Page 155 of Faking the Pass
I looked down at the papers in my hands. For all Presley knew, he’d just signed away every dollar and piece of property he owned.
We had no prenup. This document could have required him to give me eighty percent of his income for life and every last one of his possessions.
Did he trust me that much?
Or did it just hurt so badly he didn’t care?
Had I just made the biggest mistake of my life?
It certainly felt like it. Though it hurt me, too—we’re talking crazy, mind-bending pain—that had always been inevitable.
From the first night of our reunion, I’d known it was coming for me sooner or later.
At least this way, Presley would be spared further expense and distraction.
When it came down to it, I’d made the only decision I could live with. Maybe eventually I’d look back on this day and be glad.
Today was not that day.
I was already in the courthouse, and it would only take a few minutes to add my signatures to Presley’s on the divorce papers then walk them across the hall to the clerk’s office to file them.
It could all be done today, quickly and neatly.
Instead I walked past the office door and outside to meet the car Wilder was sending.
I’d wait until I was home in L.A. to do it. I just couldn’t handle anything else right now.
My hands were shaking too hard to write legibly anyway.
Chapter 38
A Pretty Good Indicator
Presley— Super Bowl Sunday
Not my first time experiencing the Super Bowl down on the field with my team, but it was the one that would put me in the record books as the winningest quarterback in Super Bowl history.
All around me my teammates were cheering and jumping and running around waving championship t-shirts, their hair and uniforms decorated in ticker tape still falling from bags near the dome’s ceiling. Some were even crying.
A series of slaps on my back made me turn around where I found Merc and Wilder, who’d made their way from the stands to the field.
Dylan and I had already hugged and congratulated each other before he’d run off to celebrate with his other friends on the team.
“Congratulations man,” Merc said. “If the Nauties had to kick our asses, at least you made it count.”
“Next year. You’ll get your shot next year,” I told him.
He gave me a hug then yelled “Ryno!” as he spotted a Nauticals player he’d played with in the past and went off to congratulate him.
“You did it,” Wilder said. “Eight Super Bowl wins. You are officially the G.O.A.T., brother.”
“Thanks man. It feels good.”
“Does it?” he asked, studying my face.
“Of course. Yeah, sure,” I said.
“Okay, well I’m just asking because you don’t seem all that excited,” he said.
