of satisfaction as I sat, and a few seconds later, a bartender brought over a couple bottles of beer. Wright lifted his and tilted the bottom out.
“Cheers,” he said.
“Cheers.” I clinked my bottle against his and took a drink. “So. What can I do for you, Mr. Johnson?”
“Wright is fine.” He’d already taken out half his beer before he set it back down on the table. “First things first, congratulations on your win.”
“With all due respect, congratulations aren’t needed. I considered that a practice, at most.” I took a sip of my own beer, mostly to keep the swell of anger rising up inside of me at bay. “I appreciate the notion, though.”
He crossed his arms. His ever-prevalent grin was haughty and difficult to take seriously. “I saw that it wasn’t too much of a trial for you.”
“You saw it?” I asked.
He knocked back the rest of his beer and held it up in the air, and bartenders quickly jumped to replace it with a full one. “I did, and I was impressed with your performance. You appear to be the glue that holds your team together.”
Well, that was true. “I do my best, sir.”
He laughed. “And humble. What more could you want?” He leaned forward a bit. “You know, I’ve been following your career for some time. All the way until you disappeared after college. Who knew you were right here in my pasture?”
We spent the next thirty minutes talking about nothing in particular. He asked about my family, my career up to that point, and how I felt about Idaho. I didn’t know what Wright’s angle was. He didn’t seem to be the kind of guy who drove into the sticks to have a beer with a semi-pro quarterback, but he hadn’t asked for anything specific or steered the conversation in any one direction. Still, it was my dream to go pro, so I wasn’t about to turn down the company or friendship of such a powerful contact. He ran in the same circles I was hoping to travel into one day, hopefully, one day soon. So he could ask me my blood type, and I’d answer him.
Wright was starting his fourth beer and powering through like he was still stark sober when he finally raised an eyebrow and asked, “All right, level with me, Zeke. Why were you out there playing around with those amateurs? Charity? One of them have cancer or something?”
I recoiled a bit at that insensitive statement but shoved it off. “No. I found out that they were applying for semi-pro status. I knew they weren’t worth their salt, so I had to break their spirit a little bit and get them to stand down.”
Wright started nodding and laughing. “There it is. Well, I think you certainly succeeded in that mission.” He crossed his arms and looked to the ceiling. “You know, I thought I remembered hearing something about a new team applying for semi-pro. They put a big game on their website, and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. How surprised I was when I showed up and saw the Montpelier Vipers getting off the bus.”
I hunched my brow. Wright’s twos weren’t making four. On the one hand, he was acting as if he barely knew anything about the Widows applying for semi-pro, but on the other, he was saying he drove all the way to Montpelier just to see them. He was either trying to confuse me on purpose or just straight-up lying. Whatever the case, I quickly filed away a note that I’d have to mind myself around Wright or I’d get caught in a web. I wasn’t about to call him out on his nonsense for the shit Widows or their cocky captain, but if I was going to continue to see him for awkward beers, I’d have to make sure to stop myself after one bottle.
I emptied my beer and set it down on the table, and Wright raised an eyebrow. “Want another? I’m paying.”
I shook my head. “I’m good. Drinking too much after games doesn’t sit well.”
Wright laughed. “Young metabolism. You never know which way it’s gonna go.”
My resulting chuckle was forced. “Yeah.”
“Well, if that’s it, then, I suppose I won’t take up more of your time. It was a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for indulging an old man just trying to get out of his office and experience a little excitement.”
“Sure,” I responded, even though I knew his innocent old man