I feel like I barely get a chance to rest my eyes—let alone my racing thoughts—when suddenly the signing is upon me.

It's a good thing. A very good thing. I'm committing to at least several more years of professional football after what many considered to be a career-ending scandal. I get to play the sport I love, fully embraced by my friends, my family, and fans from my home state. I couldn't dream of more.

And yet I have. Every idle second of every day since leaving Glen Springs.

Thankfully, this afternoon's events are anything but idle. I'm brought to the Armada's arena for the first time, Russ arriving in the taxi with me and escorting me in to meet the waiting crowd of journalists and photographers along with the team owner, manager, and coaches.

The owner is the first to properly greet me. He's a short, stocky man with bushy eyebrows and a kind smile; the sort of man who looks like he leaves games early just to make sure he's home in time to read his grandkids their bedtime story.

His appearance sets me at ease, his handshake even more so. When he speaks to me, his words seem sincere. "We're pleased you decided to come play ball for us, son, and we’re honored to have you."

The owner's accent is what I can only describe as "old Florida," and that, too, does a lot to calm my nerves. Florida is a pretty conservative state overall, so the fact that this man is welcoming me to his team says a lot about what my future here is going to be like.

Shutters click, flash blinds us both, and I know that handshake will feature prominently in the sports section of a lot of local newspapers and blogs. But that's just the beginning, and as I take my seat behind a long table, a microphone in front of me, I brace myself for what I know is coming.

The press are allowed their questions, and Russ actually arranges something resembling a queue to keep things orderly. To my surprise, the first few questions are just about my career. How I feel about coming back to Florida, what it means to me to have this chance again; things like that.

I know Russ must've arranged it this way, letting me answer the easy questions first.

I do, and just as he probably intended, I can feel myself relax. But the slow and steady pitches don't last forever. Eventually a man approaches the microphone and I can almost tell from the way he's looking at me that he isn't planning on asking something so ordinary.

"If I can get a little personal for a minute, Travis," he begins, and I want to tell him no. I just give him a terse smile instead. "Is your lover, Shane McMillan, going to relocate to Florida as well?"

I stiffen at that, only managing to keep the smile on my lips by sheer force of will. "No, he won’t be. His home is in Kentucky."

I don't bother to refute the idea that Shane is my lover. It would be a waste of breath, and I'd have to follow it up by explaining why we had a "falling out." Either that, or I'd just have to deny it completely, and I'm not willing to do that.

A woman with dark hair and a friendly smile approaches the mic once Russ moves the other reporter along. She asks me if I'm excited to play in the IFL, and if I'm prepared for the adjustment from the NFL.

It's not a personal question in any way, shape, or form, but I'm still thinking about Shane when I give my answer—wondering idly if he'd like arena football any better than the NFL.

"Have you had any contact with the man from the tape?" another woman asks. "Are you worried about another scandal?"

I glance at Russ and he gives me a small nod. We rehearsed this one before I came here.

"I plan to represent the Armada in the best way possible, on and off the field," I say simply, not even addressing the question about Jeremy.

There are more in this vein, and some that ask me about my time in Kentucky. I answer them all, not wanting to look evasive. But near the end of the Q&A, when the Armada's manager is getting all the papers and gear ready, one reporter asks a question that completely disarms me.

"How do you feel right now, Travis? Is this as big a moment for you as when you signed with the Tigers or the Storm?"

It's such an innocent, unassuming question. There's absolutely nothing wrong with it. But it hits me someplace deep, and a sudden ache slams into me, brutal and desperate.

"No."

I give the answer before I'm even aware I'm saying it. I catch Russ’ wide eyes, but even that isn't enough to tear me from my thoughts.

My heart hurts, and all I can think about is Shane. I might see him again, but only because Jake happens to live in Glen Springs. And even if I do, it'll be strained—nothing like the easy companionship we had even before things got serious. I know I'm never going to get that anywhere else. This is so much more than what I had with Jeremy, and it's the kind of once-in-a-lifetime thing that makes signing a contract seem almost meaningless in comparison.

If I put pen to paper, I'm giving myself over to football again. I'm throwing away any chance I might've had to reconcile with Shane. I'm throwing away the opportunity to spend more time with my brother. To get to know the people of Glen Springs.

To lead a normal life, for the first time… ever.

There was a time when football was worth everything to me. When it was everything to me.

As I sit there, unable to answer such a simple question, I realize that time has passed.

"I'm sorry," I say, pushing out from the table. "I can't do this."

I leave behind a stunned Armada staff, hurrying away from the table to the sound of cameras and reporters. Russ catches me before I can make for the exit.

"You're making a mistake, Trav," he says, his eyes imploring.

All I can do is shake my head. "I’m not. I’m doing what I should've done a long time ago."

Russ curses under his breath as the reporters near. They'll swarm us soon, and I'll have to make an even more inelegant retreat. So he puts a hand on my back and leads me to the tunnel, sending security to hold off our pursuers who I know would gladly take a few sound bytes for their stories about this.

"Do you remember when we met?" I ask, my voice echoing off the bare walls. "All I wanted was to play football. I didn't care about anything else because I didn't have anything else. My friends were back in Florida, my brother was barely speaking to me, and you were more of a dad to me than my own ever was."

It hurts to admit that, but it's true. Russ’ gaze softens as I continue.

"I appreciate everything you did for me, so much. But I don't want to go back to those days. Football… it's not the only thing in my life anymore."

"You're sure about this?" he asks.

I don't even hesitate. "Completely."

Something passes between us then. Russ lets out a soft sigh, but his eyes are full of love and understanding. He reaches up to pat me affectionately on the shoulder.

"Go. I'll take care of things here."

My heart kicks into high gear, pounding out a frantic rhythm as it starts to sink in that I'm really going to do this. I'm really going to get on a plane and leave football behind.

All on a chance.

A chance that I haven't ruined things with my brother. A chance that I actually can lead a normal life.

A chance that Shane will take me back.

But there's one thing that keeps me here; one reason I'm not already gone. "What about you?"

A slow grin spreads across Russ’ features. "Donna's been begging me to retire for years. The only reason she's put up with it is because she adores you."

I let out a surprised laugh, imagining the conversations they must've had. It tapers quickly, though, and I smile gratefully at the man who's done so much for me.

"Tell her I still expect a place at her table on Thanksgiving," I say earnestly.

"Oh, you're not getting out of that one even if you wanted to," he jokes.

We say nothing for a moment, because there's really nothing that can encapsulate what we mean to each other. Feeling tears prick at my eyes, I step forward and pull him into a hug which he easily reciprocates.

"Get the hell out of here before you start me crying, too," he says, pushing me away after a few moments.

I nod and grin, knowing he'll be the first person I call once the dust settles. Drawing in a breath, I continue down the tunnel, looking for a safe, quiet place to duck into while Russ goes back outside to face the angry—or at least perplexed—masses.

Already I'm pulling out my phone and swiping through my contacts, my hands shaking.

"Aren't you supposed to be signing some big, important piece of paper right now?" my brother's familiar voice asks.

I smile, so glad to hear him. "Nah. I don't think I am." I take a deep breath, then say, "Think I can stay with you for a while?"

The line is silent for a long moment, but finally he answers. "As long as you like."