“Sorry, kid.” I’m a giant fuckup today.
Coach motions down the hall. “Here’s Norma now. We’ll set her up with Hazel in one of the conference rooms, and then I want you to go get your head on straight. Iowa doesn’t give a crap that your game day routine was shot to hell.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And Nick? I need your focus to be a hundred percent.”
I nod even though that feels like an insurmountable task.
We win. Barely.
But I get my ass kicked.
8
NICK
Sharp pain radiates down my thigh as I wobble down the hallway. It’s only six in the morning, but I can’t sleep. Like a bad highlight reel, I keep replaying all the mistakes I made yesterday. The post-game press conference was brutal.
I grab an ice pack and some juice and collapse on the couch.
Because I’m a masochist, I flip on ESPN. It only takes a few minutes before they recap our game. Jinxy already gave me a heads-up that they ripped me a new asshole last night, but I needed a breather before I watched the coverage.
I brace myself for the beatdown from the commentators, Joel Clark and Bo Tyson.
* * *
Joel: The Broncos had a great defensive game. If only their offense could keep up.
Bo: Nick Silva couldn’t buy a vowel, Joel. He completed only eight of fourteen passes, threw an interception, and got sacked twice.
Joel: It’s a wonder Lone Star State pulled out a win against Iowa.
Bo: That speaks to Coach Santos’s fantastic defense. It’s hands down one of the best in the country. They shut down Iowa and converted on two crucial interceptions. But the Broncos need more than a killer defense to get to the playoffs. Can’t help but wonder if we’re going to watch Silva melt down this fall the way Ezra Thomas did last year.
Joel: Or, heck, the way Silva melted down in the championship game last winter.
Bo: Having said that, Silva is one of those players I always cut a little slack.
* * *
Shit. I know what’s coming before he opens his mouth.
* * *
Joel: That’s right. Silva lost his long-term girlfriend in that terrible car accident right after his big win against USC. He was on fire that night. Thought for sure he’d be up for the Heisman soon.
* * *
I feel sick. This right here is why I deleted all my social media after Gemma died.
With a curse, I click off the TV. I don’t need their fucking pity. I have two strong wins under my belt this season and one rough game. You’d think I’d been shitting the bed the entire time. They’re already comparing me to Ezra? Really?
“Daddy?”
Fuck. I hope Hazel didn’t hear that dickwad. “Morning, honey.” I toss the bag of ice into a bowl on the coffee table and hold out my arms. She crawls into my lap, and I pull a blanket over her little legs. “You’re up early.”
She nods against my chest.
