We sit on the throw-covered leather couch, each of us sideways, facing each other. Torzi hops up between us, then settles in my lap.
“Honestly,” I say, scratching the dog’s head, “I was afraid of what I’d hear. I wanted to hear it from you first. I can get caught up on ESPN later, to fact-check you.” I’d smile to let him know I’m teasing, but I’m still too worried to manage it.
Suddenly serious, he rakes his good hand through his hair. “I— I said something I shouldn’t have said. It wasn’t a wrong thing to say, but I shouldn’t have said it. Especially to a reporter.”
When all I do is wait for him to spit it out, he inhales a huge breath, then spouts on the exhale, “She put in an interview request, saying she wanted to talk to me about my injury and get an update on my prognosis—schedule, and all that. In the locker room, after practice, she did ask about that stuff. Then she started to bait me about Busch. You know, did I partially blame him for my injury, since his absence may have made me feel off my game and may have led me to force plays? Was I aware of what was going on with him and other players around the league, while it was happening? Was I ever approached to participate in—or did I participate in—the Bedroom Bowl? As if! Did I think the punishments handed down so far were too harsh? Was the NFL making examples of these guys because of past scandals related to women? She was relentless! And so, finally, I— I snapped.”
When he pauses to catch his breath, I pull my mouth sideways. “Ruh-roh.” I grab his left hand and squeeze it.
He audibly swallows. “I went on a full-blown rant about overpaid assholes who break the law and act like animals, and how the world has made them feel like they’re above it all, just because they can throw or catch a ball or run fast. They’re going to have to bleep out a few things.”
“Is that all you said?”
He pooches his lips and scrunches his nose. “Oh, hell no. I was just getting started. I said a bunch of stuff about human rights and feminism, and then I said how sick I was of the decent guys being left to answer the ‘bullshit questions’ that should be directed at the dirtbags who can’t keep it together. I addressed the groupies in the audience, too.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Yep. I was like, ‘Do yourselves a favor: stay away from these guys. Have a little self-respect. You’re worth more than that.’ Oh, and I ripped pro athletes a new one, too. I said, ‘And guys…? Grow up. Show some self-control. Real men don’t act like horny animals.’”
I snort. “That explains why Rae wanted me to do this…” I lean forward and kiss him, intending for it to be a peck, simply to lighten the mood, but he pulls me against him, sending Torzi running away from us with a disgruntled yip.
I wrap my arms around him and kiss him harder, my eyes rolling back in my head as he flicks his tongue into my mouth. When we separate, I laugh nervously. “I had no idea you wanted to kiss Rae like that.”
He scratches his forehead and chuckles, but his smile quickly fades as he returns to his side of the couch. “And then… Then I said the thing that might get me in major trouble with the league.”
“Oh, gosh. There’s more?”
“Yeppers. I said we obviously have a problem in professional sports, because crap like this keeps happening. Or something like that. I’m not sure. After a while, it was all a blur. I… I… I couldn’t stop talking. It’s like everything I’ve thought since all this started had to come out. This reporter activated the launch sequence.”
I can’t help but laugh through my nausea. “Well, it’s not the end of the world, right?”
He looks balefully at me. “Might be the end of mine.”
“I doubt that. For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you. I still love you. Maybe I love you more. If that’s possible.”
He half-smiles. “That’s actually worth a lot.”
“Okay, good. What are you most worried about, then?”
“That everyone else will hate me. Not just for opening my big mouth and adding to this stupid mess but for how I said it.”
“And if that ends up being the case, then what?”
He shrugs. “I dunno.”
“Are they going to cut you from the team?”
“Nah. Nothing like that.”
“Then it’s basically about what people are going to think about you? That’s your biggest worry?”
Picking at his bandage, he smiles sheepishly. “I know what you’re getting at. But it’s not the same. The fans don’t have to like you. They have to like me to go out there week after week and cheer and support, in good times and bad.”
“Take a deep breath for me.”
He does.
After a few seconds, I prod quietly, “Next worry?”
“That after my hand is better, they’ll still keep me on the bench.”
“Coach Bauer’s not going to punish the whole team and make things worse by doing that.”
“If Wilcox lights it up while I’m gone—”
“Your expected return game is against a division rival. They’re not going to leave something that important to a rookie and a substitute tight end. No way. Keep going.”
Eyes still downcast, he says, “I’ll probably be fined by the league. But I don’t care much about that.”
I ruffle his hair. “Cheer up. It feels bad right now, because it just happened, but this will blow over. It’ll blow over faster if you keep your focus and do what the big wigs tell you to do.”
He lifts his eyes to mine. “I don’t want to lose my ‘C’ because I screwed up and lost my temper. But I probably deserve to lose it. I wasn’t much of a leader today.”
“I guess I should reserve judgment until I see this epic rant of yours for myself, but based
