Blindsided

by Shey Stahl

  Jerking my head away from them, I cover it with my pillow. “I’m not dead. Stop touching me. I just need sleep.” I wave them off, intending on installing a lock on my bedroom door, and amazed I didn’t do that already. “Now leave.” Sighing, I curse Ember for not letting them sleep in her condo. Oh, believe me, I tried for hours to get her to take them. She absolutely refused. Completely ridiculous. I even threatened to fire her over it but then realized how stupid of me that would be.

  “Are you like, supposed to be somewhere today?” a voice similar to Adler’s asks.

  I jump up, alarmed, trying to recall where I’m supposed to be.

  Shit! Training camp starts today. I’m late. And as I’m finding out, with five kids, being on time for anything is no longer possible. Ever again.

  Stumbling out of my bed, I rush to the bathroom, and that’s when it hits me. I have four girls living with me. And if I didn’t know this, my bathroom is confirmation. Let me start by saying, I’m a very clean and organized person. I do not like anything messy. If I eat in my condo, which yes, I eat there, I’m not a total fucking weirdo. But let’s say I cook—on very rare occasions—I clean up right away, even before I enjoy the meal. Some might call me OCD, others say I’m a perfectionist, and some just say I have issues. All are probably right to some degree.

  My bathroom that morning after four girls move in?

  Fucking disaster.

  There’s actually a bra hanging from the shower curtain. A goddamn bra. Given she’s twelve or thirteen, it’s not like it’s much more than a training cup, but the bottom line is, my place is entirely too small for six people to be living here.

  “This is unreal,” I mumble to myself, running my hands over my face. “You must have been crazy to think I could do this, Grant.”

  You’re probably thinking, wow, you’re not at all broken up about your brother dying, are you?

  I’m not a heartless prick. I can be, but I did love my brother. I wasn’t close with him like I am with Revel or Bonner, but still, it sucks that he’s gone. Maybe it hasn’t fully set in. Delayed onset maybe? I also haven’t had the chance to really think about it. I got the call that he’d died when I was in Hawaii and left the next day for the funeral. Day after that, I found out I had custody of the kids. Wasn’t a lot of time to process much of anything.

  Leaning into the sink, I place my hands on either side and stare at my reflection. It’s the first day of training camp today and I don’t look like a man who’s prepared to lead his team through a season. I don’t even recognize myself. I look tired and way out of my league, pretending to know what I’m doing with kids. Speaking of league, I better get my ass moving because I have someplace to be.

  Pushing aside the bra, and endless amounts of shampoo, because God forbid they all actually use the same kind, I get into the shower. Inside there’s bath toys, towels, even clothes. It’s crazy. It’s like a tornado hit my condo and strung the contents of their lives all over my place.

  It’s been two days. What the hell is gonna happen in two weeks?

  I’m usually a creature of habit once training camp starts. By this time of the year, I’m done with the late-night parties and the traveling all over the world to exotic vacations. It’s time to work, and I take every aspect of that seriously. I start my mornings by taking a fifteen-minute shower, followed immediately by a double espresso, oatmeal, egg whites, and a protein shake. Then I head to training camp.

  None of that happens this morning.

  I take a five-minute shower, and I’m standing in the bathroom with a towel around my waist when the door opens and in walks pigtails and sits on the toilet like it’s no big deal to barge into the bathroom while someone else is in there.

  What if I had been completely naked? There has to be laws against this kind of thing.

  “I’m hungry,” she announces, still wearing her pajamas and completely comfortable being in the bathroom with me half-naked, aside from the towel—which I have a death grip on.

  “Then eat,” I growl. “And can’t you knock? I’m naked in here.”

  None of that matters to a hungry five-year-old. “You don’t have any food.”

  I move closer to the door, trying to position myself out the door. “There are eggs in the fridge.”

  Haisley looks at me like I’ve grown another head. “I don’t like eggs.”

  “That’s not my problem. If you’re hungry, you’ll eat them.”

  And that earns me a scowl. “You’re not very nice.”

  “I know.”

  She slides off the toilet and out of the bathroom. “This blows.”

  You’re telling me, kid.

  Ten minutes later, I’m ready to go, my bag in hand, car keys in the other, and I realize leaving five children alone in my condo might not be the smartest thing to do. I can’t take them with me. It’s not like there’s a daycare camp for them to go to.

  But the oldest, Marley, she’s thirteen. I took care of Revel and Bonner when I was thirteen. Surely this kid could, right?

  When I’m at the door, they’re all staring at me. “Don’t you have any food?”

  Right. They’re hungry. I still haven’t eaten. “Um, I’ll call down and have something brought up for you. What do you want?”

  One yells, “Pizza.”

  Another says, “Pancakes.”

  Something strangely sounds similar to, “Cookies.”

  And finally, from Adler, “Krispy Kream!”

  They deliver all that, right? I have people who can get all that here within thirty minutes, guaranteed. When you’re the highest paid player in the NFL, you can have people to do anything you want. Believe me.

  Marley sighs, her hands on her narrow hips. “You expect us to stay here all day long?”

  “Yes.” Can you sense the apprehension in my voice? They certainly do. “Don’t leave the condo.” That is a warning I’m almost certain they won’t listen to.

  Braylee sits up on the counter in her pink pajama bottoms and is wearing a Seahawks baseball hat backward. “What do we do all day? Sit here and be bored?”

  I point at her. “First of all, get down. That’s not a chair.” She doesn’t listen. These kids have no manners. “You could start by cleaning up this mess. There’s a television too. Watch TV. Isn’t that what kids love to do?”

  “I know what I’m doing!” Adler announces from the couch in front of my eighty-eight-inch television, game controller in hand.

  I turn back to the girls who are still staring at me. “What?”

  “This is so boring,” Marley mumbles. “I wanted to go to Pike Place or the art institute. Something. It’s our first time in Seattle!”

  “Correction, you’re living in Seattle now. There’ll be plenty of time to explore later,” I tell her, digging out my phone from my pocket to text Ember. Surely she can deliver everything I forgot I needed here for them. “And besides,” I don’t look up as I continue typing. “Pike Place is crowded and overrated. You won’t like it.”

  “How can you say that?” Haisley pipes up, trying to get on the counter beside Braylee. “You don’t know that we won’t like it.”

  And before long, the little one is pulling out a drawer and using it as a stair to climb on the counter. That short one, Nalani, she’s a climber. I came in the kitchen yesterday, literally left her alone for a minute, and she was on the counter trying to get on the fridge. It’s like she’s a damn cat and has to be at the highest possible point in the house.

  They’re giving me a headache already. While typing out a text message to Ember to have food delivered, I drop my bag and then one arm it as I pry the climbers off my counter. “Stop climbing on everything. You’re not monkeys.”

  “We want to go explore!” Haisley yells in my ear when I set her down.

  Pinching the bridge of my nose, I stand there staring at four sets of really bored eyes. Adler couldn’t give a shit about anything aside from the television. At least he’s being reasonable. “All right, tomo
rrow. But I’m late. Just stay here for now and don’t leave. Ember will bring food by. Don’t kill her.”

  “You expect us to let a stranger in?”

  “You literally spent all day with her the other day. And I was a stranger to you four days ago.”

  “Yeah, and that’s going so well,” Braylee jabs, walking away to flop herself on the couch next to Adler.

  My phone’s ringing now. It’s Quinn probably wondering where the fuck I’m at. I point to Marley. “You have my cell phone number. Don’t call it unless it’s an emergency.”

  She rolls her eyes, reaching down to pick up Nalani. “Whatever.”

  You’re thinking I’m an idiot, aren’t you? How much trouble could a thirteen-year-old girl get into? She seems level-headed. I think I can trust her.

  Those might possibly be my last words. Pray for me.

  Alligator Arms – A receiver who doesn’t fully extend his arms to catch a pass because he’s afraid that he will be hit hard immediately upon touching the ball. The receiver is protecting himself from the hit and doesn’t catch the ball.

  I’m sure it comes as no surprise, but I played college ball at Texas State. My career there was amazing. I can pop off with all kinds of facts for you that would probably bore you. Like that I threw for 4966 yards with 105 touchdowns. Or winning the Heisman Trophy…. But like I said, those are facts that will probably bore you. What I will tell you about is a guy named Rex Snider. He was a wide receiver my senior year and scared to take a pass. I’m not joking. There’s a reason why he was third string, otherwise known as the backup’s backup. But anyway, he’d do this thing where he was running for the ball, and he’d never fully extend his arms to catch the ball. We called him T-Rex, but you know why he was doing it?

  T-Rex was afraid of the hit he didn’t see coming. He feared being hit from behind by a defender, so he was constantly bracing himself. And now you’re probably wondering where the fuck I’m going with this and what it has to do with me and these kids I just irresponsibly left alone for the day.

  I totally get T-Rex now. I fear being hit from behind, by five hooligans who’ve taken over my life.

  Just as I’m approaching the parking garage, my phone rings. Digging it out of my pocket, I slide my finger across the screen.

  “What is your text message all about?” Ember doesn’t bother with hellos. Which, you know, I appreciate. I don’t have time for pleasantries usually, and I’m guessing neither does Ember.

  I hate having to explain myself and my actions, but sometimes I suppose it’s necessary. “The kids. They need food. Maybe throw in some iPads or something for entertainment. You can get those, right?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I hate having to explain myself. “There are five hungry and bored kids at my condo. Take them food and entertainment. And start looking at a new car for me and probably a bigger place to live.”

  I know what you’re thinking. You’re being awfully rude, Landon. Well, technically, it’s her job, and two, I don’t have time for nice. Clearly. And, I’d also like to point out, as you’ll find out soon—Ember is a bitch to me sometimes. Not only does she refuse to have sex with me, which I find completely unacceptable, she can be so mean. Just wait. Also, this may not be relative at all, but just before I got the phone call that Grant died, we were nearly having sex, and then it was ruined by that one call.

  Maybe that’s why I’m not sad about him dying?

  No, no. That’s a harsh thing to say, but convince my dick of that because he’s holding some grudges right about now.

  “Anything else?” Ember asks, sighing heavily into the phone.

  “You could f—”

  “I mean with the kids.”

  Apparently she knew where I was going with that.

  I’m in the parking garage now, rushing toward my car, but something gnaws at me. It’s like it’s in my gut, pulling at my conscience. I just left five kids alone in my condo. Would you be surprised to learn I’m anxious? Don’t be. I’m an overthinker, until I’m on the field.

  Before I hang up, I ask, “Thirteen-year-olds are old enough to babysit, right?”

  There’s a very audible gasp from the other end of the line. “You left them alone?”

  “What else was I going to do?”

  “Oh my God, Landon. This is crazy. You need to hire a nanny or an assistant.”

  “You’re my assistant,” I point out, laughing.

  “Yeah, well you can forget it. I do not babysit children. You’re enough to handle.”

  “Try working for Revel.”

  And she bursts out laughing. “No. Way.” If you think I’m bad, wait until you meet that guy. I promise you will. He randomly shows up in town, drunk as fuck and looking for a good time. I just never know when that will be. Could be tomorrow for all I know.

  “I gotta go. I’m late.” I hang up. Again, I’m not being rude. I’m just not one for the pleasantries of goodbyes or small talk, and in case you forgot, Coach Bryant might love me, but being late is like his biggest pet peeve.

  I hit the remote on my car and toss my bag on the passenger seat. Would you be surprised to know I drive a Bugatti Chiron? Before your eyes bug out, yes, I can afford a three-million-dollar car. And if we want to get technical, it was 3.26 million after upgrades, but whatever. Perks of that contract I signed last year and the hefty signing bonus. I love it. Best thing about it, it’s not hauling around five kids, so it means this will remain all mine. Unlike my condo that’s been taken over by vicious kids out to give me a heart attack before I turn thirty.

  Next, I call my PR rep because funny thing about training camp, media is everywhere and if word gets out about the kids, which you know it will soon, I’m going to have to explain it.

  “Do you have something you need to tell me?” Harper, my PR rep, asks.

  “My brother died?” I ask, as if it’s a game of guess what. I could have sworn she knew this, but then again, everything happened in a rush so I wouldn’t blame Ember if she didn’t tell Harper. Usually they talk daily.

  “I’m not talking about your brother, though I’m incredibly sorry about that. I’m talking about the story that was leaked this morning about you being the guardian of five children.”

  “How the hell did that get out?”

  “Flight attendant.”

  “That bitch. I even gave her a fucking autograph.”

  “LC…” And here’s the pause, followed quickly by, “Why am I hearing about this now and not before the story broke? We’ve been over this before. I have to know certain things.”

  Do you sense the alarm? The hitch in her voice? The “what the fuck have you done now” LC? I do. I hear it multiple times a week from her.

  Sighing, my jaw clenches. Normally I shouldn’t have to explain myself to my PR rep, or maybe that’s the point of paying her to issue statements for me, but then again, I haven’t talked to anyone in four days. I’ve been in hiding for good reason. Apparently, I hadn’t been hiding very well. “After Grant and Melanie died they named me the legal guardian of their five kids. Surprise!”

  Just as I expect, there’s silence on the other end. And then, “Is this another one of your sick jokes? Like the time you told me you cut off your arm?”

  I fight back laughter. “Technically, I did cut off an arm that day.”

  “Off a mannequin. Not at all the same thing.”

  “I’m late. I don’t have time for this,” I cut her off. “But yeah, story’s true as shit. I’m a dad now.”

  Even as I say the words, I don’t believe them. Or maybe it’s that I’m hoping it’s all a dream and it’s not true.

  Not unexpectedly, the moment I’m out of my car, there’s a camera in my face. I’ll admit, I can’t go that many places in Seattle, or any other town for that matter, without the media following my every move. The only reason they didn’t follow me in Texas is that I have a damn good agent and a PR team, that includes Harper, that kept the media distracted wi
th a scandalous story about me and a waitress from Santa Monica they told everyone I knocked up. Not true. The waitress is Harper’s sister and played along. I did, in fact, sleep with her, but no pregnancy occurred. Thank God.

  “Sorry to hear about your brother, LC,” one reporter says, shoving a camera and microphone in my face, like I’m supposed to have some sort of sentimental response for him. “Is it true you’re the guardian of his five children?”

  I give the reporter a look. I haven’t made any statement about my brother, or the kids.

  “No comment,” I mumble, pushing through the doors of the training center. No way am I starting my day with their media circus. I’ll be sucked into it later today and that’s fine. I’m usually prepared to answer questions after practice but before, don’t fucking bother me.

  I’m not even joking when I say training camp is the worst month of the year for most football players at the college and pro ranks. Sure, it’s great to play and compete in this sport, at this level, but training camp has a way of nullifying nearly everything enjoyable about being in the NFL during August. Not only are we in front of the cameras and the prying eyes of the media, but the coaches are also closely watching our every move. Sure, to the outside world we’re talking about how excited we are to be out here working and how much we love training camp. But it’s all bullshit. Inside the locker room, the truth comes out.

  I’m not even exaggerating when I say days in an NFL training camp seem infinite. They typically begin around 6:00 a.m., not long after the sun rises, and don’t end until every last player on the field feels like they are going to collapse. Then we go home and pass out, only to get up the next day and do it all again. We’re so tired during that first week even eating breakfast feels like a chore.