“Good. You’ve always needed a solid eight hours.”
I do the math. Last night I clocked exactly eight. I give him a thumbs-up. “I’m getting it, man. I’m getting it.”
“Good. And I’m guessing you missed my message this morning because you were busy texting with the woman as soon as you woke up?”
I look down, then back up. Why do I feel guilty for missing his messages? Maybe because I’ve kind of been missing shit all week. But that’s what happens in the early days of a relationship, right? You can’t get enough of each other, and all I’ve wanted to do for the last week has been to play ball, and then to play with her.
So that’s all I’ve done.
“Yeah,” I say, admitting the truth.
He claps me on the shoulder. Squeezing harder than I expect. “Glad you’re into her, man. Just . . . you know.”
I cock my head to the side. “You know, what?”
He taps his temples. “Just keep your focus.”
I clench my teeth, then answer him. “I am all focus. I’m pretty much made of focus. And right now, let’s focus on Qwench. Because here’s the thing. I don’t think this company is a good fit.”
“Yeah?”
We’re still standing in the doorway, but the clock’s ticking, and Dani’s words ring in my ears. Another thing that’s slipped my mind is bringing it up with him. No time like the present. “Dani told me that Qwench ran into some trouble with tax fraud.”
Jason frowns in confusion. “You were talking to her about your business affairs?”
A kernel of guilt takes root inside me, like maybe I shouldn't have. But it didn’t seem wrong. It seemed really fucking helpful. “Dani said she’s happy to share the details with you. She was just trying to be helpful,” I add, but the words sound awkward coming out of my mouth, and I feel like an ass. Like I’m defending my girlfriend to my buddy, and I should not have to do that. Nor should I feel like I did something wrong by talking to her.
He arches an eyebrow. “I’m sure she was. I’d love to know more. I’m just surprised you went to her for advice.”
“It wasn’t advice. I was talking to her about you, man,” I say, poking his chest because he’s pissing me off. “Telling her you’re a good friend, how we did everything together as kids, and how we work together now. I mentioned we were working on a potential deal. And she fucking offered the information, okay?”
He holds up his hands in surrender.
A heaviness sets into my chest. Fuck. Now I’m that dude who questions his buddy because of a chick. “She’s a lawyer, you know. She knows stuff about business and deals.” I say, like I have to defend my thought process. But screw that. Jason’s had my back my whole life.
“Bet you don’t miss meetings with her though.”
I roll my eyes. “Low blow, man.”
The corner of his lips quirk up, like he’s saying, yeah, but you deserve it, asshole.
Maybe I do.
“But either way, I’ll look into it. That’s what I do.” Then his expression softens. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
It’s not entirely heartfelt, but I’m not entirely feeling that way either.
I wave a hand in the air, erasing the conversation. “Need to go. Can’t be late. I got a streak on the line.”
Then I take off for work.
At the stadium as we walk through our game plan, I put both my friend and the woman out of my mind. I have tunnel vision, and that’s all I need right now. I don’t talk to either one of them the rest of the day or on Sunday. By the time the team hits the field for kickoff, I’m in the zone.
***
And it’s not enough.
We lose and we lose hard.
After falling behind at the end of the first half, I have to throw even more. I’m chased around the backfield, tossing rushed passes, which turn into dropped passes, and then I launch a motherfucking interception that puts San Francisco ahead even more.
They pad their lead and never look back, finishing with what can only be described as a pummeling.
Elkins is as sullen as they come when we walk off the field. “I shouldn’t have left my lucky socks where my dog could get them.”
I snap my gaze to him as we head into the stadium. “Your dog ate your socks?”
Elkins nods, his face dejected. “My German shepherd chowed down on one of my lucky socks last night. I wore them for the first four games, but he found them and chewed the heel off one.”
I pat him on the back. “Pretty sure it was my shitty throws, not your dog’s taste for stinky footwear.”
Elkins shakes his head adamantly. “No, man. You never fuck with a streak. And I did. He taps his chest. “This one is on me.”
“Then does that mean if you catch twenty passes in a row like a badass mofo, that it’s all due to your socks, not your skills?”
“It’s different when you win. Winning is skills. But messing with a winning streak? That’s just something you don’t do.”
The conversation nags at me as I shower, as I head to the parking lot, and as I drive home that evening, dreading tomorrow morning’s first post-loss workout, because Coach will likely tear us a new one. The whole time I reflect on what Elkins said.
Maybe he’s right.
Maybe you don’t fuck with a streak.
But not for the reasons he said. Not because of luck, or superstition, or football gods shining in your favor when you wear smelly socks.