his arms over his chest. He didn’t follow football much anymore, but he recognized the kid the journalist was interviewing. Al Anoa’i, a rising star who’d been drafted by the Bisons a couple years ago.
The player was sticky with sweat, his long curly hair clinging to his face. The reporter gestured to Al’s arm. “I noticed you had something written there today during the game, what’s that?”
“Oh, yeah.” He turned his arm to face the camera. “It says LIMA. We all know about Big Joe being sick, and I wanted to show my solidarity with him and his family today.”
The reporter nodded. “Big Joe, of course, a beloved former Bisons player. Why today?”
“It’s the anniversary of the Charm walking off the field.”
At that, Samson flinched, flummoxed. Dean squeezed his shoulder. “Keep watching.”
Al continued. “Like, it was always powerful for me, as a kid, to see other Samoans in this sport that I loved, other guys who looked like me, but when Samson Lima took a stand and straight-up quit because his teammate wasn’t getting the right care? I mean, that was some formative stuff. I’ll remember that until I die.”
The reporter spoke into his mic. “Does it worry you now, playing this game? Knowing as much as we do about head injuries?”
The twentysomething-year-old screwed up his face, the sun reflecting off his sweaty brown skin. “I mean, kind of? But I love it. And I think that’s okay, you can love something and know there are problems with it. Times have changed since Samson walked off that field, and I hope the league continues to work with researchers to make our game safer so we can do what we love.”
Dean hit pause. Samson looked at his friend. “Why’d you show me this?”
“To show you what you’ve done, and to give you an idea of what you could do. Like, don’t google yourself regularly, but you might want to do it once every five years or so, enough to know that kids consider you a hero.”
Samson ran his hands through his hair. “I didn’t intend to be—”
“See, that’s the funny thing. Sometimes you don’t intend to do something, and you do it, and no one gives a fuck what you intended because you’ve done the thing.”
There’s no intent in ghosting.
“You wouldn’t let them put me back in the game, because I was your brother, and I needed your help,” Dean murmured. “Right?”
Samson nodded. Dean tapped the tablet. “You have more brothers out there, Samson. Whether you like it or not, you’re their hero. So you can sit there and talk about how you didn’t ask to be a hero, or you can simply go be the thing we all know you are.”
You made your industry better for the young men who came after you, and the older men who came before you, and you did it just by living your life.
Joe didn’t want anyone else to go through what his brother and nephew did.
Samson swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Not everyone likes me.”
“No one’s universally liked. Beyoncé isn’t universally liked. Has that stopped her? No. Be like Beyoncé.”
Samson grunted. “Being a dad has made you really bossy.”
“I know. We could be teammates again, Samson. Working together for all our other teammates.” While Samson digested that, Dean rose and picked up the tablet. He clapped him on the back. “Call Trevor. At least meet with him.”
After Dean left, Samson wandered into his room and picked up his phone. Still no call from Rhiannon.
What the hell. Before he could think twice, he dialed Trevor.
The other man picked up on the first ring. “Samson. Hello. What a surprise.”
Samson looked out the window and beat back his instinctive, immediate dislike. His personal feelings had no bearing here. “I want more information about this job offer of yours. Will you be out west anytime soon?”
Trevor paused, and when he spoke, it was cautiously, like he wasn’t sure if Samson was kidding or not. “I will be, yes. In a week?”
“Sounds good. I have a condition, though. Before we even sit down to chat.”
“What’s that?”
“I want a public apology.”
There was a beat of silence. “I’m sorry?”
Ahhh yes. He hadn’t even known what he wanted until he’d said the words, and relief, glorious relief coursed through him. “What was it that you said, when I retired? What did you call me?”
“The Lima Curse. Samson, I regret—”
“If you regret it, you’ll give me a public apology.”
“If this is an ego thing, I absolutely understand, but we’re on