My chest burns.
I take a sip of whiskey, forcing my hand not to tremble.
I knew this was coming. My gut twisted and rolled with it for eighteen weeks of football. I went out on that field each time with the thought that it might be my last time.
They’re deserting me. Letting me go out to the farm because I’m old.
I wait for a wave of rage to hit, the anger that boils underneath, and it’s there, but my head is stuck in other places too.
Cece’s comment that forgiving is an attribute of the strong and that I should remember it with Francesca.
What the hell did she mean?
Why have I never seen Francesca drink alcohol since Decadence?
There’s other hints. The worry on Darden’s face when he sees us together.
A cold sweat breaks out over my skin, and the muffled sound of the other patrons dims even more.
“Tuck?”
I look at Hardy, my jaw tightening. “You’re moving on to younger players. My contract won’t be renewed. Got it.”
“What’s the spin on this, Coach?” Ben asks. “We’d want Tuck to announce he’s retiring before you release a statement.”
“I wouldn’t do it any other way.” Hardy takes his glasses off and wipes them. “I hate doing this, Tuck. I really do. I wouldn’t be surprised if you ended up on another team and breathing life into them. You’ve got what it takes.”
Another sip of whiskey hits my lips. “No. Apparently, I used to have what it takes.”
He grimaces. “I’m one of the longest-running coaches in the NFL. You’re one of the longest-running wide receivers. We’re not that different. At some point, we move on.”
A kid from the restaurant, maybe ten, appears at my side.
“Can I have your autograph, Tuck?” he asks nervously, his hand twitching with a napkin and pen.
I smile. “Sure, kid. Who do I make it out to?”
He tells me, and I sign it with numb fingers.
Coach hands over papers for me to initial, and he gives me a deadline to announce my retirement, says his goodbyes, and then shakes our hands.
Ben puts a hand on my shoulder after he leaves. “That was brutal.”
Another sip. “Yeah.”
It’s over for me and the Pythons.
Again, I wait for the rage, but it’s muted.
I accept it. It’s time to move on. I roll my neck. “What’s next?”
“First, you release a press statement to the media, via email or however you want. I’ll draft one and send it over. But now, today, we can talk about other opportunities. If you want to keep playing ...” He arches a brow at me.
“Maybe.”
“Tennessee needs a veteran wide receiver. They’ve got rookies and not a lot of talent.”
I tap my fingers. Besides the team, my mother was another reason I stayed in New York. Now I have Francesca. I shelve that thought as he continues.