Page 4 of After the Snap

The host gestures toward the photograph of Sloane and me as if our engagement belongs beside completion percentages.

“Duvall’s decline became impossible to separate from his personal life after actress Sloane Mercer ended their engagement two years ago. His numbers have fallen every season since.”

Sloane’s expression in the photograph used to convince me we were happy because I mistook how convincingly she performed happiness for evidence that she felt it. She knew what being attached to a franchise quarterback could offer her career, and I knew what standing beside her did for the polished life everyone expected me to build. We allowed the cameras to turn us into proof that success followed both of us everywhere, even when we had already stopped recognizing each other without an audience.

The woman beside the host nods with practiced sympathy. “Fair or not, the perception is that Duvall never recovered. He stepped away from endorsements, became far less visible publicly, and his play deteriorated during the same period.”

They speak as though Sloane left and took my ability to read a defense with her. The truth wouldn’t fit as neatly beneath a television graphic. She wanted fame at first, but eventually she wanted something I’d never learned to offer without attaching a performance to it. By then, neither of us knew whether she loved Jubal or the life surrounding him, and I didn’t know who remained when the quarterback stopped filling every room between us.

“Jubal,” Graham says, pulling my attention back to the phone. “Did you hear me?”

“You said they want a press conference.”

“I said I’ll be there if you need me, but you cannot go in there looking like you resent Charlotte for trading for you.”

“I don’t resent Charlotte.”

“You resent that they had the opportunity.”

The accuracy of his words leaves me staring at Sloane’s hand on my arm. Charlotte could only choose me because Houston let me go. Every welcome waiting in North Carolina exists because the place I’ve spent eleven years calling home has decided whatever I have left is worth more somewhere else.

“What do you want me to say?” I ask.

“That you appreciate the opportunity, you’re ready to compete, and you’re looking forward to meeting your teammates.”

“So the same thing every traded player says.”

“Yes, because the truth doesn’t always need to be original.”

The photograph changes to footage of Sloane leaving a restaurant with the man she married last year. She ducks beneath his arm when the cameras find them, but the smile she turns toward him looks effortless because she seems to have forgotten anyone is watching.

Graham lists travel options while I turn off the television, done watching each failing of my life play across the screen. He offers to send someone to help, then stops when I tell him I can manage a suitcase without representation.

“I know you can, but that isn’t why I’m offering.”

That has always been the problem with help. My father spent years helping with my career until I stopped knowing which decisions about football were supposed to be mine. Sloane offered publicists because she wanted control over the image. Eventually, it became easier to do everything myself than to figure out when an offer came with someone else deciding what was best for me.

“I’m not dying, Graham. Stop talking to me like I am.”

“I’m not. I’m talking to you like a man who just lost the only team he’s ever played for and is standing alone in a house full of television coverage he claims he isn’t watching.”

I look toward the black screen, where my reflection has replaced the analysts. The man staring back at me has the same face that appeared on banners outside the stadium, but Houston removed my uniform this morning, and I have no idea what anyone is supposed to recognize without it.

“I’ll book the flight tonight.”

“Send me the details before you pay for anything so Charlotte can arrange transportation when you land.”

I want to tell him I can do it myself, but his patience is sounding too much like Coach Quinn’s.

“Was there anything else?”

“Don’t answer reporters. Don’t respond to Sloane if she reaches out until you’ve thought about what you want to say. And turn off the television.”

I glance at my phone, where her name hasn’t appeared among the notifications.

“She won’t call.”

Graham lets the silence remain rather than tell me I am wrong. “I’ll see you on Friday.”