Broken Play Page 5

  I slide inside the limo. Into the stifling warmth. Daddy follows directly behind me. Anders takes the seat up front with the driver.

  “No,” Daddy tells me darkly.

  I shake my head like I have no idea what he’s talking about. “No to what?”

  “No to that boy.” He looks over my shoulder through the blacked out back window, a scowl etched on his face. “Stay away from him, do you hear me?”

  “I’m not interested in him,” I lie easily. “Calm down.”

  “It won’t end well, Mila.”

  I sigh, feeling frustrated. “It never does.”

  “Because you pick the wrong kind of men.”

  “And how is Tyus the wrong kind of man?”

  Daddy isn’t fazed by my anger. He settles back in his seat as we pull away from the stadium. “He’s my employee. He’s unpredictable and emotional.”

  “And he’s black.”

  He looks at me sideways. “I don’t give a shit if he’s black, blue, or yellow. He’s not right for you. We’re done with him after this year and his prospects are bleak. He isn’t playing in the NFL again, meaning he isn’t getting paid, and you need a man with money, baby. That’s a hard fact you can’t get away from.” He closes his eyes, ending the conversation. “Find another man. One with a future ahead of him.”

  I bite my lip, turning to the window. Daddy is done with me. He’s told me how it is and that’s how it’s going to be. There’s no point in arguing. I’ve got too much at stake right now to fight him anyway. He’s talking about selling the team, my team, and if I don’t find a way to prove to him that I can be responsible enough to take it on someday, I’ll lose it forever. I can’t rock the boat by fucking with Tyus Anthony.

  No matter how enticing the thought might be.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  TYUS

  Performance Airlines

  Somewhere over Utah

  “Raise the banner!”

  “Fly it high!”

  “Bang the drum!”

  “We hear it cry!”

  “Bring it home!”

  “It’s do or die!”

  “Who dat?! Huh?!” the front of the plane sings. “Who dat?!”

  The rear sings back, “The Kodiaks! What?!”

  “Who dat, huh?! Who dat?!”

  “The Kodiaks!”

  “The Kodiaks!”

  “The Kodiaks!”

  “The Kodiaks! Hoo!” we sing in unison.

  Fists pump in the air. Hands clap. A couple of stewardesses smile excitedly, some enduringly, but the fight song ends in its usual burst of grunts and cheers from the men around me. From the front of the plane to the back, it’s Kodiak staff all the way. Not a civilian in sight, aside from the crew.

  I hope none of them are Pats fans.

  “You’re trending, baby,” Lefao tells me from across the aisle. He reaches over to hand me his phone, cuing up a video of the last play I made. The only play I made today. “People are losing their minds over you tonight.”

  I smile before handing it back to him. Before I see what I did after I stood up in the end zone. “It was a good day.”

  “We fucked up the Pats, brotha! It’s a perfect day.”

  “Pretty damn close.”

  “We wouldn’t have won without you, Anthony.” He slaps me hard on the arm with his big, meaty hand. “It was good to have you back on the field.”

  “It was good to be back.”

  This is as much as anyone has said to me about what happened today. Aside from the win, they aren’t talking about me. Or to me. Colt sits on my right playing Candy Crush on his tablet, muttering about ‘the shifty pink ones’, and a quick back and forth about the significance of this win against the Patriots is all we’ve said to each other in regards to the game. Otherwise, it’s business as usual, from everyone. Even Coach Allen.

  He didn’t say a word to me during the meeting. I didn’t say a word to him. Together we were two stones on opposite sides of the room, looking but not touching. He stared me in the eye as Big Bill Greene laid it all out for me – my past and my future with the Kodiaks. I could quit as I planned and forfeit almost two million dollars on my contract. I would be persona non grata in the NFL after that. No team would touch me after what I pulled, surrounded by rumors of injuries that may or may not be worse than anyone knew. It was a thinly veiled threat, but the funny thing is that he didn’t realize how close to the truth it was. I looked at Coach, wondering if he got the joke, but he didn’t give anything away. He never does. Not for free.

  Then Big Bill gave me my other option. I could stay on the team, take the Super Bowl bonus, and get my ass to work full time. No more bench warming. No more living in the cold of Josh Ramsey’s shadow. A fistful of cash and a chance to be a man again – how could I say no?

  I wanted to. A very angry, vindictive part of me sat there staring at Coach Allen’s old, withered face and thought about telling them to shove it all up their collective asses. I wanted to tell them that I don’t need them or their fucking money, because I don’t, but what I do need, what they do have on me that no one else can emulate, is my team. My brothers. The men surrounding me on this plane right here, right now. They’ve been my family since the day I was drafted and I have a chance to take the golden fucking ring with them this year. I don’t want to walk away from that. As angry as I am at Coach Allen, I love them more. And I wouldn’t have been able to see clear enough to remember that if it hadn’t been for Mila.

  The real prize here is getting your slot back. Getting your team back. Focus on that and try not to get too angry at the money.

  If she hadn’t reminded me of that, I’d have stormed in there and told them to eat my asshole. Or worse yet, I wouldn’t have gone to the meeting at all. My head wasn’t on straight, and that girl, that teenager, straightened it for me in record time. That’s messed up. Almost as messed up as her last name. Greene. It even sounds like money. I’m rich, but Mila is something else. She’s wealthy. She’s in a whole other league, and her dad knows it too. The way he looked at me when he found us talking outside the stadium spoke volumes; Boss Man doesn’t like me around his princess.

  Girl’s so hot, it’d almost be worth getting fired to get close to her.

  My phone pings in my hand. I glance at it, expecting another call from my sister, but it’s Darren. He finally surfaced while I was in the meeting. I didn’t hit him back until I was on the bus and the deal was done, and he nearly had a heart attack waiting for my update. Now he’s working his ass off to do damage control. Losing my spot on the team would be one thing, but if I lose any of my endorsements, that’s worse. Those are my future. My retirement.

  I talked to the documentary crew, Darren assures me. You’re off the hook for now. I’ll keep pushing them back every time they try to talk to you, but I can’t do it forever. Eventually you’ll have to sit down with them. It’s in your contract.

  I grunt unhappily. Talk to Hollis Kane, Matthews’ agent. He dodged them for weeks before he starting sleeping with the director.

  DON’T SLEEP WITH ANYONE ON THE CREW.

  Harper was the only chick.

  Still, he insists.

  What about my sit down with Coach Allen?

  I watch those three little dots that tell me he’s writing. They stay lit for a long time but when the message finally comes through, it’s short and to the point.

  No date yet. I’m talking to his secretary.

  He’s doing to me what I’m doing to the film crew.

  Stonewalling you, yeah, I know. I’m working on it.

  Work harder. Earn that percentage, baby.

  I always do. I’ll see you tomorrow?

  9. I’ll be there.

  I darken my phone, ending the conversation. I think about putting it away to take a nap like half the other guys on the plane. Most are snoring with big cans on their ears and the lights out over their heads, but a few are reading or playing on tablets. Kurtis Matthews is doing a crossword on a
n actual fucking newspaper. Gray, grainy paper scribbled to hell with the rough, blue scratch of his pen. It’s old school and he ain’t an old man, but it makes sense somehow. It fits the dude behind the silence.

  I agonize over what I want to do to kill time before I admit to myself that I already know what I’m going to do. I’ve known since I learned her last name.

  I Google ‘Mila Greene’.

  She’s all over the place. Her modeling career, her family’s charity events, her dad’s money weaving them through the web in thick strands that reach everywhere. Even to the White House. She was there earlier this year for their Easter event, and when I spot her in the crowd in her pale pink dress with a smirk on her face that looks more like a challenge than an emotion, I realize why she looked so familiar to me when I met her in the elevator. I saw this photo earlier this year. Lowry pointed it out to me. He said she looked like a piece of candy. Like a Starburst, I think it was. ‘Sour and fuckable’, and I tried really hard not to read too much into that because his relationship with Starburst is his own business. But now that I’m seeing this picture again, I’m a little disappointed in myself for agreeing with him. Mila Greene looks fucking delicious.

  She also looks like trouble.

  There’s an article just below the White House photo. The headline reads ‘Steel Magnate’s Daughter in Hot Water’ and when I click on the link, I find a blurry picture of her outside a club somewhere. It’s dark and foreign, definitely not in the U.S. The blurb under the picture says it’s some unpronounceable city in India. Mila’s not wearing the pink dress anymore. Now she’s in a whisper of a leather skirt, half a shirt, and her hair is down. It’s long, dark, and wild around her face as she smiles drunkenly for the camera, her middle finger in the air.

  I don’t bother with the article because I’ve heard the stories. Girl is crazy. She might not have seemed like a spoiled brat when I met her, but she definitely was one at one point in her life. Or multiple points. Drinking, partying, drugs. Grand theft auto. The crime, not the game, though she did run away to Scotland for a weekend with one of the producers from Rock Star Games. But that was almost two years ago. She’s been off the board since December of last year. The only recent article about her is a quick mention in the Daily Bruin two months ago saying she helped organize a Take Back the Night rally on campus. No more parties. No more men too old for her or boys too immature. It was like flipping a switch. One second she was screaming at the world, the next – silence. It makes me wonder which one is real. The wildling or the girl I met? Is she for real or was she playin’? I wish I knew.

  I wish I didn’t care.

  ***

  The plane touches down gently on the tarmac in LAX just as it’s getting dark. The sun was setting on the east coast when we left and even though we flew away from it as fast as we could, night is coming to L.A. It’ll be night by the time I get home to my empty house, and I wonder if I remembered to leave a light on when I left three days ago. Probably not.

  “Gentleman,” a stewardess announces from some hidden part of the plane, “welcome home.”

  The plane is groggier than it was before. Most of the guys are waking up from naps, pushing sleep masks off their eyes and pulling buds from their ears. There’s a smattering of weak applause, some grunts in recognition of our arrival, but mostly the men are silent. The excitement of our victory isn’t faded, but it’s definitely on the back-burner. There are bigger things to think about now, like the women they’re coming home to and the beds they dreamt about while slumming it on a stale hotel mattress. I want a shower and a shit on my turf. A beer in front of my TV and a big ass bag of takeout from my favorite Chinese place down the street. As much as I love Colt, I’m looking forward to doing all of that in my empty house without him instead of co-existing with his farts in a hotel room.

  His phone pings in his pocket loudly. It’s quickly followed by at least five others throughout the plane.

  I jut my chin to his pocket. “Lilly?”

  “Either her or my mom.” He pulls out his phone to check his messages. His eyes widen excitedly. “Definitely not my mom. Shit, I love that girl.”

  I shake my head in disbelief. “Lilly did not send you a dirty pic.”

  “No, but she says this is waiting for me when I get home.”

  He shows me his phone. His fiancé has sent him a picture of the small dinner table in her apartment. It’s crammed full of food, all of them Colt’s favorites. Mashed potatoes, cornbread, a small ham skewered with pineapple slices, and a big plate of donuts dipped in three different breakfast cereals. All home and hand made by the woman who loves him.

  “You’re gonna get fat if you eat all that shit,” I warn him with a smile.

  “Worth it.”

  “Tell it to your gut.”

  “He hears it and he’s fine with it.” He leans toward me to stow his phone back in his pocket. “You see Olynyk’s ass lately? Dude’s getting saggy as a wet biscuit.”

  “That’s dangerously close to a limp biscuit.”

  “I don’t ask what he does on the weekends.”

  “It’s his wife. She’s taking French cooking classes. That shit is full of fat.”

  “Don’t they eat a lot of cheese? How fatty can cheese be?”

  “Ask Olynyk’s ass.”

  “I like Olynyk’s ass,” Trey chimes in from behind us. “It’s wide. Keeps me safe in the pocket.”

  Sam grunts unhappily. “And it hurts like hell when it hits you across the line.”

  “You’re lucky you only have to scrimmage with him. He takes it easy on you.”

  “I’d hate to see what it feels like when he’s playing for keeps.”

  The plane jerks forward as we come to a stop at the gate. The seatbelt light barely has time to blink out before everyone stands, grabbing their bags.

  Colt and I hang back patiently. We’re at the rear. Not gonna get to the door any faster standing around hunched under the overheads than I am sitting comfortably right where I am.

  As the crowd starts to move, fresh air rolling through the cabin from the open door, Trey and Sam take to the aisle. They both clasp my shoulder tightly as they pass. It’s a wordless gesture but I read the meaning loud and clear.

  Welcome back.

  No one is talking to me about what happened but the gossip only needed the bus ride from the stadium to the airport to get out. Ramsey is benched. Anthony is back in. We’re going to win a goddamn Super Bowl this year.

  “Are we gonna talk about it?” Colt asks me bluntly, quietly, as the crowd thins ahead of us. “Or are we gonna pretend it never happened?”

  I snort as I reach for my bag at my feet. Almost everyone else has bailed, leaving Colt and I alone for the first time since we left the stadium. “You can pretend it didn’t happen?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Then why’d you ask?”

  “Why’d you do it?”

  I sigh, sitting back in my seat. I stare straight ahead at the forty-ish woman in the blue and white stewardess uniform smiling fake and full at the guys as they fold in on themselves to make it out the tiny door of the airplane, and I think I’d give just about anything to leave with them. To taste the evening air. But this conversation with Colt, it has to happen, and I’d rather it happened sooner than later.

  I’d rather get this shit over with.

  “I did it ‘cause Coach wasn’t playing me,” I tell him quietly. “Shit was disrespectful.”

  “You know why he wasn’t playing you.”

  “He doesn’t even know why he wasn’t playin’ me. That’s what bothers me.”

  “I thought it bothered you that he was being disrespectful.”

  “It does.”

  “It sounds like there’s more to it than you’re telling.”

  I shake my head tiredly. “It’s not a conspiracy, man. It’s simple. I was getting the cold shoulder and nobody was talkin’ ‘bout it. It was bullshit.”

  “So you quit?”
/>   “Yeah. I quit.”

  “But you didn’t quit.”

  “No.”

  “Did Allen apologize?”

  I lick my lips. They’re dry from being in the plane. Cracked from the cold of New England. “I heard what I needed to hear.”

  “Coach knows you’re injured,” Colt reasons calmly. “He wasn’t trying to be a dick to you, Ty.”

  “He thinks I have back spasms,” I snarl, turning to look Colt in his cool, blue eyes. He’s Kansas born but he’s a poster boy for California. Bright eyes, sharp jaw, that sun-soaked, surfer hair. Women go ape shit for him, but even though he’s my closest friend in the world, I feel like going ape shit on him. “Coach doesn’t know a damn thing about what’s really goin’ on with me, and he didn’t even bother to fuckin’ ask. He should have had a conversation with me, like a man.”

  “You wouldn’t have told him the truth if he did. You would have lied to his face, and how respectful is that, since you’re so obsessed with it?”

  “I don’t know, but it would’ve been nice if he asked.”

  Colt shakes his head sadly. “I think he knows more than you give him credit for.”

  I grind my back teeth together painfully. “Did you tell him?”

  “No. Of course I didn’t. And I don’t think Kurtis did either. That cat’s a vault. I’m just saying Allen is smarter than you’re giving him credit for. He’s been coaching football since before we were born. You think he doesn’t know the signs of CTE when he sees it?”

  My body tightens painfully. CTE is a four-letter word in the football community. Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy is a kiss of death to any career, which is funny considering it can’t be officially diagnosed until after you’re dead. They have to pick your brain apart to find the pockets of dead cells, lost connection, and general fuckery that messes with the man you are. Dudes with CTE have memory problems. Headaches. Mood swings. It means your brain is breaking down. It means you’re losing your fucking mind.