Chapter One: Go the Distance

Tick. . .tick. . .tick. . .tick. . .

The sound of the constant ticking of the small clock thundered in my ears as it counted down the seconds, almost like a play clock. But I would pick standing on a field and rushing to get a play off in the last seconds of a game over having to stare at the closed red doors. Waiting for what felt like forever for them to open and to face what was behind them.

It was the dues I had to pay though to keep playing ball and to make things right.  I didn’t know if I could ever repay the fans who still supported and rooted for me, or the team that agreed to give me another chance, even though I’d fucked things up more times that I wanted to count. Or the organization who probably thought that the time and resources they invested in me was a wash. But I was determined to try to pay them back and to do whatever it took to get back on the field.

That stubborn determination was what kept my feet anchored to the shiny white and blue vinyl floor and from escaping the nerve racking sound of the effing clock. I wanted nothing more than to march across the room and rip the damn thing off the wall, smash it with my foot and fling it down the hallway. The relief would’ve been only for my benefit though. The organization would just go buy a new clock, or make me pay for a new one and it would eventually return, driving anyone who entered the waiting room insane. Plus, I didn’t think anyone standing there would approve of my tirade, or me destroying stadium property.

A new sound made my ears perk up and give up my visions of throttling the clock. My eyes shot up to the doors, hoping that the noise was someone opening them, but there was no such luck. They were still as closed as they had been for the past five minutes. Five minutes of having nothing to do but listen to the clock, random noises from those standing next me, and looking around a room that left no doubt that this was Bucks’ territory.

There wasn’t a square inch of the stadium that wasn’t covered in white, blue, or red, including the waiting room we were in, and I couldn’t help but wonder if whoever decorated the place was paid more money for how many times they used the team colors. Blue walls, red, white and blue chairs, splashes of all three colors in the pictures on the walls. Hell, even the people in the room color coordinated with the team colors, each of us picking a tie that went along with it. Something the higher ups had suggested as a “sign of unity and support.” Maybe it had been a suggestion from the decorator too. . .

I usually didn’t put too much thought into what I wore for press conferences. Most were held after games or practices and I’d wear whatever I wore to the stadium. But that evening I’d spent the better part of a half hour trying to decide what to wear, knowing that if I didn’t look my best, someone would report it. Even Coach seemed worried about how he looked, brushing his hand over a spot on his pants that didn’t have anything on it. Better safe than sorry I guessed, and returned to staring at the doors.

The ‘snake pit’ was the team’s not so affectionate name for the press room that lay on the other side and it was filled with reporters who were waiting to sink their teeth into a good story.  In this case though, I saw them more like vultures, circling what they figured was the destined for dead football star, wanting for their chance to peck their beak into the guy that they were certain was down for the count.

And as much as I wanted to blame them for doing what was their job, I couldn’t. If I had been in their shoes, I would’ve thought that my days of playing football were over. I was damaged goods. Was no longer the guy that anyone could rely on. To them, I was the cliché player that started off with great promise and high expectations but had ruined it with my off the court antics, specifically, my drinking.

That was who they would see when I walked through the doors and sat at the long table with my coaches and the general manager, the washed up player. But by some miracle, I still had one more shot. One more chance to get it right, to stay sober, to prove that I cared about the team and my career, to show them that the gamble the team was about to make was worth it, and most importantly, to prove to myself that I could be the type of man that my father would’ve been proud of.

That’s what I tried to repeat to myself each day for the last three months. During those moments when I first went into rehab and thought I might die from detox, or when the counselors asked the questions that made me want to hurl a chair across the room instead of answering.  When I had to face my family for the first time after being discharged, or as I waited to sit in on a press conference that I’d rather run away from, fighting the urge to make a beeline to a store and finding something to take the edge off.  

I wasn’t sure if it was something I did as I thought about the past months or if he just sensed that I needed it, but something made Coach pat my back just then. Like most great Coaches, he knew his players well and could read them like a book. Even me, though I hated to admit it. His reassuring pat calmed me down and it reminded me of something Dad used to do when he knew I was nervous. It was tempting in that moment to imagine that the strong, supportive hand I felt on my back was his and not Coach’s, but it was an illusion that could last only until I turned around and saw Coach’s six foot three frame and salt and pepper hair that I wished was blonde and stood just two inches higher.  

It was moments like that that I once tried to downplay or not acknowledge at all. Nine years of trying to dull the pain of losing Dad and him not being around. But I had learned that all that did was make things worse and make me want to do things that not only hurt those I cared about but also me. And as the disappointment of that moment set in, I fought against my instincts to push it down and ignore the hurt. Trying instead to acknowledge it and still give Coach an appreciative, small smile for the support he was showing me.

The whoosh of the door flying open made everyone’s heads snap forward and our eyes all rested on the PR person who was in charge of setting everything up. He gave us a thumbs up, signaling that they were ready to begin and all eyes focused on me with the silent question of was I ready to go in.  I thought about the team, fans, organization, and my family who believed in me and Dad who I hoped was there in spirit. Finally, after taking a deep breath and squaring my shoulders, I gave them a slight nod and we entered the room that no one wanted to.

The flashing of so many cameras produced a weird strobe effect and everything seemed to move in slow, disjointed movements. At least that’s what it looked like while I could see. Eventually the flashes started to blind me. I usually made some smartass comment like how they were blinding the quarterback who needed their eyesight to see down the field, but this wasn’t the press conference for that.

When we talked days earlier about holding the press conference, everyone mentioned the same word. Calm. Nobody was supposed to do anything that would elicit too many questions from the reporters, although, that seemed like an oxymoron to me. A reporter that didn’t ask a lot of questions. But I agreed and as we took our seats, I calmly looked out at all the flashing lights and sat down.

The order of our seating was also something debated about by the higher ups and coaches. It was finally decided that our quarterback coach would sit at the far end of the table, then Coach White, followed by me, and then Jimmy Reed, our general manager. That way, it would give the appearance of Coach and Jimmy supporting not only the decision that the team made, but also me. I honestly didn’t give a rat’s ass where they wanted me to sit. I was just happy to be there.

After all the debating about who would sit where, I found it a little funny that Jimmy didn’t take his seat once we entered the room. He was the first to talk and chose to stand at the podium, wanting to look more official as he revealed the teams’ decision about what to do with me. He took his time making sure he was ready, taking a drink from a water bottle that he picked up off the table and looking out at the large press crowd that had gathered as he placed it back down.

“Thanks for coming out.” Jimmy spoke loudly into the mic, making the press quiet down and stare up at him. “We scheduled this press conference to discuss some recent events that have occurred in Trev’s life and that have also impacted the team. As I’m sure most of you know, Trev entered rehab for alcohol abuse a little over eight weeks ago. We had previously discussed with Trev that if he continued to have problems with alcohol abuse, we would release him from his contract and he and the team would go their separate ways.” The flashes started again and I looked calmly out at the idiots who were no doubt imagining the headlines they could write. “Davila sacked!” or any other lame ass football pun they could come up with.

Jimmy held up his hand to quiet them down and continued. “After Trev entered rehab, we started talking with his agent. We soon learned that he had entered rehab on his own accord, and that he would stay for as long as he needed to. He also at that time, offered to quit the team and sever all ties if the organization chose to do so.” I expected another round of flashes but everyone was too preoccupied with hearing what the team decided to do.

“After discussions with Trev’s agent, Coach White, the rest of the coaching staff, and the other players, it was decided that we would allow Trev to stay on the team if he so chose, but there would be a change in his status. I’ll let Coach White talk more about that.” Jimmy sat down next to me and I took the opportunity to scan the faces of the people in the room, making notes of where the reporters were that I thought were decent guys and then glanced at Coach when he pulled the table mic closer.

“With Trev being absent from practice for eight weeks and also because of his past issues with substance abuse, the coaching staff made the decision to open up the position of starting quarterback and at this moment, Trev is not the starting quarterback for the Bucks.”

I had to resist the urge to smile at the sounds of disbelief that were coming from the other side of the table and glanced at Coach as he waved his hands, trying get them to quiet down. “Furthermore, Trev also suggested that he take a pay cut since he didn’t feel that he’s been performing up to par and the organization has agreed to his terms.” The reporters erupted with questions and even though I knew that they had advised against it, I wanted to take some.

I leaned over to Jimmy and covered the microphone. “I want to take some questions.” 

Even he, whose job it was to project the image of calm and confidence, couldn’t hide his disbelief at my asinine request. “Are you crazy?! You have no way of knowing what they’ll ask you!” He frantically whispered and was right, I had no idea. But I knew they would have questions and it was better to answer them there than to have them asked during practices or after games. I was already a distraction for the team. Coming back and the controversy over that decision had already affected the team’s focus. But if I could do anything that would lessen the distraction I caused, it needed to be done from the get go.

Completely convinced that it was the right thing to do, I kept staring at him, nodding my head toward the mic that sat in between us. I could see the wheels turning in his head, going over the benefits and consequences for each scenario.  I’d done the same thing just the day before. Wondering if staying silent or spilling my guts was the best thing for the team. It was a hard decision, especially since I didn’t especially want to reveal shitty parts of my personal life to the world, but the team had supported me through the last three months of hell and I felt I owed it to them.

His sigh signaled his decision and knowing what it was, I turned to look out at the reporters. They were still yelling questions, hoping that someone would throw them a bone and answer one even though it was rare that someone would, since press conferences like that one were for announcement purposes only. But we hadn’t gotten up to leave and they took that as a sign that we might answer some.

“If everyone will be quiet. . .” A shocked silence filled the room as Jimmy moved the mic closer and put his hand on the back of my chair, almost as if he was steadying himself for what was about to happen. “Trev said he will answer questions, but I’m only going to allow it as long as everyone remains calm and if he chooses to not answer a question, that you drop it and move on.”

The silent plea of Jimmy’s eyes to not do anything stupid as he pushed the table mic my way was nothing new. Everyone there knew that I could be unpredictable when having access to a microphone. Mostly because I was known for having a larger than life personality in public. What most people didn’t know was that I used it to hide how uncomfortable I was in those kinds of situations.

But sometimes my more boisterous side came out because it was boring to do the same press conferences over and over again. Sometimes things needed to be livened up. But that moment wasn’t the time for antics and I had no plans of creating an uproar.

I looked down at the white table, taking a second to collect my thoughts. I’d spent a lot of time thinking about what I wanted to say. All of it weighing heavy on my mind as I continued to climb out of the pitch black hole that I’d been living in for years. Who I wanted to thank, how to go about addressing my recovery and how much to reveal about it. Knowing that whatever I said, needed to be honest and heartfelt and I only had one shot to get it right.

“Before I answer any questions,” I looked back out at the flashing lights, determined to face the mess that I had created. “I want to thank the Buck’s organization, Coach White, the coaching staff, and my teammates for allowing me to stay on the team. I didn’t expect it, nor do I deserve it, but I think that their decision shows how loyal and supportive the Bucks’ organization is towards its players.”

I fought to keep my composure as I glanced at Jimmy and my coaches, the truth of what I was about to say hitting me. “I know I have a lot to prove and I’m willing to put in the work, time and effort to do so. I’m extremely grateful that I’m still a Buck and for the opportunity to continue to represent the organization on the field.” I received nods from each and another pat on my back from Coach before slowly turning to face the firing squad. 

“I’ll take questions now.” I announced and they all went crazy. Some reminded me of those kids in school that wanted to be called on and would stand up going “Oooo! Oooo!” while they waved their arms frantically. I hardly ever called on those reporters. They were annoying and almost always asked stupid questions. I usually tried to gravitate towards the ones that I knew asked good questions and who didn’t sound like a monkey waiting for a banana.

I scanned the room for the reporters I noticed earlier, nodded at one and waited for him to stand up and ask his question. “You took a pay cut to stay on the team, was that really your decision or were you urged to take that deal?”

I was more than a little surprised that that was the first question. I figured it would either be about my recovery or that I wasn’t starting quarterback. But it wasn’t a complete surprise that someone asked it. It didn’t matter who sat at the table, money and salaries were always a hot topic “Player taking a pay cut does sound a little far fetched, right?” I kidded and smirked, getting a couple of chuckles.

“As far-fetched as it sounds though, I was the one, through my agent, to contact the team about taking a pay cut. Once I learned that they were willing to keep me on the team, and I got over my initial shock, I didn’t feel it was right for them to keep paying me a salary that didn’t match my performance.”

“I mean, let’s be honest here folks. I haven’t been playing worth a shit the last two years and it just made sense that the team shouldn’t be paying me for a half-ass job when they could be using the money somewhere else. Playing football for me was never about the money. It was about my love for the sport and that’s what I want to get back to.”

I didn’t miss how Jimmy tensed up when I swore and quickly added. “I hope it’s okay that I said half-ass. . .” There was some scattered laughter and I scanned the room again for another familiar reporter.

“Fred?” I pointed at him and he stood up.

“Good to see you, Trev. I think a question a lot are wondering about is: What made you decide to seek treatment?”

Right to the point and that’s one reason I liked Fred. He was a good interviewer and asked the important questions, not that fluff crap that some of the others asked. “Good question. My drinking had steadily increased since the beginning of the year and a little over eight weeks ago, I decided I needed help.” It was the answer that I’d prepared to give, but it sounded flat and completely rehearsed once I heard myself say it. There was no way that I could leave it at that, even though my stomach twisted at the thought of revealing more.

“I’m convinced that if it hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here right now. It’s a slippery slope. You think you’ve got it under control but it’s obvious to everyone but you that you don’t. Thankfully I realized that I needed help and with the support of my family, I was able to get the help that I needed.”

I paused again as I thought back to the night that I hit rock bottom. I called my brother George, knowing that he would help me even though I’d treated him like crap just days before. Because that was the kind of guy George was; the guy that helped others no matter what. He would never know how much I appreciated what he and my sister Charlotte did for me that night; calming me down and finding a place that could help me.

Before I could point to someone else, a reporter I didn’t know jumped up and blurted a question. “Do you think you’ll be able to earn the spot back as starting quarterback?” The way he smirked at the end of his question left little doubt that he thought I had a snowball’s chance in hell of doing it. It was a bait question, used to see if holes could be poked in a story or they could fluster you. I’d been around the block too many times to fall for it though.  

“Honestly? I’m just happy to be here. If I make starting quarterback in the next several months, great! If not, then it will give someone else an opportunity to show what they’ve got. The Bucks were here long before me and they’ll be around long after I’m gone.” I remained calm on the outside but could feel the lava flow of anger start to heat and bubble up. Leave it to an outside reporter to try to stir things up. I thought to myself and looked for someone I knew I could trust.

“Wes?” He showed his appreciation by smiling at me and stood up.

“When do you start practicing with the team?”

“Monday morning.” It felt good to finally say it.

“Aren’t you afraid that you’re starting back too soon?”

I nodded, knowing that I’d had the same question about when the right time was to return to team practices. “I talked to my counselor, sponsor, and the team doctors and everyone agreed that I should return when I felt ready. The football field is where I feel the most at home and I’m itching to get back on it, in whatever capacity.”

I had every intention of finding a non-Bridgeport reporter to ask the next question, but changed my mind when I made eye contact with someone. I couldn’t help but smile at her. She of course, didn’t. She had the same contempt look on her face that she always did when we were in the same room. The same one I was sure she made when anyone mentioned my name to her.

We’d always been like oil and water, forced sometimes to be together but never mixing. The crazy thing was I never really knew why. I had my guesses, but they had never been proven right since she refused to talk to me unless it was absolutely necessary. I always thought it was karma that was responsible for her getting a job in the same city that I played in, having to report on what I did and forced to say nice things about me.

Whatever the reason for her ending up there, I had learned long ago to act like I wasn’t bothered by her open displays of not liking me. Simply because it irritated her when I didn’t take the hint that she disapproved of me. I really shouldn’t have called on her and I knew by the way that Jimmy and Coach were holding their breaths that they thought it was a bad idea. But she was a good reporter and always asked the hard-ass, no holds barred questions.

She self-consciously shook her head, making sure her long blonde hair was out of her face before standing up and focusing her piercing green eyes on me. Narrowing them as they bore into mine.  “Two other times in the past, you checked into rehab for alcohol abuse and both of those times you told Buck’s fans to believe that you were on the road to recovery and promised to ‘do better.’”

I didn’t think it was possible for her to narrow her eyes any more, but she proved me wrong. “How do you expect fans or anyone to believe you this time?” I had to purse my lips to keep a smart ass smile from showing. Everyone else in the room looked at her, shocked and surprised that she had the balls to ask such a question, but I knew better. There wasn’t a question she wouldn’t ask, especially when it came to me.

She raised an eyebrow, daring me to respond and I raised one in return, letting her know that I had every intention of answering her ballsy question. “Well, Pam. . .” She glared at me for shortening her name and I smiled even more.  “I don’t expect anyone to believe me. Hell, I wouldn’t believe me if I was anyone else. All I’m asking is for an opportunity to play football and the Buck’s organization has been gracious enough to allow me to do that. And frankly, hun,” She rolled her eyes at me calling her that. “I don’t know how else to say this without sounding rude, but. . .I could give a rat’s ass who believes me at this point. I’m only concerned about my recovery, my family, and my career, in that order.” 

Chaos followed and reporters started to once again yell out questions that I didn’t hear because I was still having a pissing contest with Pam. Staring and smiling at her as she continued to glare at me. Who knows how long it would have continued if Jimmy hadn’t loudly announced that the press conference was over and patted me on the back, signaling that it was time to leave.

I could tell Jimmy was fuming by the way he bolted towards the doors, flinging them open before anyone else could for him. He planted his feet a little ways into the waiting room and stared straight ahead, breathing loud enough that you could hear it over the ticking clock. But just in case anyone was unsure that he was pissed off, he waited until the doors barely closed before spinning around and letting me have it.  “Damn it, Trev! Why did you have her ask a question?! You know how she is!”

He was right, but I had never been the guy that played it safe, even with press conferences. “When have I ever done what I was supposed to? And you have to admit, her question did liven things up.”

“Exactly! All we wanted was a calm press conference! We didn’t need Pamela Haines to stand up and ask one of her pot stirring questions.”

“I don’t know if I’d say they’re ‘pot stirring’. More like ‘keep you on your toes’ and ‘to the point.’” I sarcastically corrected and he shook his head.

“Jimmy, there was no way that press conference was going to remain calm, not after what we just announced.” Coach tried to reason with him.

“I know that. I just. . .” He shook his head again, chuckling as he looked up at me. “I should have known better.” He admitted and I nodded.

“Expect the unexpected.” I imitated him and everyone chuckled.

“Damn it if that statement hasn’t come back to bite me in the ass since that day.” Jimmy muttered and I chuckled. The day I was drafted by the Bucks from Appaloosa State University, Jimmy told the group of reporters to, Expect the unexpected from this guy. I’d lived up to that promise more than once in my six years on the team, much to the chagrin of the organization.

“I shouldn’t have done it, and I’m sorry.” I slightly bowed, owning up to the fact that I’d messed up. “It went okay, though, besides that?” My fears that I’d ruined the whole thing were relieved when they all nodded and Jimmy patted me on the back.

“Yeah.” He nodded again and placed his hand on my shoulder.  

“Thanks for what you said in there about the team and organization.”

“I meant every word.” His hand patted my shoulder and the conversation moved to what needed to be done before Monday. Not much of what was being said had anything to do with me but I waited for a break in the conversation before asking if they needed me anymore. Saying that they didn’t, I said goodnight and ducked out of the room, pulling at my tie as I made my way down the hallway.

There wasn’t any way that I would wear a suit longer than I needed to and the locker room provided the perfect place to stash my change of clothes. Most of the time it was loud and full of energy, a place where us guys could be ourselves. But that night it was completely quiet and provided a place where I could escape the craziness of the day. 

I kept most of the lights off, except for the ones that lit up each player’s space and scanned each one until I came to mine. DAVILA. The blue letters still spelled out my name above my spot and I stared at them for a moment, still blown away that they were there. It could just as easily been someone else’s name, especially after my latest stint in a rehab facility. It was the point of Pam’s question, the question that I was sure everyone was asking: “What makes you so special that you get a third chance?”

Honestly? I didn’t know. I didn’t know why my name was still above my spot, or why the team had voted to keep me on. I just knew that they had and now that the press conference was out of the way I felt like I could really start to prove to the guys and myself that they hadn’t made a mistake.

It wouldn’t be easy though, and I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t scared shitless of failing. I’d done it two times before. But this time was different. Rehab before was something I’d done because it was an ultimatum. Quit drinking or quit the team. I’d gone but not really tried to get better, slipping back down the slippery slope soon after getting out and going back to my old habits of gorgeous women and booze.

But my time was up and I knew there would be no more chances after this. Not just for football, but also for life. My body and mind had to fight tooth and nail to climb back out of the hole that threatened to swallow me and I wasn’t sure that I could do it again and that meant that there was no room for failure.

That’s what truly scared me, that one day I would give in and soothe one of the cravings. Not want to deal with the pain of how I treated my family and friends all those years that I drank, or that I would never be able to handle losing Dad, but most of all, not being the man that I knew he always wanted me to be.

But unlike the last two times, I had people who supported me. Not just my family but people who had been where I was. And even though it was still hard for me to open up to people and share my feelings, it was still reassuring to know that I could call on them when I needed to be talked off the ledge or told that I wasn’t crazy. Who wouldn’t judge me for hearing the little voice in my head that sometimes tried to convince me that having a drink wasn’t such a bad thing. Guys like my sponsor who just happened to call me right at that moment.

“Hey, Stan.”

Before I met him, I doubted that I would have anything in common with my sponsor. I was a professional NFL quarterback, wealthy, hounded by press and fans, and my job performance was criticized by people all around the country. Finding a “peer” to be my sponsor seemed as likely as Jimmy flashing his ass to the press. But then I met Stan.

His family were well known business owners in Bridgeport and he was slated to take over as CEO when his dad retired. Feeling the pressure to continue the family business was one of the reasons he started drinking and his rehab visit had been blasted all over the news. Something we’d instantly bonded over.

“Hey. I just wanted to check on you. The press conference seemed to go well. . .” He hinted and I finally let my guard down.

“Mostly. . .There were a couple times when I thought about having a drink.” Saying it made me cringe, Not because I thought it’d upset him, but because it upset me.

“Was it during the most stressful moments?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s when that voice tends to tell you that a drink will make it easier. I call it the ‘Drinking Devil.’”

“Drinking Devil?”

“I just started calling it that because it reminded me of the devil you see in cartoons. The one who sits on someone’s shoulder and tries to make the bad things it wants them to do sound smooth and cool.”

“With a pitchfork and red cape. . .” I added, imagining the little devil I remembered seeing on some of the Saturday morning cartoons.

“That’s the one.” I nodded and started to imagine the red little guy on one shoulder and the white angel on the other, duking it out.  “Do you feel guilty?” Guilty was an understatement, but it took me a second to admit it to him.

“Yeah, I do. They told me it would happen in rehab, but I didn’t think the. . .Drinking Devil would be so loud.”

“He’s a sneaky little fella, but give it time, Trev. Try to be patient with yourself.”

I let out a frustrated sigh. “That’s the problem. I’m more of a put in the work and see instant results kind of guy.”

“I hear ya. I’m that way too. Have you tried to occupy yourself? I know you can’t at work but when you’re at home?”

“I’ve tried a couple things. Movies, video games, Cookie Jam. . .”

“Do any of those things interest you?”

“No, not really.” I tried most of them because they were things that kept my mind and hands occupied. I hated sitting around, not doing something or interacting. But I didn’t feel like I could trust myself to go out, especially places that sold booze.

“What about a hobby? Is there something you used to do before you drank that you could pick back up?” That’s when a lightbulb went off.

“Maybe. . .” I hinted, but didn’t want to tell him what it was.

“Whatever it is, give it a try. It might be the thing that gets you over the hump.”

I might’ve eventually thought of trying it on my own, but doubted I would’ve given into the idea without someone giving me a little push. It wasn’t the first time that I received good advice from him. “. . .Thanks.”

“It’s what I’m here for. You need anything, any time, call me.”

“I will. I. . .uh. . .better run. I’m supposed to have dinner with the family. Talk to you later?”

“Sure.”

We hung up and I quickly changed clothes. By that point, I was late for dinner, which I knew would irk George. I texted him as I walked out of the locker room, letting him know I was on my way, and walked even faster towards the parking lot.

If someone had told me several months before that I would not only completely enjoy spending time with my family but also look forward to it, I would’ve asked what they were smoking. Not that I didn’t love them. There were just certain times when we got under each other’s skin, mostly when I was drinking. I would’ve cringed at the thought of being in the same room with my brother George, knowing that he would be watching and I assumed, judging me.

But ever since the night I hit rock bottom and he and Charlotte were there for me, things had been different. We’d never see things completely eye to eye, but I knew he was one of a few people who really had my back and I had his if he ever needed me.

There weren’t many cars left when I finally made it to the parking lot. Most everyone left soon after the press conference, wanting to be the first to report on it. I didn’t mind it though, since it meant that I could get to my car without having to stop and talk to anyone. I even took a moment to look up at the stars that could only be seen away from the lights of downtown.

I cursed when I heard the hard footsteps coming from the stadium, telling myself that I shouldn’t have stopped to gawk at the stars. Knowing my luck they’d see me and want to talk. But when I turned my head to see who it was, I wished even more that I’d just gotten in my car and left.

As far as I was concerned, she shouldn’t be there that late. Like all the other reporters she should’ve been long gone, rushing to submit her story. And as she neared her car, that I then realized was only a couple spaces from mine, I blurted out what I was thinking. 

“You’re here late.” I wasn’t surprised when she didn’t acknowledge me. Most of the time she tried to ignore me, which was why it was so irresistible to not pester the shit out of her. It’s what she continued to do as she opened her car door and threw her bag on the seat. Pretend that I wasn’t there.  

“Secret rendezvous?” That got her attention. She spun around so fast that her hair flew in her face. I didn’t know what annoyed her more, her hair, the wind or me. I had a guess and thought I’d guessed right when she brushed her hair away from her face and glared at me.  

“Why are you here?” Her question was laced with annoyance and loaded with implications that I too chose not to completely answer.

“Well it is the Buck’s facility, and I am a Buck. . .” I flashed her a smile and she rolled her eyes at me. Her lips forming into what actually looked like a snarl.

“I suppose you think that’s funny. . .” I actually did think it was a good comeback but I decided to try again.

“Just stating the obvious.”

I could tell there was more that she wanted to say by the way her eyes threw daggers at me but she bit down on her lips and turned away before she could. Focusing her anger instead on the back door by slamming it before reaching for the driver’s side handle. But something made her hand stop less than an inch away from it.

I wasn’t sure what she was doing, although I could’ve sworn hearing what sounded like whispers coming from her direction. It seemed possible that she was praying. Praying she hadn’t run into me, for a hole to swallow her. . .

Standing there guessing wasn’t on my list of enjoyable things to do that night, but right at the moment I started to turn away, she whirled back around. This time making sure her head flicked in a direction that kept her hair out of her face.

“Dad says hi. He wanted me to tell you that he’s proud of you for getting help and hopes that you’re feeling better.” She blurted out all at once, clenching her jaw like it pained her to say it.

Any teasing I might’ve given her about not leaving vanished the second she mentioned her dad. He was one of the people that I owed an explanation to, especially after all that he’d done for me.

“He seems okay? He’s doing a great job coaching at ASU.” She’d already turned around to open her door but stopped and spun around to glare at me.

“He’s fine. And yes, he’s an amazing coach although you’d never know you felt that way.” I flinched at the truth of her words.  I should’ve talked to him in the six years since graduating, but I hadn’t. It’d been much easier to try to escape and forget about the pain of going to college where Dad went. ASU became a place that reminded me of him and I wanted to leave it all behind, including Coach Haines.

“Would you mind telling him I said hi?” I asked, not sure if I had the courage yet to reach out to him.

She huffed as she looked down at the keys in her hand. “Sure, whatever. Since you seem incapable of picking up a phone to do it yourself.” Her words showcasing once again how she was a master at nailing me with the truth. She turned back around, got in her car in record speed, and sped through the lot like she couldn’t get away from me fast enough.  Leaving me with my thoughts on her dad. My old college coach, Coach Haines.

One thing I learned from my stint in rehab was that in order to heal, you had to face your past and come to terms with it. That’s what Coach Haines was, an unfinished part of my past who I needed to make things right with. But I wasn’t sure how he would react if I reached out to him.

If I was him I wouldn’t give me the time of day. He’d been my coach for four years, looked after me like a second dad, and was largely responsible for any of the success I had in the pros. I repaid him by not talking to him or giving him any credit for my success. I’d been a complete asshole and didn’t deserve his friendship. But I wanted it and knew that there was only one way for that to happen. I needed to contact him and as I looked back up at the dark, starlit sky, I vowed to do just that. I just hoped it wasn’t too late. 

******

Notes about the chapter:

- This chapter has been updated as part of a revision of earlier chapters. So if you've read it before and think, "Something's different. . ." That's why. Same content, just a little more depth to it.

- If you've read any of my other stories, you'll know that I listen to music to help set a mood when I type. Trev has several songs that fit the overall theme of his story and this chapter is named after one of them. Here's the song if you'd like to listen: