Chapter 26

Chapter 25: Brandon

I don’t know what I expected Andi Nichols’s place to look like, but this isn’t it. She lives on the ground floor of a multi-family house that’s nothing to look at. Some might even call it an eyesore. It’s not that it’s unkempt or run down. It’s probably been renovated in recent history. It’s just ... something’s missing.

“This place doesn’t have enough windows on the front side. It looks off balance or something.” I stare up, trying to figure out why it looks so unattractive.

“Maybe you have too many windows.”

That’s a weak argument, but she does have a brain injury, so I’ll let it slide this time. “I have the right number of windows. Which door is yours?”

“I’m on the left. I don’t care about the outside. I don’t spend any time out there. What’s important is that this condo is super expensive, and I have virtually no room.”

I think she made a joke.

“At least you have off-street parking,” I offer.

She smiles. “That was a big seller, though I sort of wish for a garage during the winter.” She puts the key in the lock and pushes the door open. “And I’m not going to lie, now I totally want an ice bath.”

The place is sparkling clean and has obviously been refinished this century. It doesn’t even look like someone lives here. It’s narrow, half the width of the house. You can see straight to the back where the kitchen is. The floors are shiny oak, and the rest of the place is white. White walls. White cabinets. What’s not white is gray. Gray appliances. Gray furniture. The bare minimum of everything. There are no rugs. No toss pillows. One lone blanket covers the back of the couch. It looks like the same decor you’d find in a hotel room. It is totally devoid of personality.

On second thought, this place suits Andi Nichols perfectly.

Or at least that’s what I would have thought before today. She has a personality. She just keeps her cards close to her chest. Real close.

“Listen, it’s nice that you drove me home and all.” She pauses and looks around, still wearing her sunglasses. “But this is only a one bedroom. I mean, technically there’s a second bedroom, but it’s my office. There’s not a bed in there or anything.”

“Yeah, mine is too. My second bedroom is a gym, which you know all about. What’s your point?”

“I need to sleep. I’m really tired.”

“Okay, go to sleep. I’ll be out here on the couch.”

“I can’t make you sleep on the couch.”

“You’re not making me do anything. I don’t know if you know this, but no one makes me do anything I don’t want to do. I can sleep pretty much anywhere. I can sleep on the couch. The floor. I could sleep in a kitchen chair. Hell, I can sleep standing up if I need to. My sleep is very important to me, and I don’t let my environment control it.”

She stands there.

“Andrew, I’m serious. You saw me on the plane. I can sleep anywhere. Now you go get some rest. Your body’s been through a lot today.” I put my hands on her shoulders and gently steer her toward the door that has to be the bedroom.

Once she’s over the threshold, I go out to the kitchen to get her some water and maybe a snack. Her kitchen is predictably neat and tidy. The fridge is well stocked with lots of fruits and vegetables, all in meal-prep containers.

She seems like the type to meal-prep.

There are also several prepared meals in there from a service.

Indeed, Andi Nichols has her shit together.

I grab her a bottle of water as well as some crackers. Are crackers the right choice? She doesn’t have a stomach bug, and she’s not hungover either. Maybe she shouldn’t be eating? I google “what to eat when you have a concussion.”

Apparently, it’s a diet high in good fats, not dissimilar to the Mediterranean diet, FYI. I put the crackers back and make her some whole grain avocado toast with a side of almonds. I was right about the water. Hydration is important.

When I bring the plate and cup to her room, it’s dark. It takes my eyes a minute to adjust to the lack of light. I see Andi curled up on her side. She’s still wearing the sunglasses. From the sounds of her breathing, I’d guess she’s sleeping. I quietly walk over and put the toast and water down on her nightstand. Gingerly I pull the glasses off her face and put them there as well. I pull the light gray blanket that’s neatly folded across the end of the bed up over her body. I back out of the room and pull the door mostly shut.

Then, because I wasn’t lying about my sleep being important and being able to sleep anywhere, I set my alarm for two hours later. I’ll check on her every two hours until morning.

Maybe it should be one hour.

Andi Nichols can’t die on my watch. That would be bad. Very bad.

I adjust my alarm and lie down on her couch. There’s a large square ottoman that I pull up to create a wider area for more comfort. I pull the gray blanket down off the back of the gray couch and wonder what this woman has against color.

Never in a million years would I have predicted where this night would land. Mostly I never would have predicted the way Andi would have landed on my treadmill, but that’s not the point.

Okay, it was actually pretty funny, and I’m kicking myself for not getting that on video. Not that we need anything else going viral out there. It’s why we’re in this mess in the first place.

There’s a light at the end of the tunnel. I can’t wait for her to be a little more coherent so I can share with her the news about the charity I found. I emailed them to see what we can put together. Maybe a soccer clinic or a game or something? I’ll probably have to check with the front office to see what the policy is, but I know lots of players use official Buzzards swag for charities.

For a minute I feel like a shit that I’ve been playing all this time and haven’t done anything for charity. In my defense, it’s usually the agents or managers who set that up. My dad doesn’t want anything going to anyone unless it’s him.

I close my eyes, drifting off like my body’s used to doing. I start awake to the chiming of my alarm, groggy and not believing an hour has already passed. I open Andi’s door a crack. She’s in the same position. I cross the room in two steps putting my hand over her collarbone hoping to feel some movement. I let out a sigh of relief when it slowly rises and then falls under my palm.

I keep it there for a few more moments, making sure her breathing is rhythmical and steady. Content that she’s doing okay for the moment, I return to the living room, ready to repeat this procedure every sixty minutes throughout the night.

Despite my previous claims, I can’t fall back asleep. I putter around on my phone, making lists about ideas I have for our public image reboot. There are always the typical fancy-pants fundraisers that we could certainly help with. Appearances and signing memorabilia or something.

I bet I could get Callaghan Entay to help me out with a fundraiser. He did something like that where he signed autographs for charity. Xavier Henry’s wife, Ophelia, made Landon and me take Hannah to the function for Callaghan. She was not exactly a willing participant.

In the end, they got together and now they’re all lovey-dovey and bullshit. So’s Henry with his wife, which started as a fake marriage. It’s funny, Henry and Ophelia had to convince the world they were in love. Andi and I have to convince the world we’re not.

This is a messed-up time we live in, all thanks to social media like ClikClak. Well, since social media created this mess, we should definitely use it to clean it up.

Except ... I don’t know anything about posting there. I mainly use it to see what people are saying about me and to watch funny videos of people falling. And the occasional pimple popping.

I know it’s gross, but I can’t look away.

I look up Andi, but she doesn’t have a public account. But the videos talking about the two of us ...

Now I know why she’s desperate.

There’s no way she’s keeping her job.

This is complete and utter bullshit. There’s nothing going on between us, other than I’m a decent human being who’s trying not to let someone die on my watch. Speaking of which, it’s time to check on her again.

Andi’s leg is twitching. Is it a normal sleep thing or a seizure? I turn on the bedside lamp and sit down on the other side of the bed to watch her for a moment. I’m not comfortable, so eventually I shift so I’m propped up against the headboard. This is much better. Did I mention there are no pillows on the couch? I’ve never met a female without tons of useless pillows around.

The motion in her legs stops and she rolls over toward me. “You okay, Andrew?” I whisper. I don’t know why I called her that. Maybe because in the middle of the night, in the soft glow from her lamp, with her sleeping next to me, this feels more intimate than it should.

She mumbles something that sounds like an affirmative response.

“Okay, I was just checking on you. I’ll go back to the couch now.” I start to get up.

She mumbles again, this time the word is more clear. “Stay.”

I freeze, one leg hanging over the side of the bed. My gut clenches. Does she really want me to stay in her bed with her? It’s not like anything’s going to happen. I’m here for her. To make sure she’s okay. I still need some sleep.

That’s all this is. Sleep.

I close my eyes, knowing I’ll open them again in a few minutes.

: Andi

My head hurts.

There’s avocado toast wilting on my nightstand. How the hell did that get there?

At the hospital, they told me I could have some memory loss. I didn’t expect it to be this bad. How could I not remember making avocado toast? It’s like a four-step process and includes the use of a sharp knife. Maybe I shouldn’t be here alone.

I’m curled up on my side staring at the food on my nightstand with absolutely no recollection of how it got there. All I remember is having weird dreams about a dog—I think it was a corgi from one of Hannah LaRosa’s videos. I was chasing after it, trying to give it a red card. No matter how many times I yelled at it to stay, it just kept running away.

My heart stops when I feel the other side of the bed depress with movement, like a dog jumped up on it.

Except I don’t have a dog, unless Sir Fluffybottom really is here.

I glance behind me.

What the hell is Brandon Nix doing in my bed?

“What the hell are you doing in my apartment? Why are you in my bed?”

“Isn’t this a condo? Would you call it an apartment?”

I blink slowly. Is he really arguing with me about this?

I’m so disarmed that I answer his questions for lack of anything else to say. “I guess technically it’s a condo, but I feel stupid saying that. When you say condo, people think of high rises with shiny amenities. This is so not that. They just say condo so they can collect an HOA fee. It doesn’t matter. Why are you here? You’re in my bed!” I pull a blanket up around me, as if to cover myself in modesty. It doesn’t matter that I’m fully dressed.

“Making sure you don’t die. That would not help our case.” He stretches out, placing his arms behind his head. Like he belongs here. Like he should be comfortable in my bed!

“I’d be dead. I wouldn’t care.”

“Yeah, but they’d probably try to pin your death on me. I don’t think my career can withstand that kind of scandal.”

“Fair point, but why are you in my bed?”

“You said stay,” he says matter of factly.

Never in a million years would I invite Brandon Nix into my bed. “No way. I did no such thing.”

“You did. I came in to check on you, but you said stay. I thought maybe you were afraid or not feeling well, so I stayed. Again, I can’t have you dying on my watch. I don’t watch enough Dateline to know how to dispose of your body without tracing it back to me. Just my hair alone will incriminate me. It sheds all the time.”

I have to laugh at this absurd situation as well as his comments about his locks. “Your hair is a crime in and of itself. But don’t worry; you’re a dude. You get an automatic pass. You’d be fine.” I stand up and head to the bathroom. When I finish up and open the door, he’s sitting on my couch like he owns the place, scrolling away on his phone.

He keeps talking as if there’d been no break in the conversation. As if he belongs here. As if this is something we do. As if it’s normal for us to share a bed. “What was that supposed to mean? Do you really think I could accidentally kill you and get away with it just because I’m a male athlete?”

This is an easy argument to win. I don’t even have to visit Google to come up with a list of offenders. “Michael Vick. Oneil Cruz. Ray Lewis. O.J. Simpson.”

Seriously, what the hell is wrong with our society?

“Michael Vick didn’t kill anyone. It was just dog fighting.”

“Yeah, and he was permanently suspended, except then he wasn’t, and he ended up not only playing again, getting paid millions of dollars, but even winning a courage award from his teammates. The other three absolutely killed people, and two of them kept playing after the fact! I can’t even get paid the same amount as my coworkers simply because I don’t have a penis. Now I’m going to lose everything I’ve ever wanted because some hot soccer player invades my personal space, and the collective internet expects me to swoon like a ninny.”

“You think I’m hot?” Brandon asks with a shit-eating grin. He stands up and disappears into my kitchen.

Of course, he focuses on that. “You know what you look like, though someday we have to circle back to what’s going on with your hair. Did you even hear what I said? The rest of it? I ...” I plop down on my couch. “I don’t know what to do with you.” The last statement is more a mutter to myself.

He sits down next to me and hands me a glass of water. “First you can drink this because you have to stay hydrated, and then you can thank me because I’ve solved our problems. Do you have a computer?”

I point to the second bedroom that serves as my office. “Laptop’s on the desk in there. Just grab it and bring it out.” I’m pretty sure that even without my permission, Brandon would have helped himself. He has boundary issues, which is a shock to exactly no one. I do drink the water though, not that I’d tell him I’m thirsty.

Actually, I wouldn’t tell anyone I was thirsty because I wouldn’t want to put them out or draw attention to myself. In this case, though, I don’t want Brandon Nix to know he was right.

I’d probably rather turn to dust right in front of him than admit that he was right about something, especially my needs.

He returns with my computer and opens it up. He turns it toward me so I can enter my passcode. As he does he says, “We also need to circle back to the pay comment.” Brandon opens up a browser and hits a few keystrokes. “Voila!” he says triumphantly. “This is what we need. I tried telling you about it last night, but you were having trouble focusing. I already emailed them and took care of everything.”

I blink at the screen. I’m not supposed to have a lot of screen time. I don’t know what I think will happen if I look at it. The scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark where the guy’s face melts off passes through my mind.

Probably not that.

I hope.

“Pillowcases?” I squint, trying to read the small print.

“The main thing is pillowcases for kids with chronic illnesses like cancer, but they have this whole other section for siblings of kids with chronic illnesses. They do counseling and groups and special gifts because these kids are often overlooked. Did you know there’s a term for that? It’s called glass child syndrome. It’s because the parents of children with special needs tend to ‘look through’ their healthy children.”

I feel my breath rush out, leaving a hollow feeling in my chest.

It’s perfect.

Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.

I squeeze my eyes shut, willing the sudden moisture to be reabsorbed into my body. It sounds ridiculous but it’s a maneuver I perfected when I was a kid.

No one wants to see the healthy one crying about anything. We have no reason to cry.

“I’m going to stop in the front office to see about doing an event. Like a clinic or something. You know, teach them how to play soccer. And then we can have the kids come to a game. Make a big deal for them.”

It takes me a bit longer to process what he’s saying. “That’s all well and good for repairing your image, but what about me? Why am I here? I mean, other than I live here. What does this have to do with me?”

Brandon’s brow furrows behind his glasses. They really are a good look for him. Kind of a Clark Kent vibe. If Clark Kent had a kid with Tarzan and that kid only wore flip-flops.

“I was thinking at the clinic there could be a referee station. Like some kids could play and other kids could ref. You can’t have a game without referees, you know. Anyway, I’ll talk to my people when I’m done with my workout.” Brandon gets up and starts looking around. “I’ve got to get going. I’m going to be late as it is.”

It takes me a minute to realize what he’s searching for. “You don’t have keys. You drove my car.”

“Damn it, that’s right.” He pulls out his phone and rapidly texts. “Shit. I was supposed to text Landon to come pick me up this morning, but he won’t have time to get up here and back before we’re supposed to be there. I don’t care about being late—”

“I know,” I interject. It is really something I hate.

He rolls his eyes and continues, “But I can’t make Landon late. They fine us. I mean, I could always just pay his fine. It’s only money.”

“Says the person who has plenty of money.”

“I don’t want to get him in trouble. It’s fine if they’re mad at me. They can’t be mad at him, too.” He looks around as if trying to formulate another plan.

I sigh. “Just take my car. We can figure out how to get it when you’re done working. I’m calling in anyway. I’ve got to cancel my trip to Birmingham.”

That’s something I dread doing. Nathan’s going to think I’m faking to get out of the meeting. I don’t like facing difficult situations, but running away only creates more problems.

I stand there and take it like a woman.

Once the door closes with Brandon Nix on the other side, I feel like I can breathe a little more. I also feel totally gross, so I take a lukewarm shower as per my instructions. Then I send the email I’ve been dreading.

Hi Nathan,

I had an accident while running on a treadmill last night. I have a concussion. I’m afraid I won’t be able to do the Birmingham game, as I’m on a ten-day restriction of physical activity. I can still fly down to Atlanta if you need me to. I would only ask that one of the USSLRA administrative assistants book my tickets. I’m supposed to be on total screen rest for the next two days at least. I’ll check my email periodically, or feel free to give me a call with your directives.

Andi

P.S. I’m attaching the discharge paperwork from the hospital for my personnel file. Please let me know if you need other documentation.

I like throwing directives in there. It’s a union thing. I really should email them too, but I’m sleepy again. I’ll lie down here for a bit. After a short nap, I’ll email my union rep and let them know about the impending meeting.

And then maybe I’ll think about what happened with Brandon Nix.

Just a quick nap.