by Shey Stahl
Inside the locker room that’s the size of a warehouse, an endless circle of lockers similar to walk-in closets line the walls, and everywhere you look the team logo is plastered. You know, just in case you forgot what team you played for. Also, there are half-naked dudes bullshitting with each other about who did what on their break and who banged who.
Sitting on the bench in front of my locker, I’m trying to harness my thoughts and take in everything going on around me. That’s when Quinn Harvey, one of our wide receivers and good friend, limps by. He catches my shoulder for support. “Dude, easy there, man. It’s only day one,” I tell him, trying to force a smile.
I love Quinn. He’s my boy. He’s just smart enough to make sense, but he doesn’t actually know what the fuck he’s talking about half the time. But Quinn’s the star. One of the highest paid on the team. He’s so talented we’ve built the offensive around the two of us. On the field, he’s a motherfucking beast. Off the field, his dick gets him in more trouble than he cares to admit. No lie, as I speak, he’s texting two girls at the same time. That’s not even the worst he’s done. He once dated five chicks at once. Take a guess as to how that ended. Yeah, awful.
“Keeping two girlfriends happy at the same time ain’t easy,” he notes, grinning like a fool.
“Why don’t you try having a relationship with the one having your kid?” another offensive lineman shouts from across the room, smiling a big pearly white and gold grin. Yep, he has gold teeth.
“I do have a relationship with her,” Quinn says. “Seventy-five thousand a year.” The room breaks out in laughter while Quinn props his foot up on my leg. It’s swollen and angry. He leans in, his voice dropping. “I don’t know why they’re laughing. I’m fuckin’ serious.”
Quinn’s been nursing an ankle injury since last season but refuses to let that keep him down. In fact, he’s been our starting wide receiver for the last two years and there’s not a chance in hell he’s going to let the rookie who came in last season beat him out of that starting spot. All of us are incredibly out of shape from the offseason, but we have to find a way to push through it. We’re highly paid athletes. Our ability to push through and be the best is why we’re here. There are no excuses. There’s only one goal at the beginning of the season. Super bowl. That means training injured. End of story.
Kumonde, our center, arrives next and sits on the other side of me. “LC, my man.” His large Hawaiian hand claps over my shoulder. “Hanging in there?” With enough ink on his arms to fill a comic book, Kumonde is an ethnic melting pot. Even he doesn’t know what he has swimming in his island veins. The massive bastard is one of my favorite people in the world. He’s six foot three, 320 pounds of muscle, and frequently brings his three-year-old daughter with him everywhere. If you’ve ever seen the two together, you’d think he was just a big teddy bear. Throw a pair of pads on him, and he’ll tear a hole in a defense without even thinking about it.
“Trying to,” I admit. I was with Kumonde and Quinn in Hawaii when I got the news Grant had died. They flew back with me but didn’t go to the funeral. I haven’t told any of them about the kids yet. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. My brother… left me his kids,” I whisper, like I’m telling a secret. It feels like a secret—one I don’t want getting out.
Do you notice the way their eyes all bug out? Like they’re not sure whether to feel sorry for me or congratulate me? I can relate to their apprehension on so many levels. You’d think I would have told Kumonde at least, seeing how he’s one of my best friends and let Cat stay with him, but I didn’t.
“How old are they?” That question comes from Kumonde.
“Oldest is thirteen and youngest is two.” The fear in my voice is unreal. Even these guys notice. I’m the fucking rock of this team and now look at me. All sorts of messed up.
“Are you serious?” Quinn asks, his eyes opening wide like he’s been hit by a ray of light from above. I nod. “Why the hell would he give you custody?”
Laughing under my breath, my shoulders slump forward. “I’m still trying to figure that one out myself.”
“Where are they now?” Kumonde asks, throwing on his jersey over his shoulders, forgoing the pads. When he realizes he’s forgotten his armor, he laughs, takes the jersey off and redresses himself.
“At my condo.”
Quinn and Kumonde exchange a look. “Wait, you mean alone at your place? Is Ember with them at least?”
I shrug, the guilt I felt earlier for leaving them alone creeps back in. “Why does everyone keep looking at me like that? The older one is thirteen. I’m sure they’re fine. And Em’s next door. I’m sure if anything goes wrong she’ll know.”
The laughter from both of them tells me I’ve done something wrong here. Quinn jumps up, waving his ebony hands around. “Ya so fucked, man. No more pussy for you.”
The two turn to leave, laughing as if I’m the punch line of the funniest joke they’ve heard, and I’m supposed to follow them to the mandatory team meeting before we break apart and meet with special teams’ coaches. But I don’t. My mind isn’t on the meeting or even football training camp like it should be. Instead, it’s on the kids and what Quinn said.
It’s hard to focus on anything but them. Minute to minute, I’m finding out new things I need to know and take care of. School, daycare, diapers, car seats…. the list goes on. I’ve got to get my shit together and figure out how I’m gonna move forward before I find myself on the receiving end of the bench.
Reaching for my phone, I call Ember to make sure she got the food and entertainment delivered. She’s really good at what she does for me and usually hates when I call to check up on her but the guys have me freaked out now that something is going to go wrong.
Ember answers on the second ring but sounds out of breath. “You owe me for this one.”
That earns a laugh from me. “I pay you very generously to do whatever I need. Pretty sure I don’t owe you anything. You owe me for what happened in the hotel room.”
“How is the hotel room my fault?”
“You stopped us… again.”
“You have a girlfriend.”
I sigh into the phone and growl, “She’s not my girlfriend.” Allesa is not my girlfriend. Okay, maybe she is, or was, but whatever. That doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’m exclusive with anyone and Ember knows that.
“For now.”
Told ya. “You’re just being difficult.”
“Landon, knock it off. This isn’t the time to talk about that stuff.”
“Where are you?”
“In the parking garage. I’m loading up the stuff and I’ll take it upstairs.”
“Cool.” And then I hang up.
Here’s a fact for you. I couldn’t keep assistants before I met Ember. They all piss me off or I sleep with them and then it’s over. Like Keri. Keri was great, but I fired her after she sucked my dick. She didn’t swallow. You can’t trust a girl who doesn’t swallow.
Oh relax, she’s working with Quinn now. It’s fine. She found a good job. Considering how long she’s been working for him, I’m pretty sure she must have learned to swallow.
After Keri there was Shelly. She wouldn’t call my ex and get my car from her condo, so I had to fire her. My ex was her sister, and she was pissed I slept with her so that might have had something to do with the lack of willingness but either way, she had to go. And I wanted that damn car back. I finally had to report it stolen and they found it three days later, on fire, with the words “cheating bastard” carved in the hood. I’d just like to point out here, never once did I tell that chick we were exclusive.
After Shelly, I tried having male assistants. Thought it’d be easier. And as it turns out, after Blake, Tom… and then Taylor, none of that was true. Men came with the same problems. Then I met Ember one night while Quinn and I were out getting tattoos and the rest is history. She runs errands, keeps up with my calendar, books private jets, and looks after my social media—I can’t be i
n charge of that. I told one pissed-off fan last season he could suck my nuts. I didn’t give a shit what he thought of the game against the Falcons and all my social media rights were taken away. Probably for good reason.
I have other people too. Like Harper. You met her. But there’s more. Chad, he’s my agent. He’s a bossy motherfucker who’s bald and has a jet-black goatee. He also has cold, dead eyes that freak me the fuck out, but he’s there when I need him to have my career back. I have a manager, Elliott. He deals with everything outside my career, hardest of all, me personally. I’m here to tell you now, I’m not exactly the easiest or nicest guy to work for. To say they earn their keep is an understatement.
Setting my phone in my locker, I stand, shake off the anxiety gnawing at me and make my way to the meeting room. I can’t have distractions today. I have to block this shit out somehow. Luckily I have Ember. I don’t know what I’d do without her if she hadn’t been there for me in Texas.
After the team meeting, which I struggled to focus in, our team is on the field and split by position, each of us working on specific plays and strategies. Thirteen practices are held here during training camp at the VMC (Virginia Mason Athletic Center) and televised by the media as well as open to the public. By the end of the week, we’ll be in scrimmage games and heavy hitting, though I’m usually off-limits for hitting. Surprisingly, I love the roughness of football. Hard hits don’t bother me one bit. Being sacked does, and before you say that’s just being hit hard, you’re wrong, it’s not. Being sacked means someone is not doing their job and it’s bullshit. Getting knocked around—just part of the game—getting sacked pisses me off.
I trust these guys, and we’ve played well together over the last three years. Who I don’t trust is Justice, our left tackle. Probably because he fucked Ember and I haven’t, but he’s sloppy and unpredictable at times. Like today. When he leaves me open for a sack and I’m picking grass out of my face guard. Remember what I said? I. Hate. Being. Sacked.
The first lesson a rookie player learns is that pro football is so much more intense than college ball. Nothing is the same. Every hit is harder, and with every play, more is on the line. Like your goddamn career.
I lie on the ground for a moment, staring up at the blue sky trying to catch my breath. Everyone tries out for the team. I don’t care if you were drafted and the team did everything in their power to get you, you still have to prove your worth every season. Football is a game of results, and if you’re not producing for them, you don’t play. It’s the old saying, what have you done for me lately? And every coach and team owner will be looking at you with that in mind.
When you start training camp, there’s something like ninety players. After cuts, the team is brought down to a fifty-three-man roster. That’s reason enough to prove your worth.
Justice laughs, throwing out his hand to help me up. “Little rusty there, bro?”
I look to the offensive line coach, and then Bryant, our head coach. I’m not rusty, I’m distracted, and I think they know it.
Also, I hate that word “bro.” It’s fucking cliché.
“Fuck you,” I mumble, picking myself up off the ground. I brush past him and get back into huddle so we can call the next play.
Welcome to training camp. Also known as hell. Few things in life will ever test one’s strength like an August in the NFL. That is, of course, until you have five kids to look after and up until now, the most interaction you’ve had with kids is your teammates’ offspring coming to practice on Saturdays. Lucky me with my alligator arms.
Front Four – The four down defensive linemen in a 4-3 defense. The primary run stoppers.
I’m not a morning person. I like nights, late nights, and it’s not unheard of for me to go to bed around three or four in the morning. Sometimes even later. And that’s when I paint, too. Not only am I Landon’s assistant and used to be tattooist, but I’m an artist, and my passion for life lies waiting on a blank canvas. Those hours just as the sun rises, it’s the only time of day I can close my mind off. All the greats were night owls. Picasso? Night owl. He’d shut himself in his studio at 2:00 p.m. and work until dusk. Winston Churchill, Bob Dylan… both night owls, too.
I’ve mastered the art of going to bed just after sunrise. Because of this, I sleep with a fan on, to drown out the other city noises. True, I live in high-rise luxury condos overlooking Elliott Bay that are heavily insulated, so city noise isn’t exactly something I have to worry about. I guess it’s a habit from when I was younger and blocking out the yelling between my parents. But, since I met Landon, I’m usually woken up by him calling and needing something. Much like this morning.
I knew he’d call and want me to take care of the kids. I even warned him yesterday I wouldn’t be babysitting and he needed to hire someone. Turns out, I’m wrong. He did hire someone. Me.
I’m so blessed.
So, like every morning since I met Landon, I’m forced to do things I don’t want to do, earlier than I care to do them.
“Who was calling you so early?” Cat stands in front of me, tying her dreads back with two strands from the front as she watches me organize the bags.
“Landon. Who else?”
“I can’t believe he calls you this early every morning.”
“It’s because he only ever thinks about football.” I went and got everything the kids would need today in a rush and just threw everything haphazardly into bags. I need to get organized before I enter his condo with the kids. I also take the time to scroll through Instagram to see if Allesa has posted anything. She hasn’t yet. I don’t know why I’m obsessed with his “sometimes” girlfriend. I’m just as obsessed with Instagram. I don’t follow anyone, but I stalk. In real life, I hashtag the shit out of everything in my head. Get used to it. You’ve been warned now. I think hashtags just might be the best invention yet. Second only to the mocha. Whoever decided chocolate, coffee and milk would pair nicely together, they’re my friend. #bestbuds #meant2be #destinedforsuccess
Told ya.
“What is all this stuff?” Cat asks, staring at the bags. You’re probably wondering who she is, aren’t you?
That’s Cat, my best friend. You remember her, right? Little red head who has a memory like Dory? She lives with me in a condo Landon pays for that’s conveniently located right next door to him. Just in case he needs something in the middle of the night. Sure, it’s a weird deal, but it’s worked for us for the last few years so we can keep an eye on Cat.
Traumatic brain injuries like Cat’s don’t work the way you think. You can thank movies for misinterpretation on that one. You don’t forget everything from your past. Those are actually easier to recall. After TBI (Traumatic brain injury), people have trouble remembering new information, recent events, or what’s happening on a daily basis. She forgets what you talked about hours ago. She forgets where she left her keys or what condo we live in. That’s why we live together.
Setting my phone on the counter, I stare up at Cat and her dreadlocks she rocks so well. I’m jealous she doesn’t have to use hair ties anymore and the fact that she only has to wash her hair once a week. “What did he want this time? Doesn’t training camp start today?”
I stare up at her, wishing I could have just a few more hours. It’s eight in the morning. Who gets up this early? Don’t get me wrong, I understand most people do. Doctors, teachers, normal people. Landon Slade. Although, let’s not make a mistake by thinking he’s normal, because he’s not. He’s a freak of nature who’s obsessed with working out early in the morning. Hell, even Cat has to get up this early for the days she works but damn. “Yeah, training camp started today. He wants me to run and get the kids food and entertainment.”
Cat’s tips her head to the side. She looks confused, as usual. “What kids?”
“Landon’s nieces and nephew.”
I reach for my coffee and then hand Cat hers I picked up at Starbucks on the way back to the condo to check the time.
“Okay, so he
has kids now? Did I miss all this yesterday when you picked me up?”
Digging through the cupboards, I find the travel cup I use and set it on the counter beside the coffee machine. “No, I didn’t tell you.”
“Because I wouldn’t have remembered,” Cat notes, sighing. “How the heck is he going to take care of kids?”
“Apparently that’s what he has me for.” Can you sense the sarcasm in my voice? It’s not that I don’t want to help him out with the kids, because I do. I love children. But remember that art I told you about? That’s my passion. For years my dream has been to get my paintings into the Westward Gallery in downtown Seattle. For years I’ve also been trying to get my shit together enough to enter into their fall expo. And this year, I honestly thought that it would be my chance. Until this. I can’t blame him for it because it’s not like he had a choice in this either.
“Where are the kids now?”
I look over at her. “In his condo.”
Smiling, she lifts her coffee to her lips. “When can I meet them? Do they look like him?”
I begin to picture what Landon’s kids might look like. #adorableAF Little brown-haired football players with his dark eyes and that adorable smirk…. #knockmeup
Fuck, girl, get your shit together. Don’t think about him like that.
There’s a knock on the door and before I can stop her, Cat’s opening the door. “We got locked out,” Marley explains. I examine her innocent face. While I can see a shred of resemblance to the Slade brothers, I wonder if Marley looks like her mom.
Cat pushes the door open wider with her foot and all five kids walk in like we’ve invited them. “Of where?”
“Our uncle’s place.”
Cat sips her coffee. “Where’s your key?”
“Duh, in there.” Adler points to the door behind them.
“We were told not to leave,” Haisley admits meekly.
It’s my turn to smile. “But you did?”