The Memory House

by Rachel Hauck

  “Yep. The boonies.” Coach Brown motioned for Bruno to set his bag in his office, then trek with him down the hall. “But we run a great football program.”

  “You know I’m only doing this as a favor for Calvin Blue.” Calvin was an All-American footballer from Florida State. A must-get for Bruno and his fledgling agency, Sports Equity.

  The tailback would go first round of the NFL draft this April, and that meant big money for Calvin. Bruno, too, if he could convince the kid to sign. Not to mention the restoration of Bruno’s reputation.

  It was one thing to part ways with Kevin and Watershed and launch out on his own, but another to combat Kevin’s venomous whispers, poisoning top university pro liaisons against Bruno.

  “Lost his touch.”

  “Can’t close the deal.”

  “A one-man agency? Who’s he kidding? He can’t do anything for your boys. He’s scraping the bottom.”

  Nevertheless, he limped along with his clout, reputation, and skill.

  “Calvin’s a good kid,” Coach Brown said. “Talented. I’m grateful he’s trying to help his old teammate.” Brown ran a junior college program that redeemed Division 1 dropouts, players who failed at the big schools for one reason or another. “Did you review the tapes I sent you? This Tyvis kid . . . He’s got it all.”

  “I watched the tapes. He’s got an arm, but my main concern is why he’s here with you.” Bruno walked with Coach through the weight room to the outdoor practice field, zipping his jacket against the wind.

  “Anger issues. Got in a few fights with his coaches, then went on a little robbery spree, hitting up convenience stores. God was on his side in court, because the judge gave him community service if he returned all the money. Which he did. He worked all last year to clear his record and name, then showed up here.”

  Brown’s job at this esteemed community college, or JUCO, was to straighten out the boys and send them back up the line to major college programs for a chance at the NFL.

  According to Brown, Tyvis Pryor was his most esteemed protégé.

  “Have you reformed him in one season?”

  Coach grinned. “I don’t like to brag, but he earned a B-plus GPA while becoming the conference’s leading passer. Broke every record on the books.”

  About the fifty-yard line, Bruno watched a big kid with long arms, thick legs, and a graceful throw.

  “Six five, 230,” Coach said. “I’m telling you, he’s the next Tom Brady and no one’s looking at him.”

  “He’s a JUCO kid, Coach. Of course no one is looking at him. If he’s this good, send him up to FSU or down to Florida. They need a quarterback.”

  “He’s twenty-two and wants a shot at the pros.”

  Of course he did. Along with every other college kid.

  “He does know Cinderella is a fairy tale, right?” Bruno followed the ball as it spiraled toward a narrow target.

  Yet after a year and a half of hustling, he’d signed exactly zero clients. If he came out of this recruiting season with nothing but a JUCO kid, he might as well bring in the Sports Equity shingle and hang his head. Kevin Vrable, and Bruno’s father for that matter, would be right.

  Bruno Endicott was a nothing.

  “Did you see him thread that target?” Bruno shook off the word nothing and give his attention to Coach. “Hit the hole from the fifty-yard line. Come on, just give him a chance.”

  “Yeah, sure, why not?” Bruno agreed, arms folded, his stance stiff as he observed Tyvis going through drills.

  This whole venture screamed desperation. No agent in his right mind would sign a kid out of junior college. It was career suicide.

  But if signing Tyvis Pryor won the favor of Calvin Blue, the player Bruno really wanted, he just might do it.

  “Come on, Calvin, join your friend Tyvis at Sports Equity. Let’s shake up the NFL.”

  Coach blew his whistle and waved Tyvis to the sidelines. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.” The quarterback loped off the field. “This is Bruno Endicott, the sports agent I was telling you about.”

  Bruno clapped his hand into the player’s. “Your buddy Calvin Blue speaks highly of you.”

  Tyvis’s smile was quick and sincere. “We been friends since freshman year at Florida State.” His voice matched his physique—booming, elegant, and controlled. “He said you used to be one of the top agents in the country. Worked with Watershed.”

  “I still am one of the top agents.” Bravado worked every time. “You know Jack Stryker? Luke Mays? Dustin Clever?” With each name, the NFL hopeful’s eyes widened. “Signed them all.”

  “They’re some serious ballers.”

  Bruno flipped Tyvis his card. “I have my own agency now. Sports Equity.”

  “Fernandina Beach, Florida?” Tyvis made a face. “Where’s that?”

  “Just outside of Jacksonville.” Seriously? The kid was interviewing him? “What happened with you at FSU?” Even though Coach Brown had filled him in, Bruno wanted to hear Tyvis’s version.

  “Gentlemen, can we face off over dinner?” Coach slapped Bruno on the back. “My wife makes the best lasagna you ever tasted, and my mouth is already watering. Let’s head on over to the house, and you can talk over meat, noodles, and ricotta cheese. Bruno, when was the last time you had a home-cooked meal?”

  “What year is it?”

  As a sports agent, he lived on the road, eating out of boxes and cartons. When he was home, Mom sometimes cooked for him, but her day job with Mrs. Acker was rather exhausting, and cooking was low on her priorities.

  “Hit the showers, Tyvis, while I give Bruno your stat sheet.”

  The man-boy nodded and jogged toward the field house.

  “Kid runs everywhere,” Coach said, motioning for Bruno to follow him to his office.

  Despite his reservations, Bruno was impressed with what he’d seen on the field. The kid was quick with good feet and could throw a shot.

  Coming from the right school with the right trainer, Tyvis might be a contender. Hard to tell with what little he’d seen this afternoon. But coming from a JUCO with a troubled past? Yeah, Bruno couldn’t see any future for him.

  “So what happened at Watershed, Bruno?” Coach Brown walked into his small, boxy office littered with equipment and papers.

  “We didn’t see eye to eye.”

  “Does anyone see eye to eye with Vrable?” Coach sat with an umph. “I heard your mother was ill too.”

  “She was in a car accident. Broke her leg in two places. She needed me. Kevin didn’t.”

  “You came home to take care of her?”

  “Something like that.” And to figure out how eight years at Watershed ended with Kevin shouting him down in front of the entire Watershed staff.

  “You’re a nothing, Endicott.”

  “Here’s his stat sheet from FSU and here. Also his forty time as well as his vertical, bench press . . . Well, read, you’ll see.”

  Bruno took the folder and sat in the nearest chair. “He doesn’t want a year at a D1 school first?”

  “Like I said, he’s twenty-two and wants to try at the league. It’s now or never for him. At least that’s how he sees it. I think you might know what it feels like to want a chance.” Coach arched his brow. Hear me? “You two have a lot in common, you know.”

  “Tyvis and me? Like what?”

  “His dad walked out on the family, like yours. Died a few years later. You came home to take care of your mom after her accident. Tyvis works after practice to send money to his mom, sister, and brother. Last summer he worked three jobs and showed up for the first day of practice in the best shape I’ve ever seen.” Coach Brown dug through some papers, shuffling things around, finally producing an image of Tyvis. “Can you imagine how he’d look with proper training? He was built for football, Bruno.”

  Bruno scanned the grainy image printed on regular printer paper. No denying Tyvis’s physical stature, but that didn’t make him a pro QB.

  “And like you,�
� Coach went on, taking the picture back, “he’s hungry for more. For success. He won’t give up until the last door has slammed in his face.”

  Coach Brown looked too closely. Saw things Bruno didn’t know he revealed.

  “What other agencies are you talking to, Coach?”

  “Just you.”

  Bruno sat back with a short, sarcastic laugh. “Then you really don’t believe in Tyvis like you say.”

  “No, I just think you’re the guy to take him all the way.” Coach shuffled through more papers and manila folders, moving one large stack on top of another. Bruno braced for them to topple over. “My wife is a retired paralegal and she loves to research. Ah, here we go.” Coach held up a thin, new folder. “This is your file.”

  So the man cheated. Didn’t have the eye of a magi like Bruno thought.

  “Almost every player you signed went in the first round. Most of them in the top ten. You’re the only agent in the last five years to accomplish such a feat. You have a gift. An eye. And every one of those players has similar stats to Tyvis Pryor.”

  Coach dropped the folder on the desk with smug satisfaction.

  Bruno leaned forward, arms propped on his legs, and reviewed Tyvis’s stats again. They were very similar to a first-round pick he signed three years ago. But that kid led his team to the national championship.

  “I don’t know . . .” The burn of humiliation ran under his skin. How in the world did he get here?

  Why had he stayed in Fernandina Beach? It was an out-of-the-way oceanside community forty minutes from the outskirts of Jacksonville.

  Why did he stay, propping up his fledging reputation and business when he had other offers?

  Why did he give in to the invisible tug telling him to stay put? The whisper that told him he was home?

  He suspected Mom’s prayers had a hand in some of this, but she never spoke to him about God. Or church. Instead, she did something more effective. She talked to God about her son.

  “On top of everything else,” Coach said, whether to Bruno or the office walls was unclear. “I’ve got Tyvis talking to Jesus. Hope you don’t mind me saying. Seems the scourge of society today to mention the Holy Man.”

  Bruno filed Tyvis’s folder in his shoulder bag. “Why would I mind?”

  “Didn’t know where you stood on things. Anyway, Tyvis joined the choir.” Coach rocked back in his squeaky chair. “You should see him standing in the back with the rest of the men, towering over them. But he’s got a sweet bass.”

  “How long have you been practicing this pitch?”

  “Since you agreed to visit.” In his midsixties, Coach Brown had the vitality of a younger man with a passion for football in his eyes. “Call me crazy, but I think he can make it.”

  “You’re crazy.” Bruno moved to the window and stared out over the field. A sleeting rain had just started to fall. “You think I’m a miracle worker, Coach? No NFL team will consider him. He won’t get invited to the combine, and he won’t have a Pro Day at his college because JUCOs don’t have Pro Days. What’s your plan to get scouts and coaches to look at him?”

  “I thought I’d leave that up to you.”

  Bruno laughed. “You’re a bigger dreamer than Tyvis.”

  “How many clients do you have now?” Coach stood, looking at his watch, then patted his belly.

  “I’m in a building phase.”

  “So zero?”

  “Calvin is close, and if I sign him, I might take on Tyvis. Might.”

  “My guess is you won’t get Calvin if you don’t sign Tyvis. Those boys are thick. Problem with your age group is you think too small. You want only what you see, what others are doing. You think the Wright brothers worried that no man had flown before? What if Edison said, ‘Yo, y’all, candles are good. Been working for a thousand years.’”

  “Edison would say yo?’”

  Coach propped against the edge of his desk and tapped his temple. “You’ve got to think outside the box, get Vrable’s voice out of your head. Listen to me, you know as well as I do the NFL will take any player who is good enough. Got guys in the league who didn’t even go to college.”

  “That’s a rare case, Coach.”

  “Tyvis Pryor is rare enough. Stop believing the only guys you can rep are the thoroughbreds. Take a kid who is not in the limelight and break all the rules.”

  Bruno listened with one ear. Break the rules? No, he was a by-the-book man. So much so he called out Kevin for inconsistencies and impropriety. Which, again, was how he ended up in a JUCO coach’s office in Scooba, Mississippi.

  “. . . get him a Pro Day. Florida State. Jacksonville State. University of Central Florida. Didn’t you recruit the state of Florida for Watershed? Isn’t that your backyard? Tyvis is from Destin. That’s your turf.”

  “You talk as if you know me, Coach.” Bruno flipped his hand toward the folder on Coach’s desk. “But you don’t. Because if you did, you’d know a junior college player will not satisfy me.”

  Coach sighed and walked around his desk. He powered off his old computer and collected his keys.

  “You’re right. I don’t know you. A few facts and quotes off the internet don’t connect one man to another. Any other player, I’d not bother you. But Tyvis is special, Bruno. I’ve never seen a kid work so hard for so little. Hitting the weight room at five a.m., working in the cafeteria before and after class. Always ready for practice. Makes every study table. Day after day after day. For crying out loud, he still carries a flip phone. You can’t text him because he doesn’t have a text plan. He messed up, and he wants to make it right. He wants to provide for his mom, sister, and brother. He wants to try for the dream he’s had since he was nine years old. Tell me this. Why are you a sports agent? Why not a corporate lawyer or a litigator? The money’s way better, and you get to be home on weekends and holidays.”

  Bruno shifted his stance. Did they have enough time to list his reasons? But in truth, his answer was simple. “I love it,” he said.

  “Then give Tyvis the same consideration. He loves it. I’ve seen players, and I’ve seen players.” Coach’s voice resonated with conviction. “He was born to play the game. Why sit in an office or drive a truck when you know you belong on the field?”

  The door opened and Tyvis peeked inside. “Ready?”

  “Let’s go,” Coach said, jingling his keys and flicking off the office lights, ordering Tyvis to follow him to dinner.

  Walking to his car, Bruno checked his email. Besides Calvin Blue, he was chasing a player at Ohio State and another at Florida. There were no updates.

  Pulling out behind Coach’s big F350, Bruno called his mom. “How was your day?” Ever since her accident, when she lay in a ditch for two hours before anyone found her, he kept one part of his heart toward hers.

  “Mrs. Acker wanted to plant roses.”

  “In winter?” Even in Florida, there were seasons for sowing.

  “Next week she’ll have me pull them up and plant orchids. When are you coming home?”

  “Tonight.”

  “In that small plane?” Mom moaned. “I know you say Stuart is an excellent pilot, but oh, the very idea makes me quiver. Can you wear a parachute?”

  “In case we get shot out of the sky?”

  “An engine could blow up. Or fall off.”

  Bruno chuckled to himself. “Stu is an excellent pilot, and the Gulfstream jet is an excellent aircraft. You do realize he’s flying me around the South for free simply because he wants to log hours? He’s saving me time and money. Since I’ll be home tonight instead of driving or waiting for a commercial flight, I can take you to breakfast tomorrow at Bright Mornings Café. How about it?”

  “Fine, but I still don’t like you flying around in a private jet.” A bit of the tension eased from her voice. “It’ll be good to see you.”

  He’d been gone all of December. Bowl game after bowl game had him on the road. Even Christmas Day.

  They chitchatted while Bruno followe
d Coach down winding two-lane roads lined with bare-limbed maples and tall pines.

  He’d was about to say good-bye as they pulled into Coach’s driveway when Mom said, “Bruno, I’ve been keeping some news from you.”

  “Like what?” He parked behind Coach’s truck and cut the engine, his adrenaline spiking a bit. Was she sick? Cancer? No, no, don’t go there. Did she meet someone?

  Her voice had the same timbre as when she called about the accident. As when she told him Dad had died.

  “It’s Miss Everleigh, son. She died.”

  “Miss Everleigh? When?” Bruno glanced out the window as Coach waved him inside, but he lowered his head to the steering wheel instead of getting out.

  He’d just lost a sacred piece of his childhood. The cherub-faced woman had lived across the street his whole life. The woman in the memory house—as he called it as a kid—had taught him how to make chocolate-chip cookies, roast marshmallows, and construct Noah’s ark out of Popsicle sticks.

  The sprawling Victorian with turrets and spirals was where he spent his afternoons after Dad walked out and Mom worked two jobs. It was in her yard where he fell in love at first sight at eight years old.

  Beck Holiday. He hadn’t thought of her in years.

  “Right after Thanksgiving.”

  “Thanksgiving? You’re just now telling me? Did I miss the memorial?”

  “The memorial is Sunday afternoon. Miss Everleigh didn’t want a fuss, but Pastor decided otherwise. But with the holidays and folks traveling, the memorial was delayed. Will you be home Sunday?”

  “Absolutely.” He wouldn’t miss saying good-bye to the only “grandmother” he’d known.

  He finished the call and stepped out of the car, gazing toward the rainy gray horizon.

  “Rest in peace, Miss Everleigh.” He’d meant to visit her more when he returned to Fernandina Beach. The recruiting trail gave little pause to consider his own life, let alone another’s.

  “Bruno! Dinner’s on,” Coach beckoned from the opened garage door. “And it’s starting to rain. Didn’t your mama teach you better?”

  “Coming.”

  Inside, Tyvis laughed with a slender woman with reddish hair and inquisitive eyes. His sculpted, dark form dwarfed her, but he exuded gentleness. The scene was a cheerful balm to Mom’s news, and Bruno stepped into it wishing he had more moments like this in his life. Maybe even a family of his own.