SHANE

 

McGinty’s Pub

Everett, WA

 

 

I come to a slow stop from my run, breathing heavily. It was five miles from my parents’ farmhouse to McGinty’s Pub on the edge of Everett. The place is as familiar to me as my own home but it looks a million years older. The old gray paint is chipping. Two windows are cracked and held together by duct tape and the stubbornness of the man who placed it. The sign over the front is crooked since one of the screws let go three years ago. Terry still hasn’t fixed it. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen because it’s only a matter of time before the other screws go too and someone is crushed by the damn thing.

I just hope it’s not me. I’m not going out like that.

I yank open the door, surprised to find it unlocked at this hour. It’s after noon but the bar doesn’t open until four. Still, there’s Terry behind the chipped oak barrier between him and the world. He’s got a half empty glass of soda and a plate full of cold cuts sitting in front of him. The old, grainy TV set in the corner is playing an episode of Modern Family at a murmuring volume.

I hitch my thumb at it. “Can you even hear that?”

“Of course I can,” he answers gruffly. “I’m half blind, not half deaf.”

“Fair enough.”

“You’re here for your card?”

“Yup.”

“No shoes, no shirt, no service,” he drones.

I laugh, looking down at my clothes. I’m wearing running shoes and athletic shorts with my T-shirt tucked into the waistband. My chest is bare. “Are you serious? We’re the only ones here.”

He nods to the sign by the door, popping a slice of salami into his mouth.

I know what the sign says, but I look at it anyway.

NO SHOES. NO SHIRT. NO SERVICE.

“I ran here,” I explain, yanking my shirt from my waistband. “I got hot.”

“I’m sure the ladies love that story, but I’m not interested.”

“Are you interested in me signing a receipt for last night?”

“Are you interested in seeing that fancy black card again?”

I grin as I pull my shirt down over my head. It fights me, sticking to the sweat that’s running down my tan chest, stomach, and back. California has been great for my body. I’m in the best shape of my life, cut like I’ve never been before because of all that healthy living they do out there. I open my arms to him, exposing myself for inspection. “Shoes. Shirt. Service?”

“We’re closed.”

I drop my arms with a sharp clap! of my hands against my thighs. “Damn, Terry. You’re extra surly today. What’s crawled up your butt?”

He looks at me with his one remaining eye. “Is that a gay joke?”

“No.”

“It sounded like one.”

I gesture to the TV behind me. “You’ve been watching too much Modern Family. After a few hours of that show, everything sounds like a gay joke.”

“Hmmm,” he grunts in mild agreement. He reaches down under the counter to pull out a lock box. It takes a couple tries to get the right key in the lock, but when he does he pulls out a stack of receipts with my card rubber banded to the top. “People took advantage last night.”

I take a seat on the stool across from him, leaning my arms on the bar. “I knew they would,” I reply mildly.

“Someone tried to buy the entire top shelf on your dime.”

“Did you let them?”

“No.”

“You should have.”

“You shouldn’t be throwing your money away like you do,” he scolds disapprovingly.

I smile wide. “I’m not worried about it, Terry. Where do you need me to sign?”

“You don’t want to know the total?”

“I don’t know. Do I?”

He snorts, nearly smiling. “I doubt you’d care either way.”

“I love how well you know me.”

Terry hands over the final receipt. The sum of the stack attached to my card. I glance at the total before adding a five hundred dollar tip and signing my name with a flourish. Terry shakes his head. More disapproval.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he tells me about the tip.

I click the pen closed, sliding it to him across the bar. “Yeah, and you shouldn’t have served me when I was only seventeen, but you did.”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Okay. Cool. And I didn’t tip you just now.”

He gives me a meaningful look that I don’t actually understand, but he drops it. My receipt goes into the register, my card goes into my pocket, and Terry goes back to watching Modern Family. He doesn’t invite me to stay, but he fills a glass with ice water and puts it halfway between us on the bar. I smile, drinking it slowly while I finish the episode with him in silence. He snickers a few times but otherwise I can’t tell if he’s awake, asleep, or dead. Terry isn’t much of a people person. I think he actually kind of hates people, but their vices are how he makes a living, so he suffers them without complaint. He suffers me longer than most, a badge I wear with pride.

When the credits roll, I smack the bar with satisfaction. “It was good to see you, man. Until next time?”

“Hmmm,” he grunts, uninterested.

“So surly. I love it.”

As I’m standing to leave, Terry surprises me by offering me his hand over the bar. I hesitate, suppressing a smile as I take it. We shake firmly with our eyes locked before he lets go abruptly.

“Take care of yourself, son,” he tells me quietly.

As quickly as he released me, he leaves me. He disappears into the office. I’m left alone with the quiet squeak of the sign struggling in the wind outside and a plate of warm meat sitting neglected on the bar. It’s a lonely feeling. It’s quintessentially Terry, like I’m living a moment in another man’s shoes, and I’m a little ashamed at how uncomfortable it makes me. I’m quick to head for the door and the sunlight waiting outside.

Once I’m out, I pop my shirt back off. I’m not sweating anymore, but I will be. It’s a long run on country roads back to my parents’ place and the day is just starting to heat up. It’s nothing compared to the heat in Los Angeles, but the rain on the road is starting to steam, rising in low waves that wrap around my ankles eagerly.

As I stand on the side of the road stretching, mentally prepping for the last leg of my workout, an old black Jetta rolls by slowly. Girls who can’t be older than high school age lean out the window to whistle at me.

“Hey, sexy!”

“Wooo!”

“Take it all off!”

I stand up straight to smile as they pass. I flex my chest, making my pecs dance for them. They laugh and squeal, ducking back inside the car as the driver speeds them away.

It’s a stroke that my ego doesn’t need, but I’m not complaining. I’d never say no to a good stroking.

Back home, I sneak into the house without anyone seeing me. It’s not an easy thing to do with these old floorboards that try to rat you out with every step, but I mastered that shit when I was fifteen and first started sneaking out. Sneaking in is a hell of a lot easier.

I check my phone before I jump in the shower. I have texts from Colt, Sam, a girl named Miranda who I think was at the bar last night but I don’t remember giving her my number, and Chris, my agent. I check his first, hoping for good news.

He doesn’t disappoint.

New contract came in. It’s final. You’re locked in with the soon-to-be Las Vegas Kodiaks for six years and $56 million.

“Holy shit,” I whisper to myself. “Holy fucking shit.”

Where does that put me? I text him with shaking fingers.

Chris is quick to answer. Like all good agents, he’s never far from his phone.

You’re now the second highest paid offensive guard in the NFL.

“Yes! Suck it, Kelechi Osemele!” I punch my fist at the sky, brimming with energy I can’t expel fast enough. “Yeah!”

“Quit shouting!” Dad bellows from downstairs.

I close my mouth but I jump up and down on the floor, dancing through the room erratically with a smile so big it makes my skin scream. “Fucking yeah,” I chant quietly. “Fucking yeah. Fucking yeah.”

“Quit stomping!”

My phone pings in my fist. There’s more.

I laugh, typing quickly, More money? I’ll take it!

This one’s not about the money. It’s the exposure.

Playgirl finally called to get me on the cover?

No. Dancing the Night Away called. They want you to take Tom Berg’s place as a contestant this season.

What happened to Tom?

My phone rings. It’s Chris calling. He’s sick of typing.

“Talk to me,” I answer briskly.

“Don’t you read? This Tom shit is everywhere right now.”

“I’ve been working out all morning. I haven’t had a chance to sit down and scroll.”

“He was busted for cocaine last night,” he tells me solemnly. “He’s out of everything. The competition, the NFL, his damn mind. I heard he punched a cop. He’s toast, Shane.”

“That’s crazy. What the hell happened to him?”

“Cocaine,” he repeats forcefully. “He was high out of his mind when he was busted. He’s probably still sobering up as we speak. He’s going to find a whole lot of ugly when his brain starts working again.”

“So what the hell? DNA wants me? Why?”

“This season is packed with NFL players.”

“Yeah, I heard. It’s a charity thing for the Ronald McDonald House Charity, right? The houses around hospitals for sick kids’ families to stay in.”

“Right. Tom was partnered with last year’s winner, Sutton Roe. But now that he’s out, they want you to come in and fill his shoes. With your status as a Super Bowl champion and Sutton coming back as last year’s winner, you guys are practically a lock to win again this year.”

“Yeah, assuming I can dance.”

“Can you?”

“I have no idea,” I laugh. “I can hold my own at the bar but they do ballroom shit, don’t they?”

“You don’t watch the show?”

“No. My mom loves it, though.”

“Sit down and watch some episodes with her. Actually, no, don’t,” he corrects himself quickly. I can hear him typing at his computer rapidly. “If you’re down to do it, we need to get you back in L.A. by tonight. They want you to start shooting reel for the first episode tomorrow morning.”

“Why the rush?”

“They start dance rehearsals on Thursday. Ideally, you would have met your partner and gotten the rundown on the show by now, but we’re late to the party. We’re playing catch up.”

I run my hand over my mouth. I taste salt on my lips that burns like the fire in my muscles screaming from the beating I’ve given them today. “Do they know about the fights?” I ask reluctantly.

Chris is quiet for a second. He doesn’t even touch his keyboard, which is crazy for him. “Yeah, man, they know. But they’re willing to work around them. They asked me a lot of questions about your volatility but I played it off. I told them you’re cool as ice.”

“My volatility?” I repeat slowly.

“It means—”

“I know what it means, Chris. I clear my throat, choking down that word. “What would I have to do to be on the show? Will they teach me anything or do I go out there and make an ass of myself?”

“Sutton is a professional. She’ll teach you everything you need to know. You should look her up,” he tells me encouragingly. “She’s hot. You’ll love her. Plus, she’s good. She’s a retired Broadway star.”

“Retired? How old is this chick?”

“She’s young. Dancers are like football players – they retire early.”

“You seem pretty pro-DNA. Should I even think about it?”

“No,” he answers honestly. “This will be good for you. It will help erase some of that negative press we’ve been getting and it could change the new owner’s perception of you and that ejection.”

I frown at my feet. “My contract is in. I thought that wasn’t an issue.”

“You’re going to be with them for six years, Shane. They could make it an issue any time they want.”

I feel anxiety rush through my veins. It’s a strange feeling for me. I don’t worry about much, especially not out on the field. I’m one of the best guards in the NFL. I’m bigger than almost any man they face me off with, and if I’m not bigger, I’m stronger. No one gets by me. I earn my paycheck every second of every day – no question. No worries.

But then came the ejection at the Super Bowl and a scrap in a bar too soon after, and that put me under a microscope. Everybody started talking about whether or not I’m too reckless. Too ‘volatile’. I hate that word. I read it next to my name a lot these days and I’m getting tired of it. It’s just something people say when they want to judge instead of understand.

“I’ll do it,” I tell him firmly. “Get me a flight out as soon as you can. I’ll be ready to go.”

“It’s a good move, man. You won’t regret it.”

“I never regret anything.”

“I’ll send you your flight info as soon as I have it.”

“Thanks, Chris.”

“And Google the girl. Seriously.” I can hear the smile in his voice when he adds, “You’ll love her.”

When Chris and I say goodbye, I hang up my phone and toss it onto my unmade bed. My room is a mess. Once I got home a month ago, my suitcase exploded over the small space. I’ve covered every surface with my shit and I have to make sure to get it spotless before I leave tonight. My mom would never complain to me about it, but I’d feel like an asshole if I left it for her. She has better things to do than clean up my natural disaster zone.

I yank off my clothes, tossing them onto the already massive pile on the floor. I’m getting that sticky feeling you find when you sit for too long and the sweat from your workout starts to dry on your skin like you’ve spent a day at the beach. Only instead of swimming and drinking in the sun, I’ve been running, lifting, and squatting since the sun came up. I can’t stand the idea of not working out, especially when I know the team is back in L.A. training without me. I feel separated from that side of my life in a way that’s almost painful. It’s weird to feel homesick when you’re home. That’s the curse of growing up. You leave your parents’ house when you go out to start your own life and you assume it will always be there for you when you need it again. And it is, but it’s never the same because you’re not the same. You never will be again.

When I go back to L.A., I’ll still feel homesick. It will just be reversed. I’ll miss my parents and my stupid brother instead of my teammates. I’ll miss the lumpy bed in my old room and the lavender smell of the laundry detergent instead of my long leather sofa and marble soaker tub. It’s like there are two halves to my life. I love them equally but they don’t always mesh, meaning I’ll never feel completely whole.

It’s a thought I try not to dwell on too much. It’s depressing as shit.

Just as I’m stepping out of the shower, Mom bellows up the stairs, “Shane! Clint! Lunch!”

“Coming!” Clint yells.

“Wash your hands! Both of you!”

“I just took a shower!” I shout back.

“I don’t care! You’re both disgusting animals and you need to wash your hands!”

“Listen to your mother!” Dad yells in support.

“Fine! I’m doing it!”

“Stop shouting!” Mom practically screams.

Last year, I spent Easter Sunday at Colt’s house with his family. His stepsister wore too much lipstick and smiled at me the entire time. I felt like a pedophile without ever touching her, but that wasn’t the weirdest part of the trip. The part that threw me was how quiet the house was. If someone was in another room, you went to that room to talk to them. When they ate dinner, they sat down at the table together. No TV. Just people looking at each other over ham, rolls, and matching silverware that looked like it came from QVC. No one swore. Not once. Not even Colt who usually has a mouth like a dumpster behind a sex shop. It was so far from my family, I didn’t know what to do with myself. In the end, I drank heavily and didn’t shit the entire time I was there.

When I get downstairs, Mom is in the kitchen filling plates with sandwiches and chips from an off-brand bag that’s dangerously toeing the line of copyright infringement. I’m sure Ruffles wouldn’t be too pleased about the teal and tan look of Fluffles.

She smiles at me over her shoulder when she hears me come in. “You’re the first one in. You get your pick.”

“What are my options?”

“Ham or turkey.”

“Ham.”

She nods to a plate at the end of the new marble countertop. I had it installed for her this Christmas when I paid for a total remodel of the farmhouse. It’s still in progress in other parts of the house, but the kitchen was the first thing to change. Mom loves it so much she joked about bringing her bed down to sleep in here. “There you go.”

“Thanks.” I pick up the plate without touching the food on it.

Mom notices right away. She pauses, her hand full of Fluffles hovering over the next plate. “What’s the matter, Shane?”

“I have great news, good news, and bad news. Which do you—”

“Bad news first,” she interrupts quickly.

“I’m leaving in a few hours. I’m going back to L.A.”

“Why? What happened?”

“The good news.” I smile proudly, my heart thumping rapidly in anticipation of her reaction. “Chris got a call from Dance the Night Away. They want me to take Tom Berg’s place on the show this season.”

Mom, a fifty-year-old woman, bounces up and down excitedly like a kid on the playground. “Are you kidding me?!”

“No joke,” I laugh.

She hugs me hard, her small body like a ghost against mine. “Shane, that’s amazing! I can’t believe it! Oh Shane. I’ve never been more proud of you.”

“Thanks for that,” I laugh halfheartedly.

Mom steps back to look up at me with apology in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ve been prouder. I’ve just never been so excited. That’s what I meant to say.”

“I know, Mom.”

“Sorry, baby,” she repeats seriously.

I give her a smile that tells her it’s fine. “Don’t sweat it, Mom. I know what you meant.”

“This is so fast. The new season starts in less than two weeks.”

“I know. That’s why I’m leaving tonight. I have to meet my partner tomorrow morning.”

She rises up on her toes eagerly. “Who are you getting?”

“Sutton Roe?”

Mom’s blue eyes go wide. “She won last year.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“Oh my God. So this was the great news, right? What’s the good news?”

“DNA is the good news.” I cock my eyebrow at her. “Can you handle the great news?”

She laughs shakily. Her hand goes to her heart like she’s not sure her body can hold it inside. “I don’t know. Try me.”

“My new contract with the Kodiaks is in. Six years. Fifty-six million.”

“Holy shit,” she breathes raggedly.

Mom doesn’t swear. Not unless somebody died. That’s the last time I heard her do it – when grandma passed away and she was so heartbroken she couldn’t find the emotions to deal so she looked for words instead. She let lose one single, agonized curse that I can still hear like she’s whispering it in my ear. It was leaden with loss and pain that I never want to see her suffer through again.

“Shane,” she whispers.

I put my hand out to her to steady her, but she bypasses it quickly. She hugs me again, this time softer and somehow harder. It’s tighter than before. There’s a disbelieving desperation to the way she’s holding onto me, like she’s not sure I’m real.

“I’m gonna need it,” I joke, looking for a way to lighten the feel of her. “Clint’s tuition went up this year and I just paid a small fortune to Terry for the party last night.”

Mom steps back to look up into my eyes. Hers are brimming with tears that make mine feel like I’m walking through smoke. “You’re a good man, Shane. I knew it when you were just a kid giving hugs to strangers who you thought looked sad.”

“Were they mostly women?”

“You’re a good man,” she repeats. She’s not letting me joke my way around this. She’s holding me steady with her gaze and her small hands on my arms. “And I’m incredibly proud of you.”

“I know, Mom.”

“I really hope you do, baby.”