Nick stands still. “Here’s the thing, Fitzy. I’ve got millions of dollars of endorsement deals lined up for you. When the press realizes Foller’s being investigated by the League, none of those will move forward. Because you went ahead and went to bat for him. You tied yourself to him.”

“I tied myself to the fucking President of the United States as well.”

That obviously was not the right way to segue out of the Foller topic because Nick throws his arms up.

“I didn’t tell you to do that either!” Nick exclaims. “The only thing going for you with that people are googly eyed over watching the two of you play around with some kids. I’m less worried about your personal life at the moment.”

“Because it doesn’t make you any money,” I retort.

“No, Fitzy. Because when you retire in a few years, I want your reputation to be intact and untarnished.”

I hang my head. “What do you want me to do?”

“Divorce Foller.”

I put my now-empty glass on the counter. “Divorce a football coach?”

He nods. “Yeah. You make yourself like every other guy on your team who says jack shit. Practice, training, prep, games, that’s it. If you’re asked about him, it’s no comment. Not no comment and I think he’s a great guy. Because he’s not. Blinders are never higher than when it comes to family, Fitzy. If that’s what Foller is to you, you’ve got to ask yourself if he’d throw himself under the bus for you if the situations were reversed.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“What I want you to get is dismissing any kind of abuse off the bat just because you can’t imagine it isn’t the vibe. I can’t sell that shit. Not to Nike or Gatorade. And you’re beloved right now. But don’t think people can’t turn against you in a flash, because they can. And they will. You are the company you keep.”

The irony isn’t lost on me that that’s what Foller said about Parker back in high school.

* * *

If a picture is worth a thousand words, I’d love to know what a two thousand-piece puzzle is worth, especially when you’re missing one damn piece.

When I told Parker I wouldn’t work on it while she was gone, I meant it. But that was before this shitstorm. Now, I’m checking the couch for the eighth time phone rings. Given Parker usually calls around this time—and because I had another bourbon after Nick left—I swipe to open the call without even looking at the screen.

“I know you’re going to be pissed,” I say, “but promise you won’t hate me.”

It’s quiet on the line. I yank the phone from my ear, and fuck me, it’s Coach.