Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 90290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 451(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
“Is this, sit in the living room kind of business, or dining room table?” I ask Alan.
“Living room is fine,” he says.
Peyton sets Stevie Nicks down and tells her not to jump. Alan asks some questions about her, which we answer on our way into the living room.
“Alan, can I get you anything?” Peyton offers.
“Water is fine. This won’t take long.”
His statement gives me pause. Why would he be in California if what he’s about to say or show me won’t take long? He could’ve called from his high rise in New York if that’s the case. Still, we sit, and I say nothing until my wife is back in the room. Any decision I make, I make with her by my side. We are a team.
“Why are you here?” I ask as Peyton returns with three glasses of water. “Thanks, babe,” I say when she hands me mine. When she sits down, she’s next to me, with her hand on my thigh. It’s comforting.
“I’ve been pounding the pavement, so to speak,” he says. “There are four teams interested in you, who plan to make a run for you at the deadline. This means a mid-season switch, or you wait out your contract and see if the offers are still the same.”
I cringe at words because it’s unprecedented for a starting QB to leave mid-season. Every other position, yes, but not the leader on the field. And then it hits me.
“Have you spoken to the Pioneers?”
Alan shakes his head. “They’re not returning my calls.”
I glance at Peyton. She smiles softly, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. I know she’s worried. Hell, so am I.
“What are my options?”
Alan sits back and crosses his ankle over his knee. “Demand a trade, sit out until the deadline, or play your last year in Portland and hope for the best.”
“The latter is a gamble.” While we like to think we’re invincible, our bodies are not. We take hit after hit and recover “enough.” Never fully. Something always hurts, creaks, or aches to the point where you can’t move.
“Peyton,” Alan says her name to get her attention. “Have they said anything to you?”
She shakes her head. “I wouldn’t ask either and if I did, I wouldn’t expect them to be honest with me.”
“What if I retire?”
Alan’s mouth drops open. “Seriously?”
I shrug. “Why not?”
“Well, for one, you’re at the top of the game.”
“If that was the case, the Pioneers would be all over my shit, either signing me to a new contract or trying to trade me for top dollar. They’re not. So, clearly, I’m past my prime.”
“Ridiculous,” Alan says. “These teams want you.” He shows me his tablet and the four teams who have expressed interest in me.
I shake my head. “Two of them drafted QBs in the last two years. They want me as a back-up.” I glance at Peyton, and she tries to smile again. Baseball looks pretty good right now. Either that or coaching with Nick. “I think retirement is at the forefront of my mind,” I tell Alan. “But I’ll let you know before the season starts for sure.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”
I nod and stand.
Alan stands and shakes my hand. “All right. I’ll keep working though so when you come to your senses, we’ll have an avenue.”
“Thanks.” I walk him to the door, hold it open as he steps out.
He turns. “You’re young, Noah. Teams want you.”
“Just not as someone to lead their team. I need to let that sink in for a bit, Alan. I’ll be in touch.” I shut the door and rest my head against it. Seconds later, Peyton’s arms wrap around me from behind and she rests her head in the middle of my back. We stay like this for a bit, just being one with our thoughts. I have a feeling I know what she’s thinking, just as she probably has my thoughts all figure out.
“I’m sorry, Noah.”
I sigh heavily and grip her wrist and tug her hand, so I can turn and face her. “You’re the analyst. What did I do wrong?”
“You know I would’ve told you,” she says. I believe her, but still feel like something is missing.
“Do you think you missed something?” I know she didn’t, but I ask anyway.
“Let’s go watch a game film,” she says as she tugs me toward our media room. I sit in the chair, waiting for a game to come on screen. She finally sits next to me, with the remote in her hand, and gives me a stack of papers. “These are your game notes,” she says as she presses play.
On the screen is a condensed version of one of our games. It’s whistle to whistle, no commentary, commercials, or delays. Just the teams and the officials.
Peyton lets it play for a moment and then stops it. She stands and goes to the screen. “Here, you miss stepped and you released the ball too early, causing Julius to reroute slightly. If you had hit him in stride, he had an easy shot to the end zone. With this play, it took you five more downs to score.”