A pair of Kodiak cleats step in front of me. “You want a hand?”
I nod to Andreas, reaching for him. He grunts as he helps pull me up. He’s not a big guy. Kickers don’t have to be. I’m sure lifting my two hundred plus pound butt off the ground is a real treat for him.
“What’s Conlin’s problem?” he asks when I’m vertical.
“I puked in his shoes once. He’s into my ex. Oh, and he’s a piece of shit.”
Andreas grunts before heading back toward the sidelines. “You better get in formation,” he tells me. “Maybe the correct one this time.”
“Yeah, fuck you very much, man.”
He flips me off over his shoulder, his head down.
After the wakeup call from Conlin I keep my head on straight. The rest of practice passes in slow motion, but when it’s finally over I hit the locker room only long enough to tell the guys about the party I’m throwing and get my gear.
I even tell Matthews, but I know he won’t come. Andreas either. They’ll stay home and sit in the dark staring at their walls, eating mac and cheese. Maybe get a hooker. Macramé a dreamcatcher.
I honestly don’t know what other people do in their spare time. Weird shit, I assume.
I’m halfway home when my phone rings through the car speakers. I glance at the caller ID, grinning when I see her name.
“I was just thinking about you,” I answer.
“I don’t doubt you were thinking about a girl, Colton,” my mom acknowledges drolly, “but you most certainly were not thinking about me.”
“You know me too well.”
She hums in solid agreement. “How was practice?”
“Long. I’m worn. I’m heading home now to get some sleep.”
“How’s the knee?”
“It’s strong.”
“What does the doctor say?”
She doesn’t believe me. She never does. Not when it comes to this.
I suppress a sigh. “He says it’s strong.”
“Can I see it in writing?”
“You want a doctor’s note?”
“I wouldn’t turn it down.”
I chuckle, turning down my street. “I’ll have him fax you one.”
“It’s not nineteen ninety-two. Have him email it to me.”
“Yep.”
“Are you doing your exercises?”
“Every day.”
“And night?”
“That’s what I meant.”
“It’s not what you said.”
I slide into my parking spot in front of my building, knocking the car into park. “What’s with the third degree, Mom? What’s going on?”
“I want to make sure you’re taking care of yourself,” she answers unapologetically. “You’re on the other side of the world—“
“Country.”
“—and it’s not easy watching your blood getting beat out of your baby every week.”
“Are you talking about the Seahawks game? They barely touched me.”
“Anderson Cooper was talking about PTSD symptoms in NFL players who have had brain injuries.”
Ah fuck. Here we go.
“I’ve never had a brain injury,” I remind her patiently.
“It got me thinking about that hit you took in college.”
I drop my head back hard against the seat. “It got you worrying, you mean.”
“Those boys broke your knee and knocked you out.”
“I was stunned. I was never knocked out. You know that.”
“I’m starting to wonder what we know and what we don’t.”
“You’ve gotta stop watching Cooper. He doesn’t know shit.”
“He knows how to dress.”
“The gays always do.”
“He’s not gay,” she protests hotly.
“He came out,” I tell her mercilessly. “He has a boyfriend. Deal with it.”
“Stop it or I’ll tell you that Megan Fox is gay.”
“Go for it. You’ll make a million fantasies come true for me.”
I hear her laughing over the line. It makes me smile.
It makes me homesick.
“Are you ready for the Panthers this week?” she asks.
“I’m ready for anything.”
“Even their blitz heavy defense?”
“Especially that.”
“Good. I’ll put money on you at church.”
I chuckle in disbelief. “You know that betting ring is illegal, right?”
“Pfft! It’s not illegal. It’s for charity,” she insists. “I only keep half the winnings.”
“What charity is it going to? I’ll send them a check.”
“You already do. Every month.”
“That’s generous of me.”
“I raised you right.” I hear the familiar creak of her old recliner as she sits down. I can picture the living room around her, modern and bright from the remodel I funded for Christmas last year, and that old, ugly brown chair is parked in the middle like a dump on the floor. She’s had it for ten years and she wouldn’t let me get rid of it. I hate it. So did the designer. We had it on the curb for an hour before she dragged it back inside and locked us out for the day. I slept in the garage the way I used to when I came home past curfew and found the house sealed tight.
“You did,” I agree, stifling a yawn. “I gotta get inside and get some sleep. I’ll talk to you on Sunday, okay?”
“Sure, sounds good. ‘Bye, baby.”
“Bye, Mom.”
“I love you.”
“Love you too.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
COLT