Page 2 of Hail Marry
Maybe I should’ve taken a bigger role in the preparation for the hearing. I’ve just gotten used to letting others handle the legal stuff I have to deal with as a Canadian immigrant with a record. Grandma did most of my immigration stuff when I was in high school, and USC has an office specifically dedicated to helping students from outside of the U.S. My role has mostly been providing and signing documents. And paying fees, of course.
The nervous glance the young mom down the hallway shoots me and the way she shepherds her kids toward the exit tells me I’ve defaulted to looking mean and threatening again.
I redirect my stare elsewhere.
I haven’t cried since Grandma died a few years ago, but for the first time since her funeral, the back of my eyes sting. I dig my nails into my palms to fight off the feeling.
James looks at me with concern. “I can change my flight…stick around for another night.”
I shake my head.
“You sure?”
“Go home to your wife. I’m fine.”
I’m not. But you’ll never hear me admit that. I’ve learned not to rely on anyone else emotionally. That’s never ended well for me.
James checks his phone and sighs. “My taxi’s waiting. I’ll get the appeal paperwork started and let you know when it’s ready.”
“Thanks.”
He grips my shoulder and offers a bracing smile. “I’m sorry, Luca. I was positive we had this one. But don’t despair just yet.”
I start to despair the second his back is turned and he’s walking away. What other option do I have? The NFL Draft is in less than six weeks, and any appeal process is going to take a lot longer than that. And who’s to say it would end in my favor? The appellate court could easily agree with Judge Greene.
Looking back, our overconfidence is staggering. It seemed completely reasonable at the time, though. It was a first-time offense, the circumstances of the crime were understandable, the prosecution wasn’t objecting to an expungement, I’d gone above and beyond the requirements in my plea agreement,andI had multiple statements from my coaches and professors at USC attesting to my character.
But I stand in this hallway with the same criminal record I had five years ago, which means I’m ineligible for a P-1 visa, which means I’ve got no route to the NFL. My student visa expires in a couple of months, and that means I’ll have to head back to Canada.
My stomach tightens.
Canada.
I’ve got nothing there. Nothing and no one. At least, no one I ever want to see again. All that’s there are bad memories. I haven’t called it home in a decade, but my passport insists that’s where I belong.
But it’s wrong. I belong here. In the USA. I belong on the football field.
I stuff the rings back behind my collar, then yank at the knot of my tie and undo my top button. I need some fresh air. I wouldn’t say no to a blocking sled I could ram into either.
I push through the glass door, and the man right outside jumps out of the way, looking alarmed.
“Sorry,” I grunt.
I tend to intimidate people, even when a judgedidn’tjust detonate my future right in front of my eyes. That’s what happens when you’re 6’4, 230 pounds of muscle, and you haven’t cut your hair in over a year. Maybe I should’ve cut it for today, but I thought a slick bun would be good enough.
The streets around the courthouse are full of early-afternoon traffic, and I scan the area as I make my way to the stoplight. My gaze stops briefly on the people around me: the businessman talking animatedly into his Bluetooth earpiece; the kid pulling up his sagging pants while he skateboards past; two old ladies laughing as they wait for the light to turn so they can cross the street; a young woman with a head of wild blonde waves looking down at her phone. It’s like none of them realize the world has just ended.
My phone vibrates in my pocket as I stop to wait at the light, and I inhale deeply. I can guess who it is: my agent, Zach.
I wish he would’ve just texted. I’m not sure I’m ready to say the words I’ll have to say to him. He’s worked so hard to make sure the NFL teams scouting me know my visa situation is a non-issue.
In front of me to my right, the young woman with the blonde waves glances up from her phone just as the pedestrian light shifts to the familiarwalkindicator. Her attention’s already back on her phone as she takes a step off the curb, completely oblivious to the semi about to run the light and plow into her.
The semi honks, and she looks up and freezes mid-stride. I don’t think; I dive, knocking the businessman between us out of the way, wrapping my arm around the woman’s torso and pulling her away from the street.
My training takes over as we go down hard on the pavement. I keep her tucked tight to me like a football, lift my head to avoid contact with the ground, and roll. Never until this moment had I fully appreciated the buttery softness of the Coliseum’s meticulously maintained Bermuda grass. Tackling someone on an unforgiving L.A. street hits differently. Especially without shoulder pads.
The semi zips by, still honking loudly and sending a rush of air past us.
