Kam
I PUSH THROUGH one more set of Fire Hydrants.
Squeezing the dumbbell to my hamstring behind my knee, I raise it up as high as it can go. I pause for a few seconds in that position, and then lower my knee back down. Wondering why a quarterback is doing leg lifts? Because it takes more than a strong arm to throw with precision and accuracy. It’s an entire body synchronicity, from legs to torso to chest. Fire Hydrants strengthen my outer hips, which also aids in precision and accuracy for other physical activities, if you know what I mean.
A guy’s gotta blow off steam, somehow.
My phone rings on my last rep. I lower my knee to steady myself and answer on the third ring. “Yo.”
“How’s my number one?” It’s Sam, my agent, and he sounds overly enthusiastic.
“Keeping in shape.” I wipe the sweat off my face with a hand towel and take a swig of Gatorade.
“That’s what I like to hear. That’s what NFL scouts like to hear.”
“Is there a reason for this phone call? Or do you just miss me?” I mess with him. Sam has been my agent since my freshman year. He’s one of the best in the business and practically poached me from every other agent who showed the slightest bit of interest after I won the conference finals. He’s become as much of a friend as he is a pain in the ass. He has a big, flashy, LA personality, and the talk to go with it. They don’t call him Sam the Magic Man for nothing.
“I’ve heard rumors.”
“What kind of rumors?” I take another swig of Gatorade.
“You’re going to be the first pick, first round, at the draft.”
I nearly spit out the blue liquid. “What?”
“Yup. Seattle wants you, bad. They know you’re going to get snatched up quick with New York, Denver, and North Carolina all in desperate need of a quarterback.”
“But Seattle has the best starting quarterback in the league. Why would they go for me?”
“Because they want to keep it that way. You’re a threat, Kam. You’re destined to be great, and everyone knows it. Their mentality is keep your friends close and your enemies closer, if you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean,” I answer slowly, contemplating what going to Seattle could mean for my career. Not much playing time my first year.
“I’ll keep you posted on the details. This stays hush hush.”
“Understood.”
“Good. Later, All-Star.” Click.
The draft is in two months. Two short months and everything I ever worked for, fought for, will finally come to fruition.
The BIG DREAM may finally come true.
I walk up to class to find Laney and Steve talking by the door. I take it upon myself to interrupt their conversation by squirming between them to get into the room. Why? Because I can.
“Lemon.” I wink at Laney and completely ignore Steve.
“Kam,” she echoes my name only slightly bothered. Steve, on the other hand, seethes under his breath.
“I’ll see you later,” I hear Laney tell him as she follows me into class.
It’s been several weeks and I still can’t figure out what the hell she sees in him.
He seems like a big fat jerk-off to me.
I want to know if she and Steve are really serious, but that just seems too personal to ask. It would make it seem as if I’m more interested than I have any business to be. Laney and I are friends and Lord knows it took us years to get to this point. Our breakup was bad—it was ugly, it was emotional, and very messy. But after it was all over, I learned one thing; being just friends is way better than not having her in my life at all.
At least that’s what I keep telling myself. Just friends is better than nothing. Just friends is better than nothing . . .
“Did you draft the questions, Lemon?” I ask to distract myself.
“Right here.” She pulls out a piece of paper from her notebook and waves it in the air. We decided to do a mock interview. Her as the reporter and me, well, the sports star. How perfect. This project has A written all over it. I take the sheet from her and gloss over the questions. They are all pretty straightforward, nothing I haven’t answered before. Then my eyes suddenly land on the second-to-last question and stay glued there.
Do you have any regrets?
My throat actually closes. I’m not one to believe in regrets. You lose, you mess up, you move forward. It’s how you survive under the immense pressure. No living in the past. But as much as I walk around like Superman, I’m human just like everyone else, and I have weaknesses, too. I will always regret losing Laney. I will always regret not fighting harder to keep her. I will always regret that, in the end, football really was more important.
“These look good.” I hand her back the paper rigidly.
“Good.” She smiles at me. “I was going to try and get some studio time later this afternoon so we can record it. What do you think?”
I nod silently. “Sounds like a plan. I’m free.”
“Perfect.” She looks at me funny. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I plaster on a fake smile. I get to spend more time with you . . . as just . . . friends. . . .
Laney and I sit in the tiny studio setting up the microphones and recording equipment.
“How did a non-communications major book studio time last minute in the middle of the semester? You usually need to reserve it weeks in advance.”
Laney smiles cunningly. “I bribed Josh. It is amazing what a signed football from Kamdyn Ellis can do.” She opens her bag and pulls out a brand-new football.
“You didn’t?”
“I totally did.” She tosses me the ball. “He’s a huge fan. We had a class together last semester and all he did was gush about you.” She theatrically rolls her eyes. “I could have thrown up, but knowing how much he loves you worked in our favor. We didn’t have to wait weeks to record this interview. It’s one more thing I can cross off my to-do list.”
“You are devious, Lemon.”
“I know. He wants you to sign it to my one true love.”
I snort. “Like hell.”
Laney nearly falls over laughing. “To my biggest fan?”
I curl my lip. “Too cliché.”
“Fine then, just think of something before we leave.”
“Will do. Are we ready?” I straighten in my chair.
“We are.” Laney takes a seat next to me and adjusts the small microphone on the table in the recording room. As part of our final project, we needed to show we could not only conduct a broadcast or interview, but edit it, as well.
Laney starts the interview by introducing herself and me. Then she fires away.
What is your favorite thing about football? What does your workout schedule look like? How did it feel to lead your team to the conference championships and win your freshman year?
As I said, all questions I have answered a million times, and probably will answer a million more. But as she ticks off each one, my anxiety rises a little more because I know what’s coming. I know which question is going to test my composure.
“Mr. Ellis, do you have any regrets?” Laney looks dead into my eyes.
I inhale a few deep breaths before I answer. “Personally or professionally?”
Laney’s face falls as an air of silence blankets the room, suffocating it with tension. “Both,” she responds.
I never take my eyes off her as I answer. “I don’t have any professional regrets. Every triumph and failure has led me to where I am now. I just want to keep moving in the right direction. As for personal regrets? I think everyone has those. I lost someone I loved once, and I will always regret that,” I admit, as stone-faced as possible.
Laney just continues to stare; the tense silence becoming almost unbearable.
“Sometimes . . . she regrets it, too.” She clears her throat and looks away. I nearly fall out of my chair. Did she just admit she misses me?
“Mr. Ellis, thank you for the candid honesty.” She moves on. “I have one last question before we end.” Laney tucks some hair behind her ear. I want to reach out and touch her, but I don’t. I keep my distance, my heart fluttering from her confession.
I nod her on.
“Where do you see yourself in five years?”
I smile. I know exactly where I see myself. “Playing for the NFL with a Super Bowl ring on my finger.”
Laney chuckles. “I have no doubt, Mr. Ellis, that one day that will become a reality.”
With that, Laney ends the interview.
“Please don’t forget to sign the football and give it to Josh.” Laney gathers her notebook and pen and places them into her book bag.
“I’ll drop it off right after I leave.”
“Thanks.” She slings her backpack over her shoulder. “Good interview. You’re a pro.” She teases me, but I’m not in a very playful mood.
“You weren’t so bad yourself.” I grab her hand as she walks by.
There’s regret on her face, but she doesn’t pull away. “Whatever it is you think you need to say, you don’t. It’s in the past. We’ve both moved on.”
I stare, wondering if she really believes that. I sure as hell don’t. She feels as real today as she did three and a half years ago.
“I really am sorry,” I profess, rubbing my thumb over her hand.
“Don’t be.” She pulls it away and touches my face; my skin nearly catches fire.
I’ll always be sorry.
“I gotta go. See you next week, All-Star.”
My chest tightens from the term of endearment. She hasn’t called me that in years.
“Same time, same place,” I assure her wistfully.
Laney throws me a sweet smile over her shoulder right before she leaves. I don’t follow. Instead, I sit back down and spin the football mindlessly on the table. Some strange sense of hope tingling inside me.
“I lost someone I loved once, and I will always regret that.”
“Sometimes . . . she regrets it, too.”