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Or, you know, something along those lines. I haven’t been able to find anyone who compares, and to be honest, I’m not really looking.
Instead, I’m focusing.
Training camp is as horrendous as it always is, but running on the beach in Australia helped me stay in shape. We plow through our first three opponents in our exhibition games, easily sailing to our wins even with our second- and third-string players in.
Some guys make the team, and others don’t. The final roster boasts only four tight ends, and I’m chosen as the starter.
Our offense has traditionally relied more heavily on receivers, but the new OC is a former tight end who wants to see our position get more play time. Coach Dixon has been a valuable asset to our team so far, and he and my brother have bonded over their shared ideals when it comes to play calling—namely, taking risks and surprising our opponents.
It’s exactly the way I like to play, and the coaching staff is here to motivate us to reach new heights we’ve never stretched for before.
As a former tight end, Coach Dixon understands the intricacies that come with the position. What he doesn’t seem to get is the fact that oftentimes, I read the play and switch upthe route he calls. It’s how I’ve always played, and none of my coaches have ever cared so long as it resulted in points.
I have to believe that he doesn’t like it because it’s a challenge to his authority as the play caller, but if I see an opening, I’m going to fucking take it whether he likes it or not.
It only happened once so far in a preseason game, and I caught hell for it during halftime.
He didn’t care that I scored. He cared that I didn’t run his route.
And I caught so much hell for it, in fact, that Lincoln actually pulled me aside before we ran back out to the field. “If you want to be a leader, it starts by listening to your coaches, bro. Letustake the risks. You run the plays.”
“But I scored,” I protested.
He gave me the kind of look that told me to shut the fuck up, and having grown up with three older brothers, let’s just say I learned pretty quickly when to shut it down.
I was benched the rest of the game—not because I suck or because they were mad at me for running my own route, but because the coaches always bench the starters in preseason games to give us the best chance at staying healthy for the games that matter.
Our first game of the season is in Chicago, and we roll over the Bears to easily catch our first win. I scored at the end of the third thanks to the quick thinking of our quarterback, Miles Hudson. He was out most of the season I was out, too, but for different reasons. He tore his ACL, and I was suspended.
Still, we came back at the same time, and now we’re starting what should be our third season together, but in reality, it’s only our second.
He’s young—only twenty-five now—but he’s a hell of a player. He’s quick on his feet and quick at reading plays, and he’s alsothe kind of guy who I could see myself grabbing a beer with after a game.
But we don’t.
Mostly because I jet out and don’t make myself available. But I don’t want to do that anymore. This season is about asserting my value on the Aces as more than just a guy who reliably grabs at least six points every game.
And that’s why, after we win in Chicago and board our plane back home, I don’t rush to be the first one on the plane. I don’t sit in the back row with my AirPods firmly in my ears as I stare out the window so nobody makes eye contact.
Instead, I board somewhere in the middle of the group, and I end up across the aisle from Jaxon Bryant, our top running back. He’s on the phone FaceTiming someone, and he hangs up before we take off. I give him his privacy, and when he’s done, he glances across the aisle at me.
“What’re you doing way up here? Don’t you usually sit in the back?”
I chuckle. “Yeah. Just wanted to mix it up. Who was on the phone?”
“My wife. Sounds like our little girl gave her a rough time tonight during bath time, and the wife ended up soaked.” He shrugs and laughs as he looks fondly down at his phone, and it feels like I can’t escape everyone else’s happy endings when I got nothing more than a first name and a hair color.
He turns his attention to his phone, and I slip my AirPods in, feeling more and more like I don’t fit in anywhere anymore as I stare out the window at the darkness of night.
We win against the Giants at home in week two, and my dad’s waiting at home when I get there.
“What was that fumble in the second?” he asks when I walk in the door.
When I say our relationship is complicated, well, it is. Sometimes he’s my best friend and biggest cheerleader, and other times, this is the guy I come home to.
I blow out a breath, and that’s when my phone pings me with a new text.
I glance at my watch first and see it’s from my brother, Spencer.
