by C. A. Rene
“This is it, Mom.” I squint my eyes to hold back the moisture. “This is as big as it gets.”
“You’ve already made me so proud, Dixon.” She pats my bouncing knee again, “this is just the icing on the cake.”
“Thank you, Ma.” I nod, “this is just the beginning.”
“This is what you’ve always worked for, what do you mean the beginning?” her eyes crinkle on the sides as she squints at me; her face looking older than what she actually is.
“I want you and Danny out of Baltimore.”
“We’re fine for now, son.” Her wrinkled hand pats me again, “we’re doing just fine.”
They’re not and it bothers me that she wants me to believe that.
“You guys deserve it.”
The screen goes black and a hush falls over the crowd. This is it. I’ve watched the draft picks every year for the past ten years and I know this is where they begin. Voices begin talking over the sound system and the announcers you hear every Sunday are here, talking about the lineup for today. I wish I could say I hear everything they’re saying but I don’t, it’s a rumble of voices and laughter from the crowd.
My head begins to pound and my vision loses focus as the screen once again lights up with a commercial. I can’t even take it in because my stomach is twisting with knots.
“You look like you might pass out, boy.” Mom tsks, “get yourself together and quick.”
She’s right, I know she’s right, but my body isn’t listening to any reason.
Suddenly the crowd cries out as the Buffalo Bills logo zooms in on the screen, first pick of the first round. Then there’s a compilation video of me that I signed off on for them to use, but what I didn’t see the first time are the actual game plays they put in there. They have a clip of the final game against Alabama when my team rushed me in the end zone.
My head is thrown back and I can see my mouth moving as I scream out my name. The sweat pouring down my cheeks, the black makeup over my cheekbones smudged, and the tears leaking out of my eyes. I will never forget that moment, the high, and the accompanying relief, I put my everything into that game.
As the video moves on to the other player’s compilations, I turn my head and look around the area. I see a few of the draftees here sitting at the tables but I know some are also sitting at home and watching. We had the option to do both; but I knew I needed to be here.
“Today is exciting!” One of the announcers declares to the crowd, “did you see that lineup?”
The crowd screams and the sounds amplify the anxiety coursing through my chest. It feels like time has completely slowed down and the moment I’m waiting for is taking forever to get here. I want my name called, I want the bidding to start, and then I want a fucking steak dinner.
A hand lands on my shoulder and I turn to see an usher, “time to head to the Green Room.”
I swallow thickly, the Green Room is where the picks that show up to the draft selection wait. Once their names are called, it’s a waiting game until a call comes through, and you either head to the stage or you don’t.
“Good luck, baby.” Mom pulls me in for a hug.
I nod and stand from my seat, following the usher to a set of stairs to the left of the large Draft Selection stage. I take the stairs one at a time, letting the weight of my foot hit the metal, and the sound reminding me to stay grounded. This is a memory I want to store and remember for the rest of my life, I won’t let nerves take it from me.
The top of the stairs opens to a large room with couches and a couple fridges. The room isn’t green at all, nothing in here is green, save for the Packers emblem stuck to the wall, and it gets lost in the sea of team emblems.
There are two other guys in the room and one I recognize from the list I read. He’s another wide receiver and he’s really good. He’s a popular choice and his stats are phenomenal. He stands when I enter the room and he’s fucking tall and fucking wide. His grin spreads wide across his face. His blue eyes twinkle with mirth and his blonde shaggy hair flops over his forehead.
“Man,” he claps his hands, “I heard you were going to be here today.” He holds out his hand, “I’m Greg.”
His grin is contagious and suddenly I feel my own inching across my face, “I know who you are,” I clasp his hand in a firm shake, “I read up on you.”
The speaker over our heads crackles and then the crowd below starts its loud booing. The announcer's voice floats through the room as he announces the NFL Commissioner to the stage. The booing intensifies and the three of us in the room begin to laugh. Every year it’s like this, the Commissioner walks out on stage and the crowd boos him. I looked it up the first year I heard it and laughed at what I read; he is the most hated person in the whole organization.
I watch the large TV screen hanging on the wall as he walks to the podium, waving to the crowd and keeping a large, forced smile plastered to his face amid the boos. He’s in a perfectly tailored suit, the linen grey rippling in the breeze, and his hair flies up revealing his bald spot. The guys behind me titter and I smirk as he tries to pat it back into place.
“Welcome to the first round of draft picks.” He announces into the mic and the speakers overhead crackle with his voice.
The booing continues and the three of us break out into laughter again. I needed this, the nerves have slowly dissipated and it feels good to be in a room with guys who are probably feeling similarly.
“Our first pick tonight is,” he looks down to his card, asshole. “Buffalo Bills, who will be their choice?”
I watch as a large timer starts on the screen behind him. Fifteen minutes until my fate is decided. The screen flips to the table of announcers you would normally see on a sports broadcast and they talk about my stats from the three years of playing with the Clemson Tigers.
“Good luck, Dixon.” The second guy in the room stands up and holds out his hand, “Stanley, I heard Buffalo has had their eye on you.”
I take his hand and give him a nod of acknowledgment, I’m back in my head again. Those nerves inching back up and hard to ignore.
“That phone is going to ring and then that’s when your new life will begin,” Stanley says with a smile. “Let’s have a beer in the meantime.”
He heads over to the small bar fridge and passes each of us a can. I take the smooth, cold metal in my hand and pop the tab, the fizz of the carbonation loud in the otherwise silent room. The timer keeps dialing down and with each second my blood pressure rises.
There’s a random guy in a suit off to the side, he’s sitting in front of the phone, and his eyes are dead center on the countdown. We’re at the ten-minute marker now and I want to fling my can across the room and scream. Are they purposely making me fret?
“It’s probably about money.” Greg adds. “What salary to give you.”
Right, my multimillion-dollar deal that will change the course of my family’s life and propel us into a whole different culture. A rich man’s culture. Something that makes me feel both elated and terrified. I’ve seen what that much money can do to a person who has no idea how to handle it and I’m thankful I have my mother. She’ll never let me lose focus on who I am.
The sudden shrill of the phone startles me and my beer sloshes out and over my hand. The room is quiet as the phone screams for the suited guy to answer it. It feels like forever as his hand reaches out and his fingers curl around the receiver, slowly lifting it to his ear. I look at the screen and see seven minutes blinking in a still sequence.
“Looks like The Bills have come to a decision.” The announcer says into the mic, the speakers overhead pushing sound into the room.
I watch as the guy on the phone furiously moves his hand over paper as he writes down whatever is being said. He nods and then dips his head to continue writing. I know it’s a lot because I read everything there was to read about NFL salaries and I’m waiting - albeit impatiently - for what the details are, the fine print.
He drops the phone back to the
cradle and looks at me with a grin, “Dixon North, you must be one special rookie.” He chuckles, “come on over and read their offer. You let me know yes if it’s good or if you want a renegotiation.”
I walk to him on unsteady feet, with each footfall my heart tries to jam itself up into my throat, and my brain is screaming at me that this moment is profound. This pivotal moment is going to be that one point everyone has when they think of how they got to where they are in life. This is mine.
I stand at the table and the guy is still chuckling as he hands me the paper. I blink a few times and will my eyes to focus.
$12,638,000.00 per year on a four-year contract. $2,100,00.00 signing bonus. I quickly read through the other stipulations but all I can think of is, this is it. I don’t need a renegotiation, I’m a fucking Bill.
“Looks good.” My voice cracks and I quickly clear it, “yeah, I’m in.”
The other two in the room clap and holler as the guy looks at me then picks up the phone. It takes a minute before my face zooms onto the screen with the Buffalo Bills logo underneath.
“They’re asking for you on the stage.” The guy says as he extends his hand. “Congratulations Dixon.”
This profound moment set the course for the rest of my life.
Chapter three
Dixon
“Rookie!” Buffalo’s coach Trevor Meyers screams at me. “What the fuck was that?”
I slow my run to a jog and skid to a stop, looking back at him over my shoulder. His face is red and ruddy and his bald head looks like it’s burning in the mild Buffalo sun.
“That looked like a newborn horse, just out its mama’s womb.” Tight End Sebastian Avando sneers. “All wobble legged and clumsy.”
He hates me and he’s somehow convinced some of the other players to join in on the taunting as well. I don’t know why.
“I thought we bought ourselves a Wide Receiver and one that can outrun my others. So why the fuck haven’t you done that yet?” Coach screams as I slam my fists to my waist and tip my head back on a groan.
He’s right, I’ve been slow, and I can’t seem to shake whatever hold my mind has over my body. I’ve been at the Bills camp for two weeks now and we start our season in three. I need to get my fucking head in the game.
I slowly start to walk back to the sidelines just as Sebastian and the defensive end Ostin Jameson stride past me. Sebastian is near to my height and broad shouldered. His swagger is always exaggerated and the way he walks is confident, telling people he’s not one to be fucked with. His eyes are amber pools and hold enough hatred to crush a weaker person. I’m not that weaker person.
Sebastian slaps his hand against my helmet and Ostin begins to laugh. Ostin Jameson is larger than life and he’s Sebastian’s sidekick. He’s loud and aggressive both on and off the field. I grind my teeth just to hold myself together and convince myself that fighting him will do nothing, but it’s extremely hard. He deserves a good knock to the fucking jaw.
I grab a bottle of Gatorade and stand on the sidelines, watching as Avando and Jameson line up across from each other. Sebastian Avando isn’t required to run faster than the wide receiver because his job is to do whatever is needed to get that ball into the end zone. Tackle, run, catch, it doesn’t matter, and he needs to be able to do it all on the fly. Avando has been crushing my times though and he’s been flaunting it.
I don’t know what I did but it took two days for him to decide he hated me and that he wanted to make my life fucking hell. He has this hold over the others and I can’t decide if they admire him or fear him. He has the tough exterior of someone that grew up with the belief that you kill or be killed.
His body is nearly covered in tattoos; and I grew up in one of those kill or be killed neighborhoods so I know what gang signs look like, Avando has them inked all over him. In the locker room we see everything and he has no shame to walk the room ass out naked.
Coach blows the whistle and Avando side skips Jameson, his legs swift. He gets out of Jameson’s way easily and runs down the field, his knees pumping fast.
“Look kid,” Coach comes up beside me and I grit my teeth. I hate that he calls me ‘kid’.
“I know,” I nod and scrub my hand down my face. “I’ll stay and do laps again tonight. I’ll get that time up.”
“I think what you really need is rest.” His hand slaps my back, “we already know the times you can do, maybe you just need a reset.”
I haven’t rested in weeks because I’m trying to prove that I’m worth what they spent on me. He has a fucking point, I’m drained.
“Okay.” I agree.
“Get on out of here and get you some sleep. We’ll start again tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir.” I turn to head towards the locker room.
The team shouts behind me and I can imagine it’s because Avando once again crushed his time. I don’t have the heart to look back and my body feels like lead as I drag it into the locker room. Coach is right, I need the rest and I need to ice my knee. These past two weeks have been brutal on my old injury.
I strip down and toss the equipment and clothing into the laundry bin. I wrap the towel around my waist and head for the showers. I thought Clemson had amazing showers but they don’t hold a flame to what the Bills have. Four shower heads per stall and all uniquely made for different massage pulses. My legs are all that’s really bothering me and these won’t work for shit on them, I need a hot bath.
“Who wants to bet the fucker is back here crying somewhere?” Sebastian’s voice filters in over the spray of the water. “I marked him a pussy the first day he showed up. All big eyed and scared looking.”
I know he’s talking about me and if my career wasn’t on the line, I would rip him apart, limb by limb. I hear a few other snickers and I would bet anything it’s Jameson and Ortiz, his two pet dogs.
Ortiz Fernando is a tight end for the Bills and he’s also a large, opposing figure on the field. His dark tanned skin is riddled with tattoos - like his friends - and he curses in Spanish every other word. His slight accent tells me he’s Mexican and his dark features confirm it. With black curly hair and near black eyes, he’s literally the epitome of tall and dark.
The three of them are tight as hell and they tend to intimidate the others, all accept our quarterback Zeal Flaherty who doesn’t take much shit from anyone.
I shut off the shower and decide to bathe when I get home, it’s just not worth it to start some shit here with Avando today.
“Here pussy, pussy.” He taunts and I growl as I pull on my track pants.
They round the corner just as I tie the waist band and cross my arms over my bare chest. I’m not a small guy and I know I look just as rough with my tattoos as well. I may have stayed off the streets and away from drugs; but I still look the part of where I was raised.
“If you gotta call for pussy to find it,” I let a taunting grin of my own stretch along my mouth, “then you got a fucking problem.”
“What did you say?” Sebastian’s light brown eyes flash with sudden rage.
He’s as tall as I am, hitting about six foot, three inches, and he’s leaner than me but no less built. His deep tawny skin telling of his African American and Puerto Rican background. Yeah, I Googled the asshole the first day I met him.
I don’t bother to engage further and keep the grin on my face, infuriating him more. He strides forward and his hand grabs my throat as he slams me against the tiled wall of a shower stall. I keep myself still but I let my eyes dance with amusement at his actions, playing a dangerous game with his ego.
“Do you know who you’re fucking with, rookie bitch?” His lips are pulled taut against his teeth. His spit flies against my cheeks but I don’t let the grin drop. “Do you want to die?”
“Avando.” I hear Jameson call out in warning. “Let’s go man.”
Little bitch is all talk and I would assume Ortiz is as well, both riding on the ass of Avando, who obviously isn’t all talk. But I’m not afr
aid of him.
“Looks like y’all are having a good time in here.” I hear Zeal Flaherty say as he enters the showers. “Avando, I think you need to take a walk.”
Sebastian releases his hold on my throat and slowly backs up, his body vibrating with anger. With Zeal being our quarterback, a lot of responsibility falls on his shoulders, and one of those is keeping us in line and working as a team. Right now, this is as far from teamwork as it gets and I feel bad for Zeal, but I won’t back down for Sebastian. He will just have to learn to work with me because I’m not going anywhere.
“This isn't over.” He grits out under his breath and I give him a brusque nod. I know it’s not.
He turns on his heel and walks back to the locker area, leaving me alone with our quarterback. Zeal is what I would consider a good southern boy. He has Light brown hair that falls in waves over his head and always has that messy out of bed look. His blue eyes are light and naive, always wanting to see the good in a person. He’s tall, reaching six feet, and he’s lean but muscular. He shows respect to his teammates and he’s a natural leader.
“Avando is an amazing player, his legs eat up the distance on the field, and he finds the perfect spots to get into that will guarantee touchdowns.” He rubs his hand along the nape of his neck, “when he feels threatened or confronted, he lashes out with anger.”
“I haven't done anything to attract his anger.” I tell him honestly.
“Nothing you did to him personally, no. But when we found out your stats and what you were about to bring to the team, he felt threatened.”
“There’s not much I can do about that.” I shrug.
“No, there isn’t but I really don’t need y’all fighting all the time.” He lets out an exasperated breath.
“I don’t know exactly when you walked in,” I walk by him, “but I wasn’t fighting him at all.”
I hear his groan as I walk out of the shower area and back into the locker room. Sebastian is standing at his locker and glaring at me as I open my own.
There’s no way I’m taking the fall for this man’s insecurities and I won’t be blamed for his temper tantrums; Zeal needs to confront him and leave me out of it. He has to get over whatever animosity he’s clinging to with me because I’m not going anywhere. I worked too hard and too long to be pushed out by a hot-headed insecure man.