“It’s not a big deal.” He pulls a Diet Coke out of the fridge and hands it to me. “Like you said, it was pretty evident you worked better with one. I figured it’d be best to just have them on hand, you were mean that day you forgot it. It was self-preservation, re—”
I don’t let him finish.
I wrap my arms around his neck and pull his face to mine. I don’t even try to make it a gentle kiss. I slam my mouth onto his and meet his tongue as we continue our explorations from last night.
“You know . . .” I’m out of breath when we finally separate. “If you aren’t careful, I might start telling people what a thoughtful person you are.”
“You’re the only one who didn’t know.” He winks before holding open the door for me. “The rest of the world loves me . . . well, most of them, at least.”
I know he’s thinking of Glenn Chandler and all of his followers, who are so intent on making their hate for him known. The guilt of the secret I’m hiding from him feels like I swallowed a brick. I have no idea how I’m going to keep this from him.
—
WE’VE JUST SET the charcuterie board on his coffee table when there’s a knock at the door.
Quinton glances at his watch and I try not to stare at his exposed forearm . . . again. “Five on the dot, they’re punctual.”
He walks to the door and I run to the kitchen, pulling out four glasses, quickly filling them up with sparkling water.
“Patricia, Bill, this is Elliot Reed,” Quinton introduces me to the stunning redhead and dapper man next to him. “She’s the one who helped me organize my foundation so I could act on the commotion I caused.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Masterson, it’s so nice to meet you.” I round the island and extend my hand to shake theirs, but I’m immediately wrapped up in Patricia Masterson’s arms.
“Please, call me Patty,” she says.
“And call me Bill,” her husband says. “I might be old, but nothing makes me feel it like being called by my dad’s name.”
“Patty and Bill then.” I nod, before gesturing to the glasses. “We have snacks, but would you like sparkling water before we sit?”
“That’d be wonderful, thank you,” Patty says.
Everyone grabs a glass, even Quinton, who said he doesn’t like it, before walking over to the living room. Peer pressure for the win!
Patty and Bill both sit on the couch, and Quinton and I sit in the chairs we set up across from the couch.
“Thank you for coming to talk with us.” Quinton places his glass on one of the coasters I put down beforehand. “I really appreciate you coming all this way so we can work together to hopefully bring more awareness to this problem.”
“It really is our pleasure,” Patty says. “It’s rare that we have current players come to us. Of course, your father played, so I’m sure you’re much more aware of these issues than the average player.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Quinton tense the way he does whenever his father is mentioned. I don’t think Patty or Bill notice, but I wade in just in case.
“If you don’t mind me asking, could you explain a little bit more about what pension parity is? I’ve heard Quinton say it a thousand times, but I’m still a little confused.” At this table, I’m very much the odd one out. Sure I watch football, but I’ve never lived it the way the other three people around me have. If I can understand it, maybe I can help explain the importance of it to other people like me.
“Yes, of course.” Patty looks to Bill and he motions his hand for her to take the lead. “In 1993, the players union and the League reworked the agreement between players so that once players retired, they’d be granted more benefits. These are benefits like severance packages, 401(k) retirement plans, access to healthcare plans. Things that are needed. On top of all of that, the League started to take notice of all of the dangers in the game, changing the rules and trying to make it a safer game for players to participate in.” As Patty speaks, the air of the carefree woman drifts away. She’s all business and her passion for what she’s speaking about reverberates through her every word. “Now, don’t get me wrong, all of that is wonderful and so needed. The problem with this is they’ve completely forgotten about the players who retired before 1993.”
“Okay.” I try to take in the enormity of what she is saying. “So the men who retired before then aren’t getting help from the League?”
This is hard for me to wrap my head around for so many reasons, but the main one is how often the League throws around the term “legends” and “honors” at past players. I just assumed that meant they were taking care of these men as well.
“Well, not exactly.” She picks up her glass and takes a small sip and I feel like she’s just giving me a few extra seconds to prepare. “You have to remember the pre-’93 players were also playing before they had full free agency, so the men also weren’t making nearly as much as Quinton and his teammates are today. So while the men who qualified for a pension—about four thousand still living today—get one, it’s not enough.”
“You see on the news these stories about CTE being discovered. You might see a little blurb here or there about a former player passing away, but what you aren’t seeing is the actual suffering that’s going on.” Bill leans forward. The smile he walked in with is gone, his jaw is set, and his mouth is a straight line. Talking about this clearly brings him no joy. “You don’t
