Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 83612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83612 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
That weight never gets lighter. If anything, it presses harder the longer you stay in this business.
I survey the yellow legal pad in front of me, filled with scribbles so frantic they border on illegible. Names of prospects. Trade possibilities. A star next to a linebacker with raw talent but questionable discipline. Three underlines beneath a wide receiver with blazing speed but hands like stone. Lines drawn from one name to another, as if connecting them will reveal some secret symmetry.
Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.
I’d love to say that there’s a method to the madness, but I’d be lying. However, by the time I work through it all, I’ll have my final list for draft day, and after that, all I can do is hope the choices I made were the right ones.
The whiteboard across the room is worse than the legal pad. It’s covered in columns and magnets, each one representing a body, a contract, a potential gamble. If you stare at it long enough, it starts to look less like a plan and more like a crime-scene investigation board, with threads connecting theories that may or may not hold up.
That’s eerily correct because, no matter how much thought, research, and stats say a player is right for our Rampage family, it could all still turn out to be wrong. I’ve been wrong before, and I’ve learned a lot over the years.
My phone rings, pulling me out of my thoughts. The sound cuts through the quiet of the room like a whistle at the start of a play. I ignore it instead, pulling off my glasses and reaching up to pinch the bridge of my nose, and close my eyes.
I just need a minute. Just sixty seconds of quiet without the expectations of the job pressing on me from every direction. Without swirls of stats and names that are starting to jumble together.
The ringing stops. I exhale slowly, leaning back in my chair as relief unfurls inside my chest. Maybe I’ll take two minutes, because I can feel a headache forming, the pain starting to ache between my eyes.
The ringing starts again. With a heavy breath and a groan, I reach for the phone without looking, already preparing to tell whatever scout or agent it is that I’ll call them back, or the Rampage owner that yes, I’m working on it, and I’ll be ready for a full report by the end of the week.
I glance at the screen, and my lips tilt in a smile.
Bellamy.
This time, the air leaves my lungs for a different reason entirely. Guilt swirls in my gut, thick and familiar. Old habits die hard. Here I am, ignoring my daughter’s call because I’m buried in a depth chart. Her name on the screen is a reminder that some lessons take a lifetime to learn.
Swiping at the screen, I bring the phone to my ear. “Hey, sweetheart,” I greet her.
There’s a split second of silence, then, “Hi, Dad.”
My heart squeezes so tight it almost hurts. She always sounds so happy. No more tentative hellos. She’s just… happy.
There was a time when her voice held an edge anytime I was involved. A careful, aloof politeness that cut deeper than anger ever could. I earned that distance. I built it brick by brick, all the missed moments, recitals, birthdays, and so much more. No matter how often I tried to insert myself into her life, she resisted, and from her young age, after my divorce from her mother, I let her.
I thought that I was doing the right thing, and it only took a short amount of time for me to realize I fucked up. It took me years to unfuck the mess I’d made of my relationship with my daughter, and that’s one mistake I’ll damn well never repeat.
Now that she’s back in my life—not just back, but an active participant, where I get happy phone calls and chances to watch my granddaughter—I don’t take it lightly.
“Everything okay?” I ask, leaning back in my chair. Already, this call has calmed me more than the two minutes I was thinking I needed just moments ago.
“Oh, yes, everything’s fine.” I can hear movement in the background and the soft giggles of my granddaughter. “Are you busy tonight?”
I almost laugh.
Almost.
Because if there’s ever been a loaded question, that’s it. Busy tonight? I have hours of tape waiting for me. A stack of scouting reports that haven’t even been cracked open. A meeting with the defensive coordinator later this afternoon, and more meetings throughout the week.
Time is not on my side.
However, the universe has a fucked-up way of resting you when you least expect it. Am I busy? Yes. Do I have more work than hours in a day? Also, yes. Will any of it matter if I look up in ten years and realize I missed it all again?