Page 22 of Playbook
SEVEN
“That was the luckiest fucking throw I’ve ever seen,” Hendrick says as we sit around the bar. He has one arm around his wife, Jane, and the other is draped on the table, fingers around the beer bottle.
Knox and his girlfriend, Avery, are across from them, and Archer and I sit at the ends. They all drove up for the first home game of the season. It was a trip knowing they were in the stands tonight. Sure, they came to lots of our college games, but this was different. It was special. Family making time for family.
I glance at Archer to see if he feels that too, but I can’t read his expression tonight. He’s not even trying to keep up with the conversation like normal. Because of his hearing loss, he usually watches closely to read lips or we sign for him. But he’s not watching for either. He’s been battling an ankle sprain all week and didn’t get the minutes he wanted tonight. I think he’s disappointed, but it’sjust the first game. There will be lots of opportunities for him.
“The throw was lucky, but the catch was all skill. I’ve got good hands,” I say with a smirk, signing too, just in case Archer looks up.
The entire table laughs. Knox rolls his eyes. “I didn’t think your ego could get any bigger. Guess I was wrong.”
“A nationwide underwear ad will do that to a guy.” Jane leans forward on her elbows, but angles her face so Archer can read her lips. “Tell the truth, did they make you stuff your crotch?”
“You cannot ask other guys about the size of their dick, wife,”Hendrick says, then to me, “Don’t answer that.”
I keep my mouth shut until he looks away and then mouth to Jane, “All me.”
She giggles good-naturedly. She’s about as interested in my dick as Hendrick is, but she’s fun. I miss her. I miss all of them.
“How’s Flynn?” I ask. It’s his first week of college classes. It feels weird without him here.
“Good,” Knox answers. “Or that’s his standard answer when I ask anyway.”
Baby Holland has never been that talkative, which I’m sure is annoying the shit out of Knox now that they’re a thousand miles apart.
“Yo, Ave. Did you catch that backflip in the end zone?”I ask Knox’s girlfriend, and then take a long gulp of my beer. I swear it tastes better tonight after catching the game-winning touchdown.
“I sure did,” she says, smiling. Her blue eyes sparkle with pride.
She’s a gymnast, and when I got drafted by the Mavericks, I asked for some tips on perfecting my touchdown celebration. It was between a backflip and a little dance I choreographed myself. I guess my dance moves left something to be desired.
My phone is buzzing in my pocket. It has been nonstop since we got here.
“I’m gonna grab another beer. Anyone else ready for another?”I ask, glancing around the group.
Archer is the only one that raises his hand, and I slip off to the bar to get our drinks. While I wait, I pull out my phone.
Unknown
Hey, it’s Sabrina again…
That uneasy feeling claws up my spine. What the hell does this girl want? Her texts, what I’ve read of them, don’t read flirty, but I have no idea why else she’d be so insistent to talk to me.
Not for the first time, I consider replying and asking…shit, I don’t even know what. Who are you? How’d you get this number? What do you want?
It probably doesn’t say a lot about me that I assume it’s something bad. Since I got drafted, nearly all random emails, calls, texts, and even snail mail have been bad news.
Sure, a few friends from high school have reached out to say congrats or ask for tickets to a game. That, I don’t mind. It’s the people who I know don’t give a shit about me and still think they deserve something from me that make it hard to trust some random stranger reaching out to chat.
I close out of the text from Sabrina and navigate to another unknown text as the bartender hands me my beers.
“On the house,” he says. “Great game tonight.”
“Thanks, man.” I dip my head to him in appreciation and shove all the cash in my wallet in the tip jar. I used to bartend back in Valley while finishing college. It was a cool job. I liked chatting uppeople and the energy on a busy night when The Tipsy Rose was the place to be.
I’d say I miss it, but nothing is as cool as getting paid to play football.
As I carry the beers back to the table in one hand, I return my focus to my phone. I stop in my tracks as I read the two texts from London.
