“My mom started reaching out to some of her friends from when my dad played and they were exchanging stories that resembled each other. One of them told her about the League sending her husband to see doctors. Neuromapping or whatever they call it.” He rolls his eyes and I watch as his anger rises. “You know, the League pays these doctors and we’re supposed to believe them? When they can’t even get around to reimbursing you for seeing them? And we were the lucky ones. My dad kept jobs. He had made enough of a name for himself to earn money talking about sports, working short hours that he could manage. But once he couldn’t work anymore, once things started going south, the money went fast and that measly pension the League gives him does nothing. And once he dies? My mom gets half of it. So I’m stuck working for this soulless corporation to provide for the family they should be paying. These men built this fucking league and now what? Now my dad can’t even go to the bathroom by himself. He can’t take walks without a nurse and my mom is stuck loving a man who disappeared a long time ago.”

Guilt slams into me with the force of a tsunami. All of the times I judged him, resented him for not including his dad in his efforts. The times where I thought he was selfish and an asshole and I threw my dad in his face and he said nothing. Nothing about how the sport that I loved so much with my dad is the sport that stole his away. And the company that I work for is the same one who abandoned them when they needed support the most.

“I’m so sorry you have to go through this.” I grab his face in my hands, hoping that he feels not only the sincerity of my words, but how grateful I am that he opened up to me. “I wish I could do something to make this better.”

“You already have.” He puts his hands on top of mine and places a kiss on my forehead. “You’ve been there for me in a way nobody else has and you’ve helped me find my voice in all of this.”

“I didn’t do anything, it’s all been you.” My stomach twists into knots and not for the first time, I feel dirty. Working for Mahler has me feeling gross.

But I can’t lay that on Quinton. Not now. Not when I see the weight he already has on his shoulders. And I can’t just up and quit with no plan either. I’ll figure it out. I still have a month. I can make this work.

Somehow.

Thirty-four

“Is that handsome quarterback you keep insisting isn’t your fella going to be here tonight?” Mrs. Rafter asks from the passenger seat of my car.