Going Long (3 page)

“Yeah, it’s okay. I want to
know, talk to me. I like to hear your voice, and you seem excited,” I said. His
voice was animated, and I could tell that his mind was made up, if only I would
get on board.

“Okay, if you’re sure,” he
waited for a few seconds. “Well, I met with Brent Nichols. He’s huge, Noles.
He’s repped so many amazing athletes. And of course, well, he’s on the board
for the children’s foundation, the same one that my mom sits on. She sort of
set this up, drove down here for dinner and everything.”

I winced a little knowing Millie
was involved and was instantly grateful Reed couldn’t see my face. “Wow, that’s
amazing she has that connection. So, what’d he have to say?” I feigned
enthusiasm, my acting skills surprisingly strong tonight.

Reed just sighed at first.
Finally, when he spoke, he seemed careful. “Well, he thinks I need to really go
this year. The options opening up are huge, and there’s a great chance that
I’ll be picked up early and go somewhere really good. There’s a huge
quarterback need and the class coming out is only two or three guys deep.”

I knew all of this, of course.
The pundits had been talking Reed up a lot over the summer. He wouldn’t be
number one. There was a running back at the University of Texas who had that
locked up, provided he stayed healthy. But Reed was in the mix for the top 10
for sure. Forcing myself to be supportive, I offered up my best. “Well, this
gives you some good stuff to think about then, huh?”

“Yeah, it does,” he let out a
heavy sigh, but collected himself. “I still have some things to work through,
though. I can’t formally declare or sign with any representation, so I’m going
to talk to Dylan Nichols. Brent said Dylan would give me a call. I think it’s
his son, and he’s a little more off the radar. He can put feelers out, I guess,
without it being front-page news.”

“Ah, I see,” I said, nodding and
smiling as if he could see me. When I remembered that I was home alone under my
covers, I let the frown reign again.

“You sound tired, do you want to
go to sleep?” Reed asked in response to my silence. Suddenly, the thought of
hanging up with him frightened me.

“No, no. I mean, yes, I’m tired,
but… can I just keep you on the phone for a while? You know, maybe fall asleep
with you near? Unless you have something to do.”

“Why, are you asking me to talk
dirty to you, Nolan?” Reed put on that deep, devilish voice that normally had
my heart racing. But tonight that was the last thing I wanted.

“No,” I giggled, hoping it
sounded genuine. “I just miss you. Is that okay?”

“Of course. Get comfortable, and
turn off the lights. I’ll tell you a story, okay?” he said kindly. I knew what
was coming. Sometimes, when I was really stressed, Reed would retell the story
of our relationship, about the first time he danced with me, the first time he
held my hand, when he wrote me a letter telling me he thought I was beautiful.
He never retold any of the bad parts, about how his ex-girlfriend Tatum had
bullied me and kept us apart. And normally, I didn’t give thoughts of her the
time of day. But tonight I was instantly zeroed in on my memories of Tatum,
primarily her pregnancy scare…and how that almost ruined Reed’s life.

I nestled into my covers and
pushed my pillow up to my face, muffling the sounds of my crying while Reed
spoke sweetly in my ear. So much for pretending.

Reed

Game day had me pumped. Oregon
was in town, and this game mattered more than most. Oregon was our biggest
divisional competition.

Noles liked to pretend that the
Devils would give us a run for our money, but not this year. I was glad, too,
because the line last year really did a number on me. I was pretty sure I
cracked a rib, though I’d never mentioned that to anyone. There was this
unspoken rule about bringing up your injuries. If you said them aloud and a
member of the coaching staff heard, they had to follow through with MRIs and
doctors’ opinions and shit. But if you never said them for anyone to hear, and
no one asked, then those smaller injuries could sort of slide under the radar.

There were a lot of people that
hated that side of the game, and I get it. But hell, I wanted to play, and if
they had to tape my neck together just to hold my head on in order for me to do
so, then I was fine with that. The lawyers, though? Well, not so much. So we
kept our mouths shut, and played, no matter how much it hurt.

So far, I’d been lucky. No big
hits to threaten my clear mind and strong arm. But I knew that
big hit
was always looming. I saw it in the eyes of every angry linebacker that looked
right through me, every single game, sometimes even during practice. That’s why
my draft entry this year was so important. The longer I put it off, the bigger
the risk that I would become damaged goods, unwanted in the only world I’ve
ever really wanted to belong.

I had to make Nolan get that. I
know deep down she understood, and I hated that I was making my priorities
bigger than hers.
Selfish asshole.
That’s how I felt. But whenever I
tucked it to the back of my thoughts, it found a way back to the forefront with
news about someone else’s career-ending injury or some sad story about a washed
up athlete working as a real-estate agent. Or my own damned brother and his
pathetic, plastic life that I didn’t want in the worst way.

But now it was time to clear my
head. The walk from my dorm to the workout room was my favorite, especially on
Saturdays. The campus was empty, so I slid by unnoticed. The truly dedicated
academic sorts, filtering in and out of the main library on the weekends,
couldn’t give a shit who I was, and it was glorious.

September in Tucson was hot.
Hell, October was hot, too. But September was downright brutal. Frankly, it
gave us an edge when the West Coast teams came to town. When you practiced
every day in the searing 100-plus degrees, playing a few hours during an
evening game was no sweat, literally. The visitors were usually less fortunate,
heat exhaustion quick to settle in.

The sun was lighting up the
nearby desert hills, and the sky was on the brink of turning the most awesome
orange. There was a faint and familiar smell of rain and dust in the air from
the faraway thunderclouds. Everything about the desert was home to me, but I
mostly loved taking it in because it reminded me of Nolan. I can’t explain why,
maybe it was all of the times I’d kissed her at sunset. But it did. And
this
walk
…this time of the day? Well, it was just my favorite.

My phone rang as I opened the
door to the workout room. I pulled it from my pocket, recognizing my dad’s
ringtone right away. Dad thought it was hysterical that I gave him ZZ Top’s
Sharp
Dressed Man
. It was Nolan’s idea because of the crazy-ass suits my pops
always wears.

I dropped my bags by a bench
just inside, and swiped my phone to answer. “Hey dad, what’s up?” I said,
sliding my feet from my shoes and getting my gear ready.

“Hey, Kid. You ready for
tonight?” he asked, as excited as ever. No one would argue my pops was my
number-one fan. He was my champion and rock, too.

“Hells yeah,” I laughed a
little, sitting down to try to pull at the laces on my cleats with my spare
hand.

“Good, good,” dad chuckled.
“Noles is coming, yeah?”

“Of course! She doesn’t miss a
game,” I smiled as I spoke.

“Good,” Dad paused for a bit,
which made me a little nervous.

“Why? What’s up,” I was
suspicious now and stopped what I was doing.

“Nothing, nothing at all. It’s
just, well… Mom’s coming tonight, too. She’s got a lunch set up tomorrow for
you to meet Dylan.”

“Oh, okay, that’s fine. Noles is
okay with whatever, you know her,” I relaxed a little.

“Yeah, I know she is. I just
don’t want Millie to get to her, that’s all,” Dad said, acknowledging the
shitty attitude my mom always put out whenever Nolan was around. I didn’t want
to admit it, but she had never warmed to Nolan. I finally talked to my dad
about it one night after an especially
Millie Johnson-Snyder
type of
evening that sent Nolan home in tears I was sure. He just told me it was part
of my mom’s flawed personality and that I needed to write it off and tell Nolan
to do the same. As much as I didn’t want to think badly about my mom, I had to
agree with him.

“Alright, I’ll make sure I make
Noles deliriously happy before she has to spend a second with Mom,” I laughed a
little, though I wasn’t kidding, and I was already coming up with ways I could
boost my girl’s confidence before my mother tore it down.

“Okay, Kid. You’re a good nut,
you know?” Dad said.

“Yeah, yeah,” I laughed. “You on
your way?”

“Sure am. I’m going to pick up
Dylan for the game. If I get there early, we’ll stop by, sound good?” he said,
I heard a honking sound in the distance over the phone.

“Yeah, that works. Hey, though,
Pops? Why don’t you go focus on driving now, huh?  I’m gonna let you go,
okay?” I insisted. I had an irrational fear of car crashes; I knew this. But
being careful wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

“You got it; see you in a bit,”
Dad said, hanging up almost mid word. He was so awkward with his phone as it
was; the thought of him pushing buttons while he cruised along the highway in
his big-ass truck, going well over the speed limit, was about all my mind could
take. That
stubborn
ass
had a death wish, I swear! But not on my
watch.

I’d been massaged, whirl-pooled,
stretched, taped and wrapped. This was the part before the game where I sat on
the training table with my legs dangling, listening to my favorite playlist; it
was a new one Nolan had made for me. She sent me a new one every few games,
always with some funny song that she said was the key to defeating my opponent.
Colorado State had a John Denver tune, which was about as rockin’ as on-hold
music, but fuckin’ funny nonetheless. The Cal game was a series of Beastie Boys
songs—I kept that one around because it was just badass.

Lying back, I shut my eyes and
readied myself for her latest masterpiece. The first one was some rancid song
from the ’90s; I think it was that chick that was married to Kurt Cobain? I
couldn’t even make it through the first verse without sending Nolan a text. I
knew she was still in Coolidge.

Uh…grunge? What the hell?

I flipped to the next song,
which was some old punk tune. Not half bad. This one I could take. I smiled as
soon as my phone vibrated in my hand with her response.

Hey, first of all don’t knock
Hole. Vintage Courtney Love was the shit. Second, she grew up in Portland : - )

I laughed. It was a stretch, but
she’d found an Oregon connection.

OK, good tie-in. But still,
she’s not helpin’ me out here. I’m going to need to pull out my own stuff if
this list doesn’t get any better.

I waited for just a few seconds
before she responded.

Song 11. Trust me. XXOO, leaving
now. See you soon! I’m in section 111 with Sarah. I’ll catch up with you and
your dad after, ok?

I scrolled to song 11 before
responding, and when I heard the familiar riffs of
Thunderstruck
start,
I got a huge-ass grin and wrote her back immediately.

Ahhhh, now that’s more like it.
You do know me after all. Now, if I can just get you on board with Jay-Z and
Kanye…

I waited, but there wasn’t a
response, so I knew she must have left. I tucked my phone into my bag and lay
back, getting lost in Nolan’s latest soundtrack, which, thankfully, got a lot
better and rocked out for the remaining songs.

Dad showed up about an hour
before the game, just like he always did. Buck Johnson had a special pass, and
he got to wherever he wanted in the building—probably
any
building, I thought
—
on campus. His name was on more than a few
gold donation plates throughout the athlete quarters, and most of the coaches
knew him by first name. Hell, Coach Toms, my quarterback coach, had bought
every family automobile from Johnson Buick in Tucson since the late ’90s. To
say my dad was tight with the staff around here was putting it mildly. They
were family.

Manly hugs and pats on the back
were being passed around. I just watched, leaning on the table. My dad could
work a room. I hoped that one day I’d have a tenth of his charisma. The love
fest was soon broken up by a series of whistles and catcalls. I watched my
roommate, Trig, jump up on one of the benches and cover his mouth, waving his
hand like he’d just bit into a hot pepper. He was starting to laugh a bit with
surprise when he locked eyes with me, almost as if he was trying to give me a
warning telepathically. His message, however, hit me too late. I was suddenly
in the presence of a five-foot-ten-at-the-very-least blonde with legs that
could make even the most faithful of boyfriends turn flirtatious and stupid.

My elbow slid from the table,
making it impossible to hide my gawking. I hadn’t even pushed my eyes upward to
take in her face yet, but I knew from everything I’d seen so far that she was
hot…like…supermodel hot. I saw my dad put his hand flat against her back and
lead her closer to me, and for a moment, I understood. “Ah, I bet this is his
latest girlfriend,” I thought.

“Hey, Kid. You said you were
ready. You don’t look it to me, you look lazy,” my dad kidded, but with a bite
of truth. “Do I need to have a talk with Toms? Is he letting you slack off?”

My dad’s belly laugh was iconic.
I watched him nod to Coach Toms across the room, who acknowledged my
game-readiness with a smile and thumbs up. “Kid’s always ready, Buck. Born
ready,” he yelled over his shoulder as he headed into the front office to choke
down some dinner.

“Yeah, he sure was,” my dad
said, reaching over to give me a hug now. My eyes finally found the spectacle
standing behind him—her blue eyes crystal and perfect, not a hair out of
place. Her silk blouse was so tight over her chest, leaving little to my
imagination, though what my imagination was doing needed to be stopped,
immediately. This was difficult because she was smiling now, and it was the
kind of smile that reeked of whatever that thing was that kept heroin addicts
coming back for more.
Trouble
. It was trouble.

“Dylan Nichols,” she said,
holding her perfectly manicured fingers out for me to touch, her eyes drilling
into mine, and her shiny lips stretching into a smile that showed off her very
expensive teeth. Shit! This…is Dylan?

I reached out and shook her
hand, removing the grin from my face and pulling out my best indifference
despite the worry that now consumed the pit of my stomach. “Nice to meet you,”
I said—friendly, but nothing more.

“We made good time,” my dad
piped in. “Thought I’d get the introductions out of the way, before we meet up
with your mom tomorrow.”

Mom. That’s what it was about
Dylan. She was, in so very many ways, Millie Johnson-Snyder. No wonder my mom
liked the Nichols family so much.

“My dad’s told me a lot about
you, Reed. He’s a big fan,” she said with a certain air of confidence.

Okay, flattering, but she wasn’t
flirting. This was good.

“Your numbers look
good—impressive, in fact. You could go higher than Patricks did last
year, but only if the timing’s right.”

Dylan Nichols knew her way
around the business of football
.
“Thanks,” I said. One-word answers were
safe.

“We’ll talk more tomorrow,
sorry. I didn’t mean to let business creep in before your game. Habit, blame my
dad,” she giggled, but not in a girly way. She
was
Millie…and Nolan was
going to
flip the fuck out
at lunch tomorrow. 
 

“I gotta go get ready,” I said,
slinging my jersey over my shoulder to take her hand one more time in a
business-like shake. “It was nice to meet you, Dylan. My girlfriend’s excited
to meet you, too,” I said, forcing the words from my mouth and putting them
where they didn’t belong, but wanting to make my relationship
clear—probably wanting to clear my own conscience a bit, too. The part
about Nolan being excited, however, was overkill. All I had going for me now
was playing up the humor in the misunderstanding of gender-neutral names,
something Nolan could relate to. But I knew even that wouldn’t soothe the
discomfort she was sure to feel when she was sandwiched at a table between the
young and seasoned versions of my mother.