1
Brock
The calm I feel when I wake up is unexpected.
This day has played out in my mind a thousand times with a different emotion each time.
Elation.
Relief.
Anxiety.
Determination.
Fury.
The calm is surprising, but the fury is familiar. It underlines everything I’ve done these last three years. It fuels me as I go through the motions.
Shitty breakfast in the canteen followed by one last visit to my prison cell.
I pick up my paltry belongings and follow the guard through an endless set of security doors.
Envy-laced ribbing from inmates pipes in from all sides.
“Where you headed to first, Sinclair? Bar or brothel?”
“Or both?” That evokes raucous laughter.
“Yo! Save some pussy for us, man!”
I don’t answer them.
I’ve mostly kept to myself for the last three years, I’m not about to change that now. My size and my profession before I came to prison means I’ve been left alone.
At six foot six, I tower over most men, and with thick muscles I’ve added to since my arrival, I’m intimidating enough to give most guys a long pause before they do anything stupid, like come at me.
Even as a newly retired linebacker for the Warriors three years ago, I’d cut a threatening image. Fury has added a few layers of intensity to my psyche, and for what I intend to do the second I’m out of this hellhole, I’m not mad about that advantage.
I ignore the furtive glances the guard shoots at me as we make our way to the front of the prison block.
At the last set of electronic doors, he hands me over to another guard with a look of relief and hurries away.
“Follow me. You need to sign for your belongings before you leave,” the second guard says.
He leads me to a grill-fronted counter. Another guard eyes me up and down before tossing a bag onto the countertop.
“Let’s see here—one set of keys, driver’s license belonging to Brock Sinclair. One NFL championship ring. One fancy-looking Rolex.” He looks up. “Is it real?”
I don’t answer.
He smirks and returns to reciting the contents of the bag.
A money clip that contained over five hundred dollars when I was arrested now holds less than seventy bucks. Frankly, I’m stunned it’s found its way here from that fateful night I was arrested, but I’m not going to whine about it.
After a successful eighteen-year career in the NFL, I have plenty more where that came from. Enough to keep me in the lap of luxury for the rest of my life.
When he’s done, I take my stuff.