have to announce to him that I’m shacking up with his ex-wife. But no point in avoiding it. I’d rather just deal with this mess head-on. Especially since it’s only a matter of time until news about my new living arrangements makes it around town. I get my friend’s voicemail and leave him a short and simple message to call me back.
I force myself off the bed and unzip my duffel. I mindlessly shove my clothes into the empty drawers until I feel something cool and squishy at the bottom of my bag.
What the fuck?
I pull out a clear plastic eye mask filled with some sort of pale blue gel. This is most definitely not mine.
Hesitantly, I reach back into the bag, and find a fruity-smelling ball that leaves a bunch of powdery shit on my fingers. Then there’s a tube labelled ‘exfoliant’, a fancy soap bar, a bottle of nail polish, a loofah and one of those stone things they scrub your heels with at the spa.
I laugh out loud.
Those assholes…
After faking a smile for the past few weeks, the sound of genuine laughter is almost foreign to me.
My teammates may be a raging herd of buffalo on the field but at their core, they’re a bunch of sentimental softies.
There’s a glittery pink unicorn greeting card underneath all the spa stuff. I flip it open to find the squiggly handwritten notes of the guys.
Pamper yourself, Princess. You’ve earned it, is scrawled with Jason Bellino’s signature.
The game isn’t the same without you, reads the inscription from Knox O’Ryan.
Get well soon…But not too soon. That message is signed by Tim Fletcher, the team’s backup tight end who’s been getting field time since I’ve been benched.
I read the notes from the rest of the guys. Finally, I come upon the note from our team captain, Maxwell Masters. You were a unicorn player, Kingston. You leave big shoes to fill.
I read the team captain’s message again and again.
You were a unicorn player.
Were.
Past tense.
No future.
You’re done.
That’s the message I see lurking between the lines.
Fuck.
I scrub a hand down my face and continue digging around. I find the bottom of the bag loaded with snacks the guys must have put there. Then my fingers wrap around a bottle of tequila. The good stuff, too.
It’s been a while since I got shit-faced, and let me tell you, the urge is strong right about now. But I’m going to prove to everybody who’s given up on me that they’re wrong.
So, I’ll pass on the tequila. During the season, keeping my body and mind in top shape is my number one priority so in general, I shun the booze. I’d choose a good cup of tea over a shot of tequila any day of the week. And I’d parade my middle fingers to anyone who dares to question my manlihood over it.
Emotionally worn out, I drop back on the bed and turn on the TV. I flip mindlessly through the channels.
I stall when I get to the Sports Broadcast Network. Many of my teammates make it a point to avoid sports talk during the season. When those analysts pick you apart, shitting on your hard-earned stats and your best on-field moments, that can easily crush your spirits. But I think I’m sort of addicted to yelling at the screen and telling the announcers what idiots they are.
Plus, I’m not playing right now and I'm craving contact with the sport so much that I'm more than willing to listen to those so-called ‘sports journalists’ running off at the mouth.
I happen to tune in right as Steven and Arty are in the middle of a heated argument about yours truly.
Was Jude Kingston a hall of famer tight end? the caption at the bottom of the screen reads.
There it goes. The past tense again, talking about me like I’m ancient history.
But I refuse to think in the past tense. I've got to keep my optimism alive. Because my career isn't over. No matter what the team expects, no matter what the doctors say. There's no fucking way I'm done playing football.
The talk show hosts bullshit about my stats, and I’m a little honored that Steven is on my side. Arty is a tool, though. As always.
A cringe slithers through me as they replay the film from my last moment on the field. My right knee twitches in pain just watching it. Shit.
It was really a freak event. That’s even how my coach described it in the press. It was fourth and