“Everything okay?” I ask, leaning back in my chair. Already, this call has calmed me more than the two minutes I was thinking I needed just moments ago.
“Oh, yes, everything’s fine.” I can hear movement in the background and the soft giggles of my granddaughter. “Are you busy tonight?”
I almost laugh.
Almost.
Because if there’s ever been a loaded question, that’s it. Busy tonight? I have hours of tape waiting for me. A stack of scouting reports that haven’t even been cracked open. A meeting with the defensive coordinator later this afternoon, and more meetings throughout the week.
Time is not on my side.
However, the universe has a fucked-up way of resting you when you least expect it. Am I busy? Yes. Do I have more work than hours in a day? Also, yes. Will any of it matter if I look up in ten years and realize I missed it all again?
Not a fucking chance.
For far too many years, I put my career first. I told myself it was temporary. Just until the next season, just until the team rebuild was done, just until we made the playoffs. The excuses began to blend together, and since it was just me after the divorce, and my daughter wanted nothing to do with me, I doubled down, and football, my career, was all that I had. I learned early on that there’s always another “just until” I could use as an excuse. I told myself that if Bellamy ever let me back into her life, back into her heart, that I’d never again put my career before my family, and that’s a promise to myself that I intend to keep.
“Never for you,” I answer without hesitation. “What’s up?”
“I’m making meatloaf and mashed potatoes for dinner,” she says casually, as if she doesn’t realize the gravity of what she’s offering—that being included in her life is my greatest gift. “I know it’s your favorite. Want to join us?”
“You know I love me some meatloaf and mashed potatoes.” A smile tugs at my lips. “What time?” A few hours to have dinner with my family won’t change the trajectory of this team next season. But turning down this invitation? That could chip away at the fragile, precious thing I’ve spent years trying to rebuild.
Besides, I love spending time with them.
I stare down at the legal pad again, the words blurring together. The computer screen glows with paused game film. There’s still so much to get through. But I’ll be damned if I turn this down.
“I’ll have food ready by six.”
I mentally calculate how much time I have to work before heading to her place. That gives me a few more hours here. I can push the film to later tonight at home if I need to. Or early tomorrow morning. The work will wait.
I nod even though she can’t see me. “Six. I’ll be there. Need me to bring anything?”
“Just your appetite,” she replies, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
It does something to me, that smile. It feels like forgiveness. Like trust. “I’ll be there.”
“Great. Have a good day,” she says, and the line goes dead.
Silence fills my office like smoke; it’s almost suffocating as I swivel in my chair and stare out the window. The view is of an empty practice field, empty just as my life has been for the past decade or so. There are no players, no coaching staff, and no whistles cutting through the air. Just the spring air brushing across the turf.
The silence never used to bother me. I could work fourteen- to sixteen-hour days and not even notice. I’d get lost in my work, the draft, plays, game tape, the list goes on and on. It was my entire life, my entire being.
I told myself that if I poured enough of myself into my career, it would give back in equal measure. I guess in some ways it did. Respect, a reputation built on discipline and results. A career that any coach, young or old, would envy. From the outside looking in, things were great, but that success came at a cost. Honestly, I can’t say that I’d still be where I am if I hadn’t given all of myself and forgotten everything but work. I’d like to think that yes, I would be.
I’ll never know.
I’ve invested well, and I make a significant living. That’s something to be proud of, but money doesn’t tuck your daughter in at night. It doesn’t clap in the auditorium when she looks out into the crowd, searching for your face. It doesn’t answer the phone when she calls, asking you to come to dinner for meatloaf and mashed potatoes.
All that drive and determination got me the dream career. It also got me divorce papers and a daughter who once believed I didn’t love her.
That’s a guilt that I’ll carry with me forever.
I understand now that all they really needed was me. They needed me to be present, and I failed them in that regard. I love the game of football, and I know it will still be here tomorrow. The draft will happen whether I watch one more hour of tape tonight or not. Prospects will rise and fall on boards across the league. Trades will be made, rosters will shift. All of that is a given, no matter how hard I work.
But my daughter? My granddaughter, with her tiny hands and a laugh so pure it sounds like sunlight? What about my son-in-law, who is also one of my best players, who faced me head-on day one, choosing my daughter no matter the effect it might have had on his career?
My family.