“That’s true when you’re a parent, but I’m here. Why don’t we go watch the rest of the movie with Coral, or you can take a nap or read or, hell, go do whatever and come back, or let her spend the night with Coral. Just give yourself some time to breathe.”
“We could finish the movie.” I know it well, and it’s about halfway through. Besides, he’s lonely, and it’s the least I can do since he was nice enough to watch my daughter tonight on short notice. We make our way to the living room. Will sits down on the couch, grabs Mia’s blanket, and tosses it over her, where he continues to hold her against his chest. Coral raises her arms to me, so I lift her up and set her on the couch. She pushes me over a little, which puts me closer to Will, then settles her little body next to mine with her favorite blanket curled in her arms.
The moment is cozy, and I find myself nodding off, but I fight it.
“It’s okay, Amanda. Close your eyes.” Will’s deep voice rumbles, and I can’t fight it anymore. The last thing I remember is resting my head against his shoulder before sleep finally claims me.
Five
Will
* * *
My eyes are blurry. The kind of blur that stems from exhaustion. This particular haze has settled in because I’ve been staring too long at numbers and names and trying to make meaning out of them. The depth chart in front of me might as well be written in another language. Red ink, black ink, arrows, question marks, circles. Potential starters. Second-string backups. Practice squad possibilities. Cap hits. Injury histories. College stats. Even high school stats. It’s all there, and after being at this for hours, it’s all one big blob.
I’ve been hunched over this desk since a little after seven this morning. The night shift cleaning crew was just leaving when I walked in, coffee in hand, already feeling exhausted before the workday had even started.
A quick glance at the wall confirms it’s just after eleven in the morning, but it feels like it could be eleven at night.
The draft for this upcoming season is fast approaching. In a few weeks, the decisions we make, or fail to make, will ripple throughout the entire season. Careers will be built. Others will stall. Young men will get their shot at a dream or watch it slip through their fingers.
That weight never gets lighter. If anything, it presses harder the longer you stay in this business.
I survey the yellow legal pad in front of me, filled with scribbles so frantic they border on illegible. Names of prospects. Trade possibilities. A star next to a linebacker with raw talent but questionable discipline. Three underlines beneath a wide receiver with blazing speed but hands like stone. Lines drawn from one name to another, as if connecting them will reveal some secret symmetry.
Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.
I’d love to say that there’s a method to the madness, but I’d be lying. However, by the time I work through it all, I’ll have my final list for draft day, and after that, all I can do is hope the choices I made were the right ones.
The whiteboard across the room is worse than the legal pad. It’s covered in columns and magnets, each one representing a body, a contract, a potential gamble. If you stare at it long enough, it starts to look less like a plan and more like a crime-scene investigation board, with threads connecting theories that may or may not hold up.
That’s eerily correct because, no matter how much thought, research, and stats say a player is right for our Rampage family, it could all still turn out to be wrong. I’ve been wrong before, and I’ve learned a lot over the years.
My phone rings, pulling me out of my thoughts. The sound cuts through the quiet of the room like a whistle at the start of a play. I ignore it instead, pulling off my glasses and reaching up to pinch the bridge of my nose, and close my eyes.
I just need a minute. Just sixty seconds of quiet without the expectations of the job pressing on me from every direction. Without swirls of stats and names that are starting to jumble together.
The ringing stops. I exhale slowly, leaning back in my chair as relief unfurls inside my chest. Maybe I’ll take two minutes, because I can feel a headache forming, the pain starting to ache between my eyes.
The ringing starts again. With a heavy breath and a groan, I reach for the phone without looking, already preparing to tell whatever scout or agent it is that I’ll call them back, or the Rampage owner that yes, I’m working on it, and I’ll be ready for a full report by the end of the week.
I glance at the screen, and my lips tilt in a smile.
Bellamy.
This time, the air leaves my lungs for a different reason entirely. Guilt swirls in my gut, thick and familiar. Old habits die hard. Here I am, ignoring my daughter’s call because I’m buried in a depth chart. Her name on the screen is a reminder that some lessons take a lifetime to learn.
Swiping at the screen, I bring the phone to my ear. “Hey, sweetheart,” I greet her.
There’s a split second of silence, then, “Hi, Dad.”
My heart squeezes so tight it almost hurts. She always sounds so happy. No more tentative hellos. She’s just… happy.
There was a time when her voice held an edge anytime I was involved. A careful, aloof politeness that cut deeper than anger ever could. I earned that distance. I built it brick by brick, all the missed moments, recitals, birthdays, and so much more. No matter how often I tried to insert myself into her life, she resisted, and from her young age, after my divorce from her mother, I let her.
I thought that I was doing the right thing, and it only took a short amount of time for me to realize I fucked up. It took me years to unfuck the mess I’d made of my relationship with my daughter, and that’s one mistake I’ll damn well never repeat.
Now that she’s back in my life—not just back, but an active participant, where I get happy phone calls and chances to watch my granddaughter—I don’t take it lightly.