Mikey
There were hits you saw coming.
The safety lowering his shoulder across the middle. The linebacker slipping through the line untouched. The defensive end closing in from the blind side while the crowd screamed something you couldn’t hear over the blood pounding in your ears.
Those were the hits you could brace for.
Walking into the office of the billionaire who owned your team so you could tell him you planned to marry the daughter he had practically disowned for dating you?
There wasn’t a drill in the playbook for that.
I stood beneath the shower after practice longer than I needed to, letting the hot water pound against the back of my neck while the conversation I hadn’t planned played through my head in about fifty different ways. In at least half of them, Mr. Boyd fired me.
