Page 64 of Brushed and Buried
“Oh, she got what she wanted, right? She remarried, found herself a nice accountant who comes home at six every night for dinner and plans weekend getaways instead of working around game schedules. She got her white picket fence, hersuburban life, her husband who doesn’t disappear for months during training camps or bring home the stress of performance contracts.” His voice carries a note of disdain. “She wanted to be anonymous, ordinary. She couldn’t handle being with someone in the spotlight.”
I close my eyes, forcing myself not to grieve for the kind of family I never had.
“She knew what I was when she married me. Hell, she was there through college, through the draft process, cheering in the stands when I got selected. She knew exactly what professional football meant, what kind of life we’d be building together.” His voice hardens with old resentment. “Then the moment things got real, the moment the pressure started and the demands became too much, she just bailed. She started resenting everything she’d once been excited about.”
He pauses, and for a moment I think he might actually reflect on this.
“But everyone got what they needed in the end.”
“Except me.” The words come out rougher than I intend. “I got to spend my childhood shuttling between two completely different worlds, never fitting into either. Weekends with Mom meant pretending I didn’t care about football, hiding my trophies in my backpack because her new husband thought sports were a waste of time. Weekdays with you meant pretending I didn’t miss having a normal family, acting likeI didn’t notice that other kids’ parents showed up to games together.”
Victor stays quiet for a moment. When he speaks, there’s something almost defensive in his tone. “You had opportunities those other kids dreamed of having.”
“I had isolation. I learned how to be whoever people needed me to be, but I never learned how to be myself.”
“You got toughness. Adaptability. The ability to compartmentalize personal bullshit and perform when it matters.” His tone softens just slightly. “Look, Vincent, I’m proud of what you’ve accomplished. You have talent, son. You probably would have gotten where you are with pure will and determination. But it would have taken longer if you’d gotten sidetracked by some starry-eyed kid who thought he could fix things with finger paints.”
The dismissive way he talks about Adrian’s art, about everything he cares about, ignites something hot and dangerous in my chest.
“Adrian’s work isn’t some hobby, and you know it. He’s talented, more than either of us ever gave him credit for.”
“Talent doesn’t matter if it distracts from what’s important.”
“Important to who? To you? To your legacy?”
“Important to your future. Which, in case you’ve forgotten, includes a comfortable retirement and enough money to do whatever the hell you want with the rest of your life.”
The conversation is spiraling into familiar territory, the same arguments we’ve had for years about sacrifice and priorities and what it means to be a man. But this time, something’s different. This time, I can see the strings.
“What did you do to him back then?” The words slip out softer than I intend, but sharp all the same. “Did you threaten him?”
“I did what I had to do, son.” Victor’s voice is steady, almost bored, like he’s reciting a fact instead of confessing. “I spelled it out for him. If he breathed a word to you about what really happened, his art school applications would disappear, his future would dry up overnight. And if he so much as tried to crawl back into your life, I’d make sure you could kiss your football dreams goodbye.”
His voice grows colder.
“He knew exactly what was at stake.”
The unashamed way he admits to threatening Adrian makes my vision blur with rage. “You son of a bitch.”
“I had to make him understand the gravity of the situation. I told him he was a distraction, that he wasn’t helping your career, and that all this lovesick bullshit was what made you fall apart during games.” Victor’s voice carries the satisfaction of someone recounting a successful strategy. “Clay told me he saw you two backstage. He said you were getting soft, losing your killer instinct.”
I grip the phone harder.
“That boy was naive enough to believe I’d actually sabotage my own son’s future, but the threat worked. He understood his position pretty quickly once I explained how easily I could destroy both your futures.”
My hands are shaking so hard I have to grip the phone with both fists. The man I’ve spent my entire life trying to please, trying to make proud, is describing psychological warfare against an eighteen-year-old like it was a coaching decision. It’s like Adrian was just another obstacle to remove from the field.
“I’m a realist, Vincent, and everything I did worked. You got your NFL career. You built your name. You became exactly what you needed to be.”
“I became exactly what you needed me to become.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it’s not the same fucking thing!” The words explode out of me. “I spent ten years hating someone who risked everything to help me, carrying around this poison because you needed me to believe I’d been betrayed. Do you have any idea what that did to me?”
“It kept you focused.”
“It kept me hollow.”
