship sail away while I’m stuck on the dock.

“You know,” Emily says, squeezing between Will and me onto the couch. “When you were little you always wanted to be a garbage truck driver. If you don’t get drafted, you could still do that.” She waggles her eyebrows at me as she pops a piece of hot dog into her mouth.

“You would always rush us out of the house to watch the garbage truck drive by,” my dad says.

“I also wanted to be a dinosaur, but that didn’t pan out either,” I say, smirking at Em.

My mom hurries into the room as the Browns are about to name their first pick, carrying a plate of buffalo wings with a large bowl of ranch dressing.

She places it beside the pigs in a blanket and then turns to me, placing her hands on either side of my face and kissing the top of my head.

“No matter what happens today, we are so proud of you, Austin.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

It’s painful to watch my family—all of them leaning forward in their seats, bated breath, as I lean back against the couch we’ve had since I was a kid.

Sure, I’ve let myself imagine what it might be like to play in the pros—not least of all what it’d mean for my family.

Getting my parents new furniture, a spa day for my mom, a car for Liv and one day for Will too.

But as fun as it is to dream, I know it’s just that—a dream.

My phone pings with text notifications. I pick it up to see a group text with Omar and Caleb, my two best friends.

Omar

Yo, how’s it going? Any word yet?

Me

Nothing yet. Not looking good.

Caleb

Dude, even if you don’t get drafted, teams still pick up players after the draft. It ain’t over till it’s over!

Omar

Yeah, UDFA is still a thing. Keep your head up!

I sigh at Omar’s reference to being an undrafted free agent. He’s right, but I don’t even want to entertain the thought.

Me

Appreciate it, guys. Trying to stay realistic here.

Omar

Realistic schm-ealistic. You’ve got skills, man. Someone’s gonna notice.

Caleb

And if not, there’s always Bucky’s Used Cars. You’d be the worst used car salesman ever but they’d use your ugly mug in their commercials. ??

Omar

Can you imagine Austin trying to sell a used car? He couldn’t sell hand warmers to an Eskimo.

Caleb

He couldn’t sell water to someone dying in the desert.

Me

You’re hating on my skills as a salesman but I fleeced you last year in our fantasy football trade.

Omar

Good point. Maybe you could become a full-time fantasy football player since you can’t do the real thing.

We both laugh at Omar’s jibe and Caleb sends a burn GIF in the thread.

Caleb

Hey man, even if you don’t get drafted today, I’ll select you as my last pick in our league out of solidarity.

Omar

You got this, man. ??

I chuckle at my friends’ messages, feeling a bit lighter. Their support means a lot, even if I’m not holding my breath for a miracle. And I know better than to dream too much.