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“Thanks for bringing us tonight.”
His hand squeezes my thigh. “Thanks for coming.”
Ella sighs in her sleep from the back seat, and I close my eyes, and for the length of this drive, I let myself pretend that this is my life. That these are my people. That the heart really doesn’t ask for permission, and mine has already decided.
Chapter Seventeen
Alexei
Coach has been running us like dogs for two straight weeks, and today is no exception.
“Again!” he barks from the sideline, the whistle already between his teeth. “Ivan, you’re a half-step slow on that rotation. Again!”
I’m not a half-step slow. I know I’m not. But arguing with Coach Royce during playoff prep is like arguing with the weather — pointless, and you’re going to get wet regardless. So I reset, drop into stance, and run the play again.
My legs are burning. We’ve been at this since nine, and it’s pushing noon, with sweat stinging my eyes. Weston’s beside me, breathing hard, his face red from frustration and effort. Even Briggs, who never looks tired, is bent over with his hands on his knees.
“One more set!” Coach yells. “Then film review. Then special teams. Then you can go home and cry about it.”
Weston mutters something I don’t catch, but I can guess the general sentiment.
Playoffs start in nine days. Nine days until the first round, and if we win that, we’re looking at a path to the championship that runs through Detroit and then whoever survives the NFC bracket. The whole building is wound tight — coaches, trainers, front office.
I run the play. Get it right this time — or at least right enough that Coach doesn’t scream my name again, which I’m counting as a win.
The thing is, I should be miserable right now. The hours are insane. My body hurts in places I didn’t know had nerve endings. I’m watching more film than a Sundance jury, eating meals that are measured to the gram, and sleeping on a schedule that would make a monk feel imprisoned.
But I’m not miserable. Not even close.
Because at the end of every one of these days — after the sprints and the film and the ice baths and the meetings — I get in my car and drive home. And when I walk through the door, Ella smiles a gummy smile at me and babbles when she sees me. And Ryleigh is in the kitchen or on the couch or sometimes asleep with Ella on her chest, and the apartment smells like whatever she cooked, and I drop my bag by the door and the day just falls off me.
It’s like having a charger. All day I’m draining the battery, and then I walk through the door and plug back in.
I haven’t told anyone this because it sounds soft, and saying soft things in a locker room is how you end up with a nickname that sticks for three seasons. But it’s true. Ryleigh and Ella are the reason I’m playing the best football of my career right now, and it’s not because they give me something to play for — that’s the cliché version. It’s because they give me somewhere to not be a football player. For a few hours every night, I’m just a guy who holds a baby and eats dinner and argues about what to watch on TV with a woman who has terrible taste in reality shows and refuses to admit it.
After practice, I shower, change, and check my phone. There are three texts from Ryleigh.
The first is a photo of Ella sitting in her high chair with baby cereal on her chin, both hands, and somehow in her hair.
The second asks, “What time are you home?”
The third, sent two minutes later, says, “Never mind, not rushing you. Take your time. Ella and I are conducting a very important experiment with applesauce.”
I’m grinning at my phone like an idiot when Slate finds me in the parking lot.
My agent is leaning against my car, which he does when he wants to talk and doesn’t want me to have an escape route. He’s in his usual uniform — suit, no tie, shoes that are probably Italian leather or something equally impressive.
“Got a minute?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No.” He falls into step beside me as I unlock the car and toss my bag in the back seat. “Quick update. Media appearance Thursday got moved to Friday. Morning show, puff piece, five minutes. Playoff push, team chemistry, the usual. Smile, say the right things, don’t mention the refs.”
“When have I ever mentioned the refs?”
He gives me a look.
“That was one time. And he was wrong.”
