make it on to the off-brand deathtrap yet?
Kicking my bag under the seat, I settled into the leather and typed out a response.
Me: Just sat down. And there were no flights left on any of the major airlines, so it was either this, FedEx, or you don’t see me.
Denver: RoyalAir sounds like a one-guy operation with a Prince Harry complex. At least FedEx is a global corporation. They probably could have fit you into their cargo bay. They must haul oversized loads occasionally, right?
Apparently, my brother was an airline snob. You’d think he worked for Delta or something. RoyalAir was actually a pretty nice, new-to-the-scene airline. Sure, their seats could’ve been a little more accommodating for a man my size, but it wasn’t like the major airlines had La-Z-Boy recliners.
Me: Ha. Ha. I’m laughing so hard my sides hurt. And to think I was going to set you up with a cute guy I just met.
Denver: My straight brother picking out men for me? Jesus take the wheel. Tell me, how big was the pool of gay men you selected him from today? Negative one?
Me: So what if he’s the only potential mate I met for you today? He could be great. You don’t know.
Denver: Right.
Me: Fine. But you’re missing out.
Denver: Sweet baby kittens. You’ve bonded with the random gay man.
Me: He’s funny!
I shifted and squirmed, trying to make room for my shoulders in the miniature-sized airplane seat and pulled my Beats headphones up from around my neck to settle on my ears. Candy bars, shampoo, even horses—all cute when you make them little. Seats that I had to be confined to for more than five minutes? Not so much.
Even the first-class seat struggled to accommodate the width of a professional football player like myself, but a few hours of discomfort was worth the end result—three blissful days with my family before the grind of the upcoming Mavericks season took over my life.
Once the season started, I never even considered flying home for fear of losing focus. It was too easy to slow down and slip into a different frame of mind when I set foot in Boone Hills. An hour and a half south of Birmingham with a population of three hundred, it put the small in small town and the simple in simple life. Frankly, it was everything I loved in life—homey, personal, completely feel-good in its eccentricities—but it wasn’t conducive to maintaining the mental focus required to lead a football team at the professional level.
My phone vibrated against my thigh.
Denver: Funny ha-ha, or funny-looking? I’m still young and beautiful. I’m not ready for someone with a “good personality” yet.
I smiled to myself and shook my head as “Rockstar” by Post Malone featuring 21 Savage pumped into my ears.
Me: Maybe you’re right. Remotely hooking you up with someone probably isn’t a good idea. You sound a lot less likable via text.
I smiled as I thought about how true that was—in person, my brother Denver was remarkably pleasant. Truth be known, he was one of my favorite people in the whole world, and I didn’t see him nearly enough. He was still in college at the University of Alabama, and my schedule with the New York Mavericks was extensive and long. My trips home were few and far between, and this would be the last one I’d be able to make for a while. Hell, I’d spent last Christmas in a cabin in the Catskills with my coach, his family and closest friends, and several other players, so dedicated was my vow to avoid hometown comfort during the season.
“Excuse me,” I heard from my immediate right. A guy in his early thirties with a flashy suit and perfectly gelled comb-over hadn’t even made ass-to-seat contact, but he was already flagging down the flight attendant. I couldn’t see Mr. Bloomingdale’s behind the line of people still boarding the plane, but based on the snap of the stupid fuck’s fingers in impatience, I immediately felt sorry for the funny flight attendant.
Darkness enveloped me as I closed my eyes, pushed my head back into the headrest as best as I could at my height, and tried to let the music drown out everything else. 21 Savage rapped about having a twelve-car garage despite only having six cars, one of my favorite lines of the song, but the annoying hum of the guy next to me pulled me out of the moment and made me crack an eye—just barely.
“Forty percent vodka, fifty percent