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We’d all watched Jaxton and had to admit his talent and football acumen surpassed Dwayne’s at the same age, but the other teams in the league would be reluctant to jump on him. Using a first-round pick on a person who felt tenuous was risky, and it was anybody’s guess if the kid would grow out of it or if he were simply hardwired that way. But I couldn’t help but think how his life growing up must have molded him into who he was; maybe he became a loner because he was trying to hide what was happening at home.
The reports said that his dad was violent; would that explain his quick temper on the field when people touched him? If you watched the tapes, you could see his response was automatic, like a switch had been tripped, going after others like the threat was real. I rewatched the tape where a kid playing linebacker from Arkansas had dropped back on the field, bumping into Jaxton on a full run. Once he regained his balance, Jaxton jerked his whole body around, both fists balled up, pouncing on the Arkansas player, howling, beating down on the guy's back. I viewed that film repeatedly, noticing that when they pulled Jaxton off the kid, Jaxton looked around, bewilderment blanketing his face, seeming unaware of where he was or what had just happened. Coach Easton said it was disturbing to watch. I kept thinking Jaxton wasn’t purposefully doing this, that something else happened inside him when he felt threatened. Honestly, that gave me more pause. There was an automaticity to his reactions that I wasn’t sure could be undone.
I swung open the conference room door, gave Dwayne a quick chin-nod, and stalked straight to the coffee maker, hoping more coffee would pop me awake. But I knew no amount of caffeine could override the insistent spiraling thoughts, imagining Rakell and Bernardo.
“Good morning to you, too. It looks like you had a night, dude,” Dwayne said, his tone somewhere between humor and concern.
Turning toward him, I forced a smile to my lips. I knew I looked disheveled, not bothering to shave or put more eye drops in, and I wasn’t doing a great job of hiding my shitty mood. Dwayne probably figured that Rakell and I’d had one too many glasses of wine last night. I hadn’t told him about her surprise audition but didn’t have the stomach to talk about it rationally yet.
Without so much as a greeting, I asked, “What do you think about Jaxton?”
Dwayne came back with, “Good morning, nice to see you, too,” in a rather irritated voice. “Don’t come in here acting all huffy just ‘cause you stayed up too late and overdid it last night.”
I retorted, “I didn’t overdo it last night. I have something on my mind that I’m trying to ignore, so I was launching into a football discussion to block it out. Don’t ask me what it is ‘cause I don’t want to talk about it.”
Dwayne looked at me with a ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?’ expression. Added to that was his ‘I know what the problem is' face. We both knew what and who the problem was. “Um, trouble in paradise already?”
“Like I said, I don’t want to talk about it,” I added dismissively. “So, what do you think about Jaxton’s background?”
“I didn’t get a chance to finish reading it. I wanted the electronic file, but there was no one in the office. I’m waiting on that to finish, but I’ve watched a lot of footage with that kid, and I know his stats, so I say yes to going after him.”
“Huh? Why did you wait for the electronic copy?” I asked, confused. “We already know about his physical attributes and capabilities. He's fast as hell, has great hands, and all the usual stuff we look for in a wide receiver. It’s the psych stuff that has everyone questioning him. Since he’ll be kind of your responsibility, read the psychiatrist's assessment, and then we can discuss it.”
Dwayne reluctantly picked up the file, fingers sifting through the pages like he was trying to find the psych section of the report.
I couldn’t help but pick up on Dwayne’s hesitancy. I was wondering what the hell was going on. He had been one of the people pushing for this kid. I knew he knew Jaxton’s stats and had watched several videos; Jaxton had great speed (he ran a 4.2, forty, in the football world that’s blazing) and just like Dwayne, Jaxton had sticky fingers.
I glared at Dwayne as he stared at the words in the extensive assessment, but his eyes weren’t moving across the page. They seemed to be searching for bits of information. I sat down, watching him flip through it like it was a picture book.
I remembered Dwayne’s words about Jaxton; he’d said that aside from himself, he’d never seen anyone with such natural acumen, that instinctive sense of where the ball was headed, but there was so much more to this kid than football skills. I cleared my throat just as Dwayne turned the page to the kid's transcripts, his eyes growing wide and eyebrows shooting up.
“Huh?” I muttered, my eyes on Dwayne as he lifted his head, acknowledging me.
“Yeah, kind of amazing. Some of these classes I’ve never heard of…” he trailed off.
“He’s a double major in astrophysics and Russian,” I clarified.
“That combination sounds threatening,” Dwayne commented as if pondering what someone would do with that information.
“Yeah…but his psych background is what is most concerning.” I punched the word psych, really wanting to get Dwayne’s input from it.
Dwayne lowered his eyes and murmured, “I’m fine with it…we all got shit in life.” He sounded way too casual; there was no way he would react this way to the information in that report. I wanted to grab his shoulders and tell him to get his head in this. I thought about asking him who he had fun with last night, but I wasn’t in the mood to hear his latest between-the-sheets tale.
I let out a low sigh. “There’s stuff we go through, then there’s shit that can screw you up for life—big difference.” Damn, I didn’t have the energy for this. This was not like Dwayne, and I fucking did not need to be figuring him out, too…but as I sat there looking at him, his eyes downward, his fingers fiddling with the corner of a paper in the file, it hit me that he hadn’t even read the report. “So you got something you want to get off your chest, ’cause you didn’t read that. Read the goddamn report; Coach will be here soon. He’s going to want to make a decision on this, and you are fucking over here screwing around when you need to know what you’re signing up for. Come on!”
Dwayne didn’t move; his eyes shot up, but his head was still bent. In a nonconfrontational tone, he said, “Damn, you're in a bad mood. Everything okay?”
I ignored him. Why the hell was he so reluctant to understand Jaxton’s background? Why was he deflecting? “Dwayne, it’s the attachment at the end. They did a lot of tests on him. The psychologist must have suspected something more than a bad temper. Are you having second thoughts about the kid?”
“No, but I'm not sure why we need to make such a big deal out of the psych report,” he said, flipping through the file to the end.
“Jesus, just read it and you’ll get it,” I barked, shaking my head, moving away from the conference table toward the wall of windows. “Damn, it’s nice out there, perfect wine-tasting weather,” I commented casually, but when I turned back, Dwayne’s mouth was moving. He was looking at the papers, slightly sounding out the words. I stopped talking.
He took an excruciatingly long time to finish the first page. When he turned to the second page, he stole a hasty glance at me watching him, and then Dwayne’s eyes started moving quickly across the page, and his lips stopped moving. He seemed to be reading at a regular or fast pace now.
“Do you want to take this on? He’ll be assigned to you.”
Dwayne closed the file, his shoulders settling back, exhibiting no emotional reaction after reading a disturbing passage. One I had to reread because it was so over the top. Then he casually said, “It’ll be fine. He seems like a good kid who’s a bit of a hothead. I don’t see the problem.”
