Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 22810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22810 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 114(@200wpm)___ 91(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
And for what?
What do I have to show for it? Who did I do it all for?
I sigh as the elevator passes the lobby and drops into the underground parking.
I know this has to be my last year. It’s not going to get any better.
But I was hoping this season would be different. That it would be fun again. With this new team and all these good players, I thought it would give me new life. That I would feel some of that old excitement I used to feel back in the days when I was something. When the whole stadium chanted Flamethrower in unison whenever I scored a goal.
Instead, it’s just making me feel old and tired and depressed.
It’s all coming to an end and I’m left questioning why any of it even matters if I have no one to share it with.
The doors open with a ding and I let out a long breath as I push off the wall and head out into the parking lot.
It’s all Ferraris, Porsches, and Lambos down here. I find my beat-up Range Rover and climb in. During my rookie season, I had a ridiculous car just like those, but all it did was cause me stress. I hated worrying about someone dinging it whenever I went into a store. I hated that people always stared and gawked at me and took pictures. This old Range Rover makes me feel normal.
That’s what these kids don’t realize yet. Normal is the luxury.
I drive out of the lot and into the pouring rain.
“What?” I whisper when I see a kid—about fifteen years old—standing in the rain holding a sign with my name on it. He doesn’t even have a raincoat. He’s just in a soaked hoodie and jeans.
Please Harris Sutton. Just a moment of your time.
The poor kid is drenched. The sign is all soggy and the ink is running from the words. He’s probably been standing there all day.
I don’t want to deal with this. I just want to go home and relax before the game tonight, but I slowly hit the brakes and roll down my window.
Rain pours into my truck as he runs over.
“How long have you been out here?” I ask.
“Six hours,” he says with chattering teeth.
“Get in the truck.”
His face lights up. “Really?!”
“Yeah, really. I’m getting soaked!”
I roll up the window as he runs around the hood and hops into my truck. He’s drenched and that water goes all over my seat.
“Do you want an autograph?” I ask as he pulls his hood off.
He shakes his head and water splashes onto my dashboard. “I have a favor to ask.”
I groan. I should have kept driving.
“What is it?”
“My father is your biggest fan,” he says as he starts to get teary-eyed. “He got hit by a car last month and he’s in pretty bad shape.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, putting a comforting hand on his wet shoulder.
He aggressively wipes away his tears, trying to keep it together. “He’s not going to walk again.”
My stomach sinks as he lists all of his father’s injuries and the surgeries he’s going to need. The man is lucky to be alive.
“It’s been so hard on our family,” the kid says. “And he’s been really down.”
“What can I do to help?” I ask. “Do you want a signed jersey? I think I have an extra one in the trunk.”
“He already has four of them hanging in our basement,” he says. “I was hoping you could come visit him.”
I shift in my seat. “I don’t know…”
“It would mean so much to him,” he quickly says. “He’s at the hospital around the corner. It would only take ten minutes. Please, Mr. Sutton. Please. He needs this. Our whole family needs this.”
I look at the poor kid who’s soaked to the bone and so cold his hands are shaking. My heart goes out to him for waiting six hours in the rain for his old man. I don’t have anyone in my life who would do that for me.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”
“Really?!” he says, his face beaming as he wipes away his tears.
“Buckle up.”
A few minutes later, this kid named Arthur is leading me through the hospital to his father’s room. He tells me what a big fan his dad is and how he used to bring him to the games when he was younger. They’d both wear my jersey and have a great time watching me kick ass.
“Just a second,” he says when we arrive at the room. My stomach is in knots, not knowing what to expect. “I’ll go prepare him.”
He disappears into the room and then comes back a minute later, smiling his head off.
I walk in and force out a smile at the broken man lying in the bed. It’s worse than I expected. He looks like he got hit by a whole fleet of trucks.