Point is, the clock is ticking on any possibility of a future for him if I don’t get him some real help. I have to take this shot at football and not fuck up this time. But I also can’t afford to ease up on classes and add even more time to my graduation.
Hector, the owner of the Grape Ranch, already told me he can hook me up with a job after I graduate. He hinted at fifty grand a year to start, plus benefits. It’s a job I’ll need if I’m not drafted to the NFL.
Part of me prays I’m not. The pressure is insane. The other part of me wants to prove myself to the world.
I stand silent, watching the fog roll in and obscure the low-lying hills below. Row after row of lush green grapevines disappear under a blanket of pure white. For one brief moment, the horizon line above the fog turns into an amazing display of sherbet oranges and fiery reds as the sun sets.
Incredible.
I really love working here at the vineyard—being outdoors, using my hands, feeling part of something that doesn’t require an audience. I don’t know if I want to play ball anymore, but I have to try to go pro. For Flip and me. Millions of dollars is life-changing money.
That’s right, Dean, only an idiot would turn away from a second chance at a dream life.
“Dean, what do you mean you’re dropping classes to play this season?” says Nina, my neighbor who lives downstairs in our fifty-apartment complex. I’ve known her for about a year, ever since I moved into my three-bedroom place with a couple of teammates, Mike and Igor. Both play defense. Igor doesn’t speak much English—he’s a student from Ukraine—and Mike comes from the Rust Belt. He hates Oregon with a passion, but he got a full ride like me.
I plop down on Nina’s blue plaid couch, and she hands me a cold beer from her fridge.
“Thanks.” I ignore her comment about school, pick up the remote on her coffee table, and switch the channel from that nasty Lifetime to ESPN.
“Dean, I’m talking to you.” She snatches away the remote and turns off the TV.
“Hey. I wanted to watch that.”
She rolls her eyes and sits next to me. “You always do this when you’re stressed out.”
Huh? We barely know each other, even though we hooked up after I first moved in. Mike and Igor were having a party, and she showed up. It happened. The next day we both decided it was a mistake. Better off as friends. Also, she’d just gotten in a fight with her manwhore boyfriend, and while they’d technically been broken up, she wasn’t over him. They got back together the next week. Then they broke up again. ’Cause he was fucking his way through her friend list.
Like I said, manwhore.
Now Nina and I hang out every once in a while. She’s dragged me to a couple of family functions as her date to keep her parents from ragging on her about being single. In exchange, I get a friend who’s completely removed from the whole football thing. A plus when you’re questioning the sanity of the people around you who eat, sleep, and breathe football. She gets how hard it is since she’s on the university’s track team, and her circle of friends is like a cult, too.
“Dean, what’s going on?” She folds her arms across her chest. She’s kind of flat. Mostly because she’s a runner. No body fat. Add in her short brown hair and you’ve got the complete tomboy look. I’m cool with it, though I do prefer women with more curves.
Also, too often, Nina and I dress alike. I’m all about jeans—like today—and sweatshirts. Hoodies are great too since it’s always drizzling around here.
“What?” I ask.
“You only come down to my apartment when you’ve got shit to unload. So unload.”
“Not this time. I just want to watch TV on a real screen, and Mike’s hogging ours.” He’s on some war movie kick. Says it helps him get ready for the season. Killing. Battle. Really?
I reach for the remote, and she slaps my hand away.
“Hey,” I protest.
“Dean, I’ve known you for a minute, so I’m going to give you a piece of advice: You worry too much.”
I frown. “That’s not advice. And no I don’t.”
“Bullshit.” She laughs. “I’ve never met a guy who’s so wound up, he literally reminds me of a catapult. And I’m talking those medieval ones they used to launch flaming balls of exploding tar at castles.”
I’m not getting the analogy. “I’m intense. Not wound up. There’s a difference.” I turn toward her on the couch. “And even if I were wound up, what’s your point?”
“You need to start getting real about your life—make a plan that’s focused and practical. Right now, you’re just pushing yourself as hard as you can on every front. That’s not a plan. That’s just a path to a mental breakdown and imminent failure. You need to be strategic.”