serious.”
“There are a lot of players, current and former, who are more famous than me,” he said flatly.
“Your career aside, you’re a Lima.” Trevor spread his hands out. “The son and nephew of two beloved players. Your father’s case made that settlement possible. The irony is, he wouldn’t even be eligible for compensation from it if he was still alive. Both because he retired before the cut-off, and because he didn’t have the right diagnosis. Your uncle—”
“My uncle’s results are not back yet,” Samson snapped. With every word Trevor was saying the throbbing at the base of his skull grew. He didn’t want to think about where his uncle’s brain was, or who was poring over it, or when the results would come. Bad enough when it had been his father, though he’d prayed for an explanation then.
He knew exactly what had caused his uncle’s decline, he didn’t need the confirmation.
Trevor dipped his head, acknowledging what he must have realized was a sensitive subject. “You quit the game,” he continued, in an even softer tone. “At the height of your career, loudly and publicly, because you disagreed with how head injuries were being managed. You were one of the first to take a stand for yourself and other players. In the history of activism for this condition, you are an icon.”
Samson linked his hands together under the tablecloth. Another person might say they were shaking, but he was a big, strong man. Big strong men’s hands didn’t shake.
He’d played football for four years after his dad died. Four years of being gaslit by his employers about how the scientists who had studied his father’s brain matter didn’t know what they were talking about, and that Aleki had been a special, unusual case.
On the day Samson had retired, when he’d knelt next to Dean, he hadn’t been thinking about activism. He’d been thinking about his dad. And how, if people had stopped Aleki from going out in the field with concussions, maybe he wouldn’t have suffered as much as he had in his final years.
“You’re forgetting part of that story,” Samson said, his voice hoarse. “When I left the field, you declared me a coward and a traitor.” A curse.
“I did.” Trevor’s shoulders hunched forward. “I absolutely did. I’m so sorry. It was a different—”
“I don’t want your excuses. I’m out here to help out a family friend, that’s all. It has nothing to do with CTE or the NFL or football.”
Trevor’s brow furrowed. “Man, haven’t you been looking at how the sports world is covering this? Whether you want to or not, your whole past, your father, your uncle, it’s all getting rehashed. I’m not the only one calling you an icon.”
Samson’s shoulders tightened, like there was a target painted on his back. “I stopped caring what that world thought of me a long time ago.” He dropped a wad of cash on the table, not looking to sort out how much was there, just eager to get gone. The waitress could have a big tip.
“Samson . . . I retired because I started having depressive episodes.”
Samson froze. Trevor’s voice lowered. “It was bad. I couldn’t play, I couldn’t get out of bed. After I quit, it got worse. I had other mood changes. Paranoia, anger. I’d pick fights with my girlfriend, stupid fights, sometimes over the same damn thing again and again. She finally left me one day when I accused her of stealing my phone. I couldn’t stop yelling at her.” Trevor’s jaw worked. “She took our son. I only get to see him in supervised settings now. I actually don’t mind that. I’d never hurt him, but I don’t know.”
“I’m sorry.” An inadequate bouquet of words, but they were all he had.
Trevor swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I have help. There are guys out there who are way worse off than I am. I want to help them. I’ve assembled a good team. Please, will you meet with the whole group? Then decide.”
Slowly, Samson shook his head. Ice had seeped through his veins, leaving him cold. He couldn’t think about Trevor’s organization or his problems. He couldn’t think about Trevor’s son. “I don’t want to work for you. When this gig with Matchmaker is over, I’m going to—” He stopped. He was going to . . . what?
“You could save lives, Samson.”
Samson wanted to laugh at that, but not because it was funny. He hadn’t been able to save his own father, or a man he considered