“Who do you think they are going to draft?” his sister Stephanie asked him.
She’d been with Warren for every draft since he’d gone pro fourteen years ago. He’d never forget being drafted first and having to walk out on stage.
Scared shitless was what he felt, but he’d never let on.
Everything he’d been working years for was going to come true and it only added more stress on his shoulders to make sure he didn’t blow it.
His mother and both his sisters were by his side that day in the best dresses that he could afford to buy them. He would have spent more, but his credit card at the time was maxed with those purchases and what he’d accumulated in college for years.
Of course, once he signed his first contractthoseworries were gone. Just more added that he might have a harder time controlling.
“There is talk they want a quarterback,” he said. “But not in the first round. We need a running back. I’d like to see some bigger guys on the O-line.”
He had no hopes that his contract would be extended past the remaining two seasons. He’d be thirty-six and by then, no team was offering much more than one or two years at a time.
Warren was here for one purpose and he didn’t achieve that last year through no fault of his own.
This coming year was the time for them to build the team around him as they’d promised to do.
But they would need to plan for the future and drafting a quarterback would give him time to help train the newbie to be his replacement.
“They need to give you better protection,” Stephanie said. “How come there isn’t anything chocolate in your house?”
“You should have put that request in,” he argued. “Marcia makes whatever I ask, and if I don’t ask, she makes what is part of my nutritional meal plan.”
Stephanie rolled her eyes. “Do you ever just let go and have a big BLT with a side of cheesy fries?”
“There will be plenty of time to eat like that when I’m retired,” he said. “Until then, nutrition is part of my regimen.”
He didn’t get to where he was by taking shortcuts.
When he was told to do something, he researched it to make sure it’d be a good fit for him and tailored it to work the best in his life.
Having a personal chef come in a few times a week and make his meals to store in the fridge for him to warm up was better than having someone underfoot all the time.
Sometimes he had to do a little prep with them, but nothing major, or anything he couldn’t handle. He’d been doing enough on his own for years.
He found having it all in-house and ready to go was more efficient and was willing to pay for it. Maybe one of those splurges with all his money. He didn’t spend nearly what he had or what other players did.
He couldn’t be some fancy showoff no matter how many zeroes were behind his name.
“Your boring life,” Stephanie said. She was opening cabinets looking for snacks.
“To the right,” he said. “It’s all for you.”
Stephanie went to the cabinet he was pointing to, opened it, and squealed. “You’re the best, Warren.”
He just hoped she ate all the chips, cookies, and fruit snacks she lived off of as a kid before she left. He might be tempted to have some if they were left here.
She was right—it wouldn’t kill him, especially in the off-season.
But having an alcoholic father, he worried that addiction ran in his blood too easily.
Being addicted to hard work never hurt anyone, but that meant sticking to it and not enjoying a midnight bag of Lays.
The better shape he stayed in now, the easier training season would be when all the other guys were coming back out of shape and swearing up a storm after an hour of weight lifting they should have continued doing.
“You’ve been telling me that since you were a kid.”
