Page 127 of Fumble Into the End Zone
I slanted my head to the side, catching on to what he was getting at. He knew I didn’t want to connect with my teammates. Before I could come up with a clever answer, my phone vibrated. I don’t answer my phone in therapy, but with Mia being pregnant, I made the exception.
Unknown Number
Marcus, don’t punish your brothers.
“This bitch,” I said, and Dr. Choice’s head jerked backward.
My mother attempted to increase communication for the Elite Bowl tickets she wasn’t getting from me.
“Sorry, Dr. Choice, my bio mother wants Elite Bowl tickets as if I want her at my big game,” I said.
“Marcus, this is the first time I’ve heard you use foul language in regard to your biological mother. Let’s unpack it,” he encouraged.
I rubbed my fade, hesitant but open. “All right,” I said.
“What do you want from your biological mother?” Dr. Choice asked.
Since our first meeting, I’d been thinking about the ten-year old me. He still wouldn’t allow me to curse her ass out and block the number.
“I want to know why and how. Being away from my daughter over the weekend makes me physically ill. She walked away for over nine years and created a new family. Then she popped back up while I was in college as if we were cool. No sorry, no nothing.”
“Okay, how do we get you into a safe place to pursue those answers?” he asked.
Per usual, I didn’t have an answer because I’d never thought about it.
“Judging from your face, it’s something we need to think about,” he said, and I nodded.
Chapter 17
Elite Bowl Dreams
Mia
“It’s Mia, invading your podcast airwaves. We are the number one go to for the culture and sports news. We are hosting a special live tonight. Who you got for the Elite Bowl? You don’t have to ask who I’m cheering for. Our Armadillos, of course. We’re going to open our phone lines tonight. Tell me who you’re willing to put your paychecks on,” I said.
I peeked over at Harley sitting next to me, coloring. After Marcus boarded the team plane yesterday, she had been my shadow. Tonight, I was too tired to convince her to stay home. She packed a bag, and I let her tag along. With the Elite Bowl coming up, Scott and I shifted back to our evening format for the live.
I pressed the number one.
“It’s Mia, who you got,” I said into the mic.
“Aye Aye. I’m on live. This Torrence. I’m a New York fan, but this gon’ be a good game.”
“Where you live, Torrence?” I asked.
“Houston. I know, I know, but I think Todd and Urban gon be too much for Allen and Landry,” he said.
For the last week, I’d watched Marcus dissect New York’s defense. He admitted the corners were good, but he tried to convince me they had weaknesses.
“We will see,” I said and punched the number four.
“It’s Mia, who you got,” I said.
“This Andrew. Man, Houston got this. It ain’t gon’ be easy, but I already took off for the parade.”
After an hour of fans calling in with their predictions, we shut it down. It was Harley’s bedtime, but she was still awake. I’m glad because I could not carry her to my car. As I removed my headphones, my phone vibrated.
Marcus
