Drinks, we need drinks. I head to the soda aisle. I’m feeling overwhelmed by the variety when the bell goes off inside the busy store, signaling someone entering or leaving. Instinctively, my head turns to the door as my parents walk out, both of them weaving. Mama stumbles over the curb outside and laughs, her eyes overly bright as she looks up at him. “You overdid it.” I heard Daddy tease her earlier. I know what that means. It means she’ll get that vacant look on her face and stare off into space. Daddy just grins and hooks his arm through hers then leads her to our car, an old white Volvo with a dent on the front fender. I dash back to the candy aisle and put everything back, but by the time I reach the front door, they’re pulling away, a cloud of smoke following the beat-up car. My heart drops and fear slides down my spine. No, no, no! I’m sorry I took too long in the restroom! I’m sorry I talked too much in the car! I’m sorry I can’t sit still! “Wait for me!” I scream as I run outside—
I snap awake in the dark and sit straight up in the bed, stomach in knots. I…I haven’t dreamed about my parents in forever, always able to push those memories away when I need to. I heave in a big breath and stand up, my mind lingering in the past. I recall the gas station incident with absolute clarity, down to the pimply-faced employee who found me hiding in the restroom hours later. He held a toilet scrubber in his hands, and I had packages of eaten food littered around me. I wiped my tears, stood up, and faced him, trying to be brave, terrified he was going to arrest me. I’d never stolen anything, and it had been easier to do than I’d thought it would be. He asked for my parents’ cell and had all kinds of questions, but I didn’t know their number, plus I knew to keep my mouth shut. Once I told a teacher I didn’t have my field trip permission form signed because my parents hadn’t been home the night before, and that turned into a visit from a stern-faced social services lady who sat in our trailer with a clipboard and asked if I was okay.
No, I wasn’t okay.
I fucking wasn’t.
But I didn’t even know it then, didn’t know my family was screwed up.
How was a kid supposed to know what normal was when he’d never seen it?
Somewhere down the road, though, my drugged-out parents remembered me and rolled back into the parking lot. I recall Mama running inside the store and plucking me from behind the counter where I was sitting. She hugged me tight and swore she’d never leave me again.
But she did. They both did.
After I’ve showered, I bring up ESPN’s draft page online to see if they’re mentioning me at all. Disappointment hits hard when I see I’m still listed as only a possible late-round or free-agent pickup. I need to be first or second round. I need reporters talking me up.
I shut the laptop, grab a protein bar, and head to the athletic center to work out.
What the hell does ESPN know anyway?
The facility is deserted since most guys are still recovering from the game or nursing a hangover from last night. Not me. After spending half an hour lifting, I jump on the treadmill and pound my shoes on the rubber, hoping to get ten miles in.
Coach Sanders, one of the wide receiver coaches, enters, and I hit the stop button on the treadmill.
I grab a towel and dry the sweat off my face. I’m out of breath but manage to call out. “Coach, you got a second?”
He looks back and pretends like he didn’t notice me when I’m the only one working out. Not a good sign.
“Uh, sure. Let’s hit my office.”
A big man in his early thirties with dark clipped hair and kind eyes, he’s one of the youngest, sharpest coaches in college football and the main reason I signed with Waylon. I still remember the night he came to my high school game and met me afterward then took me to dinner at a fancy steakhouse one town over from Alma, Mississippi. The waiter pulled out my chair, and when he draped the napkin over my lap, I barely kept myself from jumping up and punching him in the face.