Epilogue

"The first pick of this year's National Football League Draft, the Carolina Panthers select… Jack Perry, wide receiver, Groveton College."

Cheers go up around the greenroom, where other top draft picks are congregated around on couches and tables. Coach Sanders is sitting next to me, as well as my friends Luke and Troy. Both are dressed to kill and I'm not sure I've ever seen Troy in a shirt, never mind a suit. I did actually call my mom and invite her, but she didn"t answer the phone or call me back. I wonder if she"s watching it on TV in the diner she works at. Maybe because it"s always been this way, I"m not hurt by her not coming. But there is a part of me that hopes she"s watching, and hopes some small part of her is proud.

Sanders stands, and gestures for me to stand up, but I"m frozen in my seat. Despite working my ass off for this, despite dreaming about it and having a pretty good idea that it was really coming true—actually hearing my name is surreal.

"Come on, Perry, get that tight ass through those doors," Bryant calls from across the room. People around us laugh, and his proud smile breaks through my fog.

Bryant is making his way into a small conference room, where I"m going to be answering questions from the press and signing my first official NFL contract. First, though, they shuffle me through a set of double doors and over to a camera where I put a blue and black Carolina Panthers hat on. Then I"m walking up on a stage and shaking hands with the commissioner, and holding up a jersey and giving everyone my thanks. It all happens in a blur, and I"m not sure if it all takes half an hour or just minutes.

Before I know it, I"m being ushered into the conference room. I hold my new jersey over my arm as I enter the room to raucous applause, seeing Luke, Troy, and Coach Sanders in the front row. My new head coach steps up and shakes my hand, telling me he"s proud to have me as a Carolina Panther, and looking forward to having me on his team. Some of the other coaches, including the offensive coordinator, whom I will be working with the most, introduce themselves and welcome me to the team as well. Then everyone settles for me to answer some questions.

"How does it feel to hear your name called as the first pick of the draft?" One of the reporters asks.

I chuckle. "I don"t have an answer for that just yet."

They ask me a few more questions, and then I"m led to the table, where a folder with a Carolina Panthers logo sits at the middle seat. My name is embossed under the logo and I run my fingers over it. Lights flash and cameras click as I open the folder and look through the pages, knowing that everything is in order.

"You have a hell of an agent, Jack. I don"t think I"ve ever negotiated so many details or signed a higher signing bonus."

On the last page, my eyes widen at the numbers. There are a lot more digits and commas than I ever expected. My eyes flash over to Bryant, who smirks and nods. He stands up and hands me a pen.

"Congratulations, Jack," he whispers, and pats my elbow. The touch is innocent, but it sends a wave of warmth through my entire body.

We aren"t making any statements about who we are to each other, but we"re also not hiding. We decided that figuring out a newish relationship was hard enough without the pressures of going public. So we"re just going to live our lives, and do our jobs the best we can. In the meantime, Bryant is coming to Charlotte, North Carolina, and moving in with me. Now that he has his first successful rookie talent signed, he"s going to spend a year learning the ins and outs of being a professional sports agent. So far, he"s already the best anyone"s seen, because he truly cares more about the player than the paycheck. And I know he"ll be like that for all of his clients, not just me.

"Show us your jersey!" Troy says, and I roll my eyes at him, to which everyone laughs. Honestly, I"m impressed we were able to keep my surprise a secret.

After unbuttoning and removing my suit jacket, I stand up and slip my jersey over my head, avoiding Bryant"s eyes until I"m ready to face him. Maybe this was stupid. I smile for the pictures before looking over at him. His mouth is open a little, and he has what looks like proud tears in his eyes as his eyes trace over my #88 jersey. I have to look away in case I start tearing up, too.

"I heard a rumor that you were able to choose your number, is that correct?" One of the reporters asks.

"Yes, that's true. I got lucky that the number I wanted was available," I answer.

"Is the number significant?"

"Very," I say. "It's the same number that once belonged to the man that changed my life."