Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Carter’s next to me, and the second the word final flicks on the scoreboard, registering my first Renegades win, he grabs me in a bear hug.
“You’re the man! The new fucking man! I knew it!”
I can barely speak, I’m so psyched. But I’m even more relieved.
I want to point out that he scored two touchdowns, that he’s the man too. But all I can choke out is, “This was a great game,” and hope Carter doesn’t catch all the emotions in my voice.
Thankfully, the din of the stadium drowns out the gravel in my tone. Coach Greenhaven jogs over to me, offering a hand to congratulate me.
“Good job, Cafferty,” the man says.
“Thanks, Coach.”
I steal a quick glance to the stands, wishing my brother were here, but knowing he’d be proud of me. Not for winning. But for giving it my all.
The kicker, Hayden, swings by, patting my shoulder. Isaiah, a tough linebacker, follows and high-fives me. More players congratulate me, and it’s overwhelming in the best of ways.
But it’s only one game. I need to keep doing this every Sunday.
I head along the sidelines, and the team’s PR guy meets me, congratulating me on the win. I met Ian earlier this week—a stylish Black man dressed today in trim charcoal slacks and a purple button-down.
He ferries me through a few post-game interviews. I’m still in a happy daze, which makes it easier to answer questions from the reporters. But I’ve also made a ton of progress with handling the press during the last year, thanks to Jason’s advice that night at his house. Find your shtick, he’d told me.
I chose to be the thoughtful quarterback, focusing on strategy as I answered questions, and it’s worked well. I should thank him next time I see him, but I’m still a little irritated at his assumptions about me.
And I’m also still hot for him.
It’s fucking annoying, these warring emotions—desire, frustration, admiration.
When I’m done with the interview, Ian flashes me an I’ve-got-a-good-secret smile. “You’re not done yet. The owner wants to see you.”
I flinch. “Wilder Blaine?”
“That’s the one and only owner.”
I gulp as we head into the tunnel. At the end of the corridor, the billionaire who owns the team waits for me, looking like, well, like a billion bucks in his Tom Ford suit, tanned skin, with a hint of ink on his wrists.
Wilder’s smile is electric. This is a man who loves you when you win. I hope he loves me forever. “Cafferty, nice to have you on the team.” He extends a hand to shake.
“Thank you for, um, having me.”
“Listen, I have a favor to ask,” he begins. “There’s a weekly podcast launching tomorrow, and I pulled some strings with the station to get you on it too. I’d love to have you out there with the fans and the media. This town loved Cooper, and we want them to love you too.”
There’s only one podcast he could mean. Monday Morning Quarterback launches tomorrow. The show is getting some serious pre-launch buzz, and it’s co-hosted by none other than media darling Jason McKay.
Shocker. Our paths are crossing again; what an extraordinary coincidence.
“Of course, I’d love to do Monday Morning Quarterback with McKay,” I tell Wilder.
The owner thanks me and leaves, and I let out a deep breath. Ian smiles, then pats my arm. “It’s like being called into the principal’s office when you were a kid, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I agree, but that’s not the only reason I’m catching my breath.
Ian nods toward the corridor. “Let me know if you need anything before tomorrow. I’ll text you the address and meet you there in the morning.”
That’s exactly what I need. A buffer before I face Jason again. “That would be great,” I say, then his phone buzzes in his hand.
Ian peeks at it, then back at me. “That’s my hubs. The kids are going to bed. I need to call and say goodnight to my littles.”
With a wave goodbye, he heads down the hall, phone to his ear, a happy bounce in his step.
I stand in the corridor staring after him, thinking about how casually Ian mentioned his husband. So smoothly it feels like his orientation is a fact I already knew.
Jason’s words from last week walk up behind me once again, whispering in my ear.
Your journey.
I don’t want to be on a journey.
But for the last five days, I’ve been noodling on Jason’s assumptions about me.
At first, I hated it. But I realized I’m only irritated because he’s onto something—something I need to deal with sooner rather than later.
I’m not ashamed of who I am. But, and I hate to admit this, I can see why Jason thinks I’m in the closet. I can see why others might too. The last person I dated was Rachel, my college girlfriend.
I wish I didn’t have to think about how people view me. But I’m a visible player in America’s favorite sport.