I have other hobbies besides needling Jillian with nudity. For instance, I enjoy embroidery, I really dig knitting, and I love collecting stamps.

Just kidding.

I have nothing against those hobbies, but the things I’d enjoy most in the off-season are all the activities I can’t do. Mountain biking? No way. Paintball. Hell no. That could lead to one hell of an NFI—non-football injury—and I know some serious nimrods who have earned complete and absolute dipshit status from firing off pellets of paint and pulling Achilles tendons in the process.

And how about the idiots who ride ATVs over dirt hills, only to crash, crack a fibula, and end up on the injured reserve? No, thank you.

Knock on wood, I’ve lived a mostly injury-free life for the last five years in pro ball, and I intend to keep it that way. I’ve only missed two games, and both were due to minor muscle strains.

Durable is my middle name.

That’s why, since today I’m not playing the one sport that’s allowed—golf—I’m parked next to my big brother in my spacious kitchen, my dog, Cletus, in my lap. The camera is rolling, and there are two glasses of beer on the island counter in front of us.

Yeah, we drink and spit for our hobby. Not Cletus, though. Water all the way for the little guy.

Trevor raises a glass of brew and adopts an adventurer’s tone. “I found this delicious brew while trekking through Nepal.”

“Is that so?” I arch a skeptical brow as he waxes on, spinning an apocryphal tale of climbing through the mountains to come across an enclave of Sherpas crafting brews.

I scratch my chin. “And you brought it all the way across the world to me? Wow. You must really love me.”

“Only the finest for my little brother.”

“Aren’t you so damn sweet?” I raise the glass, take a sip, let it swirl around on my tongue, and then spit it in the bucket we nicknamed Pliny for his favorite beer. But this isn’t just a spit for show. This beer is nasty.

“That tastes like ass,” I declare, crinkling my nose. Cletus raises his chin, giving me a curious stare with big brown eyes that are two sizes too large for his tiny head. He’s a little mutt—a little Chihuahua, a little Min Pin, a little dachshund, a little trouble.

Trevor rolls his eyes. “Why do you say that? Have you actually tasted ass?”

I crack up. “Can you even say ass on your show?”

“It’s the In-ter-net. We can say anything.” He taps the glass. “So, why would you say this marvelous beer tastes like a donkey’s heinie?”

“Did I say donkey?”

“Naturally, I assumed you meant a jackass’s ass. My bad.”

“Look,” I say, laying out my beer assessment like we do every week for his show. Our banter is off-the-cuff, of-the-moment. “It stinks like a sunflower, and it tastes as if it’s been sitting all day in the heat of the swamp. I believe that officially makes it swamp-ass swill.”

Trevor nods as if he’s reluctantly accepting my answer. “Fair enough. But wait. I have more.” He gestures like some sort of magician as he reaches below the counter for another brew or two. “What other beauties have I brought today for sampling?”

Yeah, he’s a little over the top. It’s part of his shtick. The oldest of the four of us, Trevor is a former brewmaster who now hosts a popular online video series about tasting beer. He’s a bona fide beer expert, and besides being a pro baller, that’s about the coolest job you can have. He has a more serious video show, too, a taste-testing one, that’s beloved by beer experts and beer lovers alike. This is the one we do for fun, where we goof off. Both shows make bank, though, since he’s a genius when it comes to business. He knows all the ins and outs of turning his passion into a money-maker, thanks to a degree in finance.

After we test a few more beers, spitting them all out in the bucket, Trevor flashes a smile at the camera. “That’s all in today’s edition of Two Bros Who Like Brew. I’d like to thank our regular color commentator, my one and only little brother. Jones, as always, your opinions are born of immense depth and great knowledge of the field of beer. Truly, your insight astounds me.”

I point at him as Cletus yawns in my lap. “As does yours when it comes to football. Like the time you told me how I should run almost out of bounds then back in to catch a forty-five-yard pass from Cooper Armstrong while avoiding defensive coverage.” I shake my head in amusement at that ridiculous bit of Monday-morning quarterbacking from him.

“Ouch. He questions my knowledge of the game, folks. You witnessed it firsthand.”

We say goodbye, then he signs off and hits the stop button on his digital camera.

“More than one million views of the last episode. Damn, I am so funny.” He blows on his fingers, too hot to handle. Cletus yaps at him. “Even your dog agrees with me.”

“I’m pretty sure that was a bark of disagreement. Right, little dude?” I look at Cletus, who tilts his head to the side, clearly a yes. “All right, you’re a good boy.”

I set him down, reach for a tiny biscuit, and ask him to spin. My brown and white ten-pound dog executes three perfect circles, so I give him the treat. Cletus has won awards in dog agility trials because he’s so fucking awesome he blows all the competition away. His jumps are magnificent, and his pole-weaving is a thing of beauty. Natch, I taught him everything he knows.

He rushes off with his treat, squirreling it away in one of his many dog beds. He has a couple in every room, but I swear he’s not spoiled.

I stand to my full height. Trevor looks up at me, shaking his head. “Seriously. Are you ever going to find your real dad?”

It’s a running joke.

I’m seven inches taller than Trevor. One of the tallest receivers in the NFL at six feet, five inches, I don’t fit into my family. No one else comes even close to six-foot, not our other brother, David, and not our dad. My sister, Sandy, is a foot shorter, and our mom is the shortest of all, a little less than five four.

I laugh. “What can I say? I’m a freak of nature.”

“Freak is right.” Trevor rubs his hands together then adopts a more serious expression. “Thanks again for doing my show with me.”

I smack his shoulder. “You know I love it. You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know, but I appreciate your time. You’re in demand.”

I scoff. “You’re family. There’s no pressure on my time from you. I’m just glad you’re back in town,” I say, since he used to be based in New York.

“Me, too. Also, you are in demand. Speaking of, are you ready for tomorrow? Time to roll up our sleeves and plan your next steps with the new agent.”

I groan and scrub a hand over my jaw. “I hate that word. Agent basically means thief.”

Trevor pats my shoulder and nods sympathetically. “Yeah, but Ford is one of the good ones. He’s not going to screw you out of your money.”

I scoff. “They all do, don’t they?”

“Not all of them.” He tips his forehead to the door. “I’ll swing by in the morning, and we’ll talk to him on the course.”

I might have made some questionable choices. I might have partied too hard and too long. But I never screwed anyone who didn’t want it.

Can’t say the same for my old agent.