I scratched my face. “How do you feel about skirting a morally gray area for the son of your oldest friend?”
She was quiet on the other end of the phone.
“Pretty good, I think,” she answered slowly. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on.”
Emmett
Days moved incredibly slowly when you were waiting for something big to happen. And Allie had warned me that what I was asking would take time.
It required patience.
But that was in short supply, especially as I stood in the tunnel at Lambeau, waiting to take the field to kick off the season. There was an edge to my mood, a weight that I wasn’t used to carrying.
Hearing the screams of the crowd, the music, the fireworks, the spectacle of another season … it felt like an anchor around my chest.
In the end, our three-point win against Green Bay was not the cleanest, most decisive victory. Our offense didn’t click until the fourth quarter, and I was thankful for a solid defense and great special teams for keeping the win within reach. I threw two interceptions, Darius dropped a perfectly thrown pass that would’ve been a touchdown, and I was sacked more times in a single game than I ever had been.
I was still sore from the beating I had taken.
As week two rolled around, the daily grind of practice and meetings and press and film study began again, I started to doubt—really, truly doubt—that anything could be done this season.
And no matter what I said to Coach and Don, I didn’t want to walk away.
The talking heads were having a field day with Ft. Lauderdale. Normally, I tuned them out because it didn’t help me do my job to listen to their opinions. Ned’s shouted comment had taken root, digging in deep enough that the press got wind of friction, even if they didn’t know any particulars.
I hated hearing about it. But I found myself unable to sit in a quiet house by the time I was done at work. So I kept it on in the background all week, tried to filter out their voices when they talked about how awful I looked in week one.
After practice and a few hours in the film room with my offensive coordinator, it was dark by the time I got home. I kept the lights dim in the kitchen while I made myself an omelet.
After tossing the eggshells into the garbage, I caught sight of the crate Adaline had sent me and smiled.
I ate every damn one of those vegetables. But it did nothing to blunt the edge of how much I missed her.
I’d received sparse updates on Tim’s health through Molly—Parker wasn’t really returning texts, and I could understand why. He was settling into a new team, and his dad was given less than a year to live, given his decision to opt out of treatment.
Sitting in my big, dark house, weekly deliveries seemed like such a paltry way to accomplish anything. As I wolfed down my dinner, I glanced at the clock on the wall of my family room.
It was just past six by Adaline.
Living like this—no matter how busy we both were—was not something I could stand anymore. I needed something.
Anything.
Me: I’m staring at an empty vegetable crate, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away.
She answered almost immediately, and a warm, contented feeling settled in my chest when I saw her typing a response.
Adaline: Does it match your décor?
Me: It’s a bit more ‘broken down farmhouse’ than I prefer.
Adaline: Maybe you could set it outside next to your fancy pool and a family of seagulls could roost in it.
Me: Are you kidding? That crate is precious to me. It deserves better than bird shit.