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I slid my arm around my mom. Her eyes brimmed with apprehension every time the subject was brought up. Her panic about children around the water was palpable. Even if I didn’t have the same fears (I watched my niece and nephew closely), my mom did not hide the terror that her grandkids being around a pool stirred. Melissa and Tom had talked about getting a pool, but my mom had begged them not to, and Melissa had agreed. “You guys go look. I had a mesh pool cover installed, which fits the pool perfectly, and it’s alarmed. Plus, I have the TV on the porch, so there will be lots of folks outside, too.”
My mom squeezed my hand and smiled. “Good. I heard you're going to be Cameron’s chaperone tomorrow. The field trip is not until 10:30, but you should still be judicious with the alcohol. I know this is a big night, but you will need to be alert tomorrow, considering that Cameron tends to run off. The last thing Melissa needs is those pre-school teachers gossiping about her football brother being hungover and useless.” She shot me a you know what I mean look, eyebrows raised, her mouth pursed. Damn, I seriously wanted to yell, what the hell! Why in the hell do moms feel the need to remind you of the things they had already drilled into you? The exact things you’ve already learned and have proven you are capable of again and again? But alas, a friendly reminder to your almost twenty-nine-year-old Super Bowl champion football star son is what she felt was required now. It’s true that no matter who you become in life, to your parents, especially moms, you're still that crazy teenage boy caught up in shenanigans, not capable of good decision-making.
Of course, I didn’t say any of those thoughts scurrying around in my head. I damn sure knew better from taking in my dad’s she’s right look. “Thanks, Mom,” I offered as I held up the Topo Chico (bottled water from Mexico, a Texas staple). “I plan on sticking to this tonight, maybe a whiskey after we announce.”
“Fine,” she said, smiling. “Do you have the misters on outside? We’d love to enjoy the backyard.” She looked toward the group of guys who’d just walked in the door, some of my buddies from my UT days, whooping and hollering like we were all twenty again. “It’s going to get rowdy in here.”
Dad took her hand. “We prefer rowdy in the privacy of our own home.” He winked at my mom’s scoff. I shook my head, turning to greet the guys, showing them the cooler, and letting them know to help themselves to the taco bar.
The house went from maximum decibel level to eerily quiet, as if everyone were lost in silent prayer, the collective knowing the next draft decision impacted our choice. We all focused on the TV. Dwayne sat between Coach Mark and me, blowing into his balled-up fist like a pitcher trying to warm his hands on a cold day.
As they announced the Denver Broncos, a group of college students from the University of Colorado walked up on stage and approached the podium. They desperately needed a wide receiver, but would they take the chance on Jaxton? The sports commentators went back and forth on why they might choose him.
Dwayne sucked in an audible breath; his eyes fixed on the large screen.
Coach Mark cupped Dwayne’s shoulder, squeezing. I heard him whisper, “It will work out as it should.”
Dwayne shut his eyes briefly, then opened them. Letting his shoulders drop, he fell back against the couch, and I could tell he was trying to control the nervousness boiling in him. Dwayne had become a target on the field, so we knew that the only way to gain some leverage this year was to add a quality number two wide receiver.
The University of Colorado college quarterback leaned into the microphone. It turned out he was the nephew of a Bronco alumnus. He said a few words about his uncle, then announced that they were drafting Kevin Stuart, a tight end out of Vanderbilt. The cameras panned to the Green Room, Kevin high-fiving numerous other recruits, jumping up and down and hugging other guys in there; the sports reporter congratulated him before letting Kevin say a few words. He beamed and thanked his family, the Vanderbilt football organization, and fans.
Then, the camera zoomed in on Jaxton, Denver's logical choice based on need. He sat motionless, knees spread slightly, elbows resting on his thighs, hands clasped together tightly. His appearance was something else: a tattoo-covered neck, one of them creeping up over his stiff stubble-covered jaw; auburn-mussed hair tossed like a mop on his head with earrings gleaming from each ear. Then there were those icy-colored eyes that glared at the space before him as if he were all alone, no one else in the room.
I stole a glance at Coach Mark, who grimaced at me, then at the computer screen with Coach Easton and the others in the office at the Sacramento stadium.
The anxiety thrumming off Dwayne was palpable. I knew he wanted this kid badly, not just for the team but for him. He had something to prove by bringing him on and helping him be successful. Yet niggling at the base of my neck was the fear that this kid would somehow be damaging to Dwayne, that Dwayne’s earnest desire to make a difference in this kid's life would backfire. I shook it off when Dwayne turned to me, a shit-eating grin taking over his face, his stark white teeth contrasting with his dark skin and black animated eyes. He whispered, “Denver didn’t take him. I think we got him, bro. We got him.”
I faked a soft smile and said, “Let’s not celebrate until it’s announced. We only have a few more to get through, and then we’re up.” Secretly, I fucking wished another team would grab him. Who’s next, Miami? They’re in the market for a quarterback. They’ll snag the kid from Oklahoma. I heard he had the chops to be a great quarterback eventually. I still didn’t like the kid simply because he’s from Oklahoma. If you go to UT, you're trained to dislike Oklahoma and Texas A&M. You just can’t undo that kind of DNA-level training passed down from generation to generation. It really becomes an issue for folks when their kids go to rival schools; that’s cause for therapy in Texas, and maybe the suggestion from the parents that paying for college yourself builds character. Most of them are only kidding.
Bodies began shifting around the couch, whispers floating through the room. The Condors would get their pick. Melissa handed Dwayne and me glasses of our favorite whiskey. Coach Mark declined one. Cassie nudged up to my side when the TV screen flashed a short play from the Super Bowl, my pass to Dwayne, which he had run in for the winning touchdown. The sportscasters speculated that the Condors were taking a big chance, but they noted that Coach Easton refused to listen to the whisper campaigns swirling around the players: “Case in point, Jake Skyler, what did he go, fourth or fifth round? Then spent his time in Seattle getting to know the ladies, not the game. Well, look at him now, he’s still ‘Pretty Boy’ to us, but he proved he could play football. He must have a lot of gratitude to Coach Easton.”
I moved my eyes from the large screen TV to the computer, catching Coach Easton’s gaze, my chin down, mouthing, “Thank you.”
He chuckled. “Skyler, they keep going with the same old story, and we got it. How about giving them something else to talk about? We need to see more of you and Rakell, so the media has a new story to tell. How about a big wedding?” He guffawed.
I could feel the room’s attention shifting as Dwayne hit me on the back. “Believe me, ‘Pretty Boy’ would be all over some monster-ass wedding.” He smirked, adopting a drawl as he spoke, clearly soaking up his stage. “The biggest event in Austin, right there at his dream hotel, The Driskill. Shit, the media would have plenty of fun with that…Problem is, he’s gotta convince that girl she wants the same shit.” Laughter exploded in the room.
Then, all eyes moved back to the TV as a young high school student from Sacramento was introduced. She took to the podium surrounded by a small group of teenage girls. She explained that she and several other members of her soccer team and their families had been displaced after the horrific Paradise fire when she was in fifth grade, and a Sacramento family had donated heavily to ensure that the girls’ soccer teams from Paradise could continue. She had just been accepted to USC to play. Once she approached the podium, she said there was someone special she had to thank, a family who’d funded all her soccer expenditures, which had allowed her to continue to play the game that kept her going despite the despair that loomed over her town and loved ones.
“I want to thank the Easton family for their generous donations to me and female youth sports in the Sacramento region. I am so proud to stand here to announce the draft pick for my hometown team. The Sacramento Condors chose a wide receiver out of LSU, Jaxton Meurtran. Jaxton Meurtran,” she repeated, beaming at the camera, then smiling at the Sacramento crowd in the stadium. My house erupted with clinking glasses and hooting, but it was sort of a forced celebration, like when you clap but look over your shoulder thinking, are we really applauding for this?
Just then, the camera shifted to Jaxton in the Green Room, guys clapping him on the back, him reflexively jeering at them. I could see his arm muscles flinching in the gray suit the team had made for him as if to say, don’t fucking touch me. Jaxton made his way to the podium, looking like he was being led to the gallows. His eyes darted around as if he expected someone to ambush him any second as he navigated his way to the stage. He gave a perfunctory stiff hug to the commissioner, who handed Jaxton his jersey. They tilted toward the camera to take the obligatory picture. Seconds later, Jaxton turned to retreat as though he was leaving the principal’s office after a reprimand.
As he was about to exit the stage, a microphone was shoved in his face, a news reporter enthusiastically asking him if he was excited. Jaxton’s icy-gray eyes (I wasn’t sure what color they were, but they looked like cloudy ice to me) locked with the camera, and his words came out dispassionately, his face unchanged as he said, “Momma, you didn’t sacrifice in vain. I’ll make it up to you.” Emotionless, blank, sending a prickle up my spine.
I looked at Coach Easton on Zoom, his face stiff, then at Coach Mark, concern blanketing his expression. Dwayne leaned in close and said, “Shit, I have my work cut out.”
“Mmm…hmm,” was all I could muster.
Chapter Twenty-Three
They walked through the store, picking out items for dinner. She registered Jake’s furtive glances, the way his eyebrows pulled in as if he were questioning her. The frustration emanating from him was not lost on her as they wound through the aisles.
“Hey, do you want any bread with this? We could get some fresh sourdough,” he asked in a tone he’d use with an emotional three-year-old.
“No, I don’t eat bread, you know that,” she snapped, turning her head from him.
“Um, sometimes you eat sourdough, so I was just…”
