Vegas Aces: The Wide Receiver Complete Series

CHAPTER 8 TRISTAN

I wasn’t ready to say goodnight, but she was yawning. Either I was boring her, or she was exhausted. We’ve got time in front of us, though, and even though it’ll come to an end in a couple months, I plan to make the most of what we have.

It’ll be a quick and busy off-season, especially with the extension project. The buddy I’m meeting with tomorrow is an architect who will take what I tell him and draw up the official plans, and then I can take those to Hank, who will get us the permits we need. My dad has access to the lumber, and between the two of us, we have enough contacts that additional materials shouldn’t be hard to obtain. We know what we want, we know what we’re doing, and I’d estimate that depending on the weather, we can have the entire project complete in a couple weeks.

But for now, I have access to the high school weight room. It’ll have to do. I’m already getting antsy as the end of another season starts to hit me. I don’t have football until late summer again—barring the OTAs I’m still deciding whether or not I’ll actually attend.

It’s always a strange part of this business when the end closes in. We lost. We didn’t walk away with a ring. Two other teams still have a game to play to determine who the best of the best this year is. And I’m not part of it.

The edges of depression start to creep in on me. Not clinical depression, exactly, just a weird despair that always hits me when I don’t have football to guide me, when I don’t have every minute prescribed for me, when I don’t have the fire beneath me to prepare to face next week’s opponent.

I shake it off. I grab my laptop and place an order for a treadmill, resistance bands, and dumbbells. I don’t need much more than that—but I do need some space. I could get away without the treadmill, but once I show my parents all it can do, I can leave it here for them to use.

I finish up and saunter over to my bed. I slide in and open my phone to scroll a few minutes since I’m not all that tired, and I spot the text Savannah left earlier.

Savannah: Got a scoop you’ll want to hear. Call me.

I don’t call her.

I don’t care what she has to say.

Instead, I delete the text and try my best to get some sleep.

I’m already awake when my alarm goes off at five-thirty even though it’s two hours earlier in the time zone I’m from. I guess I’m already acclimated to the time change, or it could be that I tossed and turned all night thinking about Tessa and Savannah, wondering what the hell my wife is up to now as I think of the girl next door and what the future might hold for us…or what it might not hold considering how Tessa reacted when the subject of my wife came up.

I brush those thoughts away as I pull on some joggers and an Aces t-shirt. I throw on an Aces sweatshirt and hop into my truck.

It’s still dark out as I navigate the road toward my alma mater, but the parking lot has a smattering of cars in it already. These are the kids who are serious. Dedicated. They’re getting up before the sun is up so they can improve themselves. These are the elite athletes, the ones who want this more than anybody else.

I know because I was one of them.

When I walk into the weight room, nobody really notices at first. They’re already focused on their own tasks. But then that kid from the market last night looks up from the rack of dumbbells he’s standing beside.

“You came,” he says, and the excitement in his voice draws the attention of some of the other kids lifting near him.

I hear my name whispered throughout the room, and then my old high school coach glances over at me. “Tristan Higgins,” he says jovially, and he walks over toward me. He comes over to shake my hand, and I grin as I reach around to give him a one-armed hug and a pound on the back. “Good to see you, Higs,” he says.

“You too, Coach Beatty.”

“What are you doing home?” he asks.

“Just visiting. Thought I’d stop by and hit the weights for a bit since my parents don’t have a set up for me.” I nod toward the power rack in front of me. I turn around and find a group of boys has gathered behind me. I wasn’t planning on saying anything, but the way they’re all looking at me so eagerly…I was in their place once.

I remember what it was like to feel the determination to succeed. To feel the competition flowing through my veins. To want something with every fiber of my being.

Some of these kids here might feel that way, too. Others might be here out of obligation.

Regardless, I made it. I’m in the place where at least one kid in this room wants to be, and if I can say something to them that might spark the fire within that one kid to work up to his potential, then I have a duty to try. After all, FRHS is where I really learned how to play football, and it was Coach Beatty who instilled that fire in me.

“But first, I’d be honored to talk with you all.” I glance over at Coach, who nods his encouragement.

“Have a seat,” I say, and the fifteen or so boys gathered in the room take seats in various places with some on the floor and others on benches. They’re probably a mix of juniors and seniors. “Seven years ago, I was sitting in your shoes. I’d already committed to the U of I, and I knew the stats. Less than two percent of college players make it pro. The odds were stacked against me, but I could taste it. I wanted it with a fire I’d never felt before. And so I was dedicated to putting in the work.”

I think briefly about how Tessa played into that as I speak. These kids all have connections to this town, too, connections and relationships they aren’t willing to give up, and part of me wonders if I would’ve made the league if Tessa hadn’t left when she did.

Seven years ago, we were still together. But six years and eleven months ago…we weren’t. I had no idea the pain that awaited me.

The words I’m speaking now have more to do with the fire that ignited in her absence. I put everything I had into working out, into studying the game, into becoming the player I am today.

That is how I found myself in the two percent four years later.

“You won’t know how far you can make it without believing in yourself. Without pushing yourself. Without working for your greatest potential. You will fail, but you get back up, brush it off, and try again. Whatever road you choose, it won’t be easy. Life won’t be easy. But you live your own life rather than trying to imitate someone else’s. You create your own highlight reel rather than comparing yourself to someone else. Be confident, but not overly confident. Be focused…overly focused. Tend to your responsibilities, and prioritize where you want to be. Then get out there and fucking get it.”

A cheer rises up from the kids gathered, and Coach looks impressed by my impassioned speech. He slaps me on the back in a friendly gesture. “You willing to take questions?” he asks as the cheers start to quiet.

I nod.

“Anybody have any questions for Mr. Higgins?” Coach asks the group gathered.

Several kids raise their hands, and I point to one. “How did Fallon Ridge prepare you for the league?”

“I owe everything to Coach Beatty,” I say, nodding toward Coach. He holds up a modest hand. “He brought out the best in everyone on the team, and being around talented people makes you want to play harder. I really learned how to play football here.”

I point to another kid.

“Do you have pregame rituals that you did here that you still do?”

“Great question, and the answer is yes. On Fridays we got to wear our jerseys to school and it was always a big deal. I’d head out to the field as soon as I could and I’d sit in the bleachers for a few minutes. I would visualize a win, and I still do that during warm-ups. I take a minute during warm-ups and sit—usually on the field now instead of the stands—and I mentally run through the plays I’ll need to execute. I make sure to get my stretches in, especially because I’ve got a bum hamstring that messes with me if I don’t properly warm it up, and I listen to a playlist to pump me up.” I don’t mention that the playlist is filled with nineties grunge. “I take a lap around the field before the game. And I always hydrate and eat a meal packed with protein and carbs a few hours before the game so I have the right fuel going in.”

I point to another kid and answer a few more questions, and then Coach steps in. “Thank you so much for your time, Tristan. We’d love to keep asking questions all day, but these boys have workouts to tend to before school starts.”

The boys disperse to their tasks, and Coach gets them moving. I’m working on some squats when Coach approaches me. “Great form, kid,” he says.

“Learned from the best,” I say as I exhale on my way back up.

He chuckles. We spent hours on my form back in the day.

“Listen, I think it would be great to run a spring practice with you while you’re here. You up for that?” he asks.

I squat back down, sucking in a breath, and I answer on my exhale. “Love to. I’m around, and you’ve got my number.”

“That I do, kid. Thanks for what you said to these kids. You have no idea the impact your words have coming from a real pro versus the old guy who yells at them all the time.”

I laugh as I set the bar back on the rack with Coach’s help. “You’re more than that to them, Coach.”

He shrugs modestly. “Maybe. But I’ve got a lot of talent in this room, and hearing from someone who’s been through it means a lot to them.”

“I’d be happy to come back and talk some more with them. Maybe mentor a few you think would benefit from it.” I move into my hamstring stretches while we talk.

“You’d do that?” he asks, and I nod. He slaps me on the back again. “You’re a damn good kid, Higgins.”

He moves on to help some of the other kids, and then we hear the early bell signaling that these kids need to get changed and ready to head to class. They say their goodbyes as they file out, and that cashier kid from last night comes up to me after the rest of the kids have left.

“Thanks for stopping by,” he says, a touch of shyness in his tone.

“Hey, thanks for inviting me. Landon, right?”

He nods, a little awestruck that I remembered his name. I muss up his hair like he’s my kid brother rather than a virtual stranger. “Hope to see you again in here soon.”

He grins before he scampers off to class, and Coach hangs back a beat. “That Landon kid…he’s a good kid. He comes from a bit of a rough situation. His dad passed a few years ago and his mom is too sick to work. Her medical bills are piling up and he’s been taking up extra hours at the market to help his family. He’s got three younger siblings that he cares for. The only good thing that kid has going in his life is the game.” He shakes his head. “It’s a damn shame and I wish I could do more for him, but the family has a lot of pride and won’t take handouts. He might have to give up playing next season to help his mom out.”

“Jesus,” I murmur, and I have the sudden urge to do something. There has to be some way I can help. I’m a man of decent means and I have a lot of connections. If I put my mind to it, surely I can figure out something. “I’ll see what I can do to help.”

Coach shakes his head as his brows draw together. “Oh, I wasn’t suggesting—”

I press my lips together. “I know you weren’t. I want to help anyway.”

“You’re a damn good kid, Higgins,” he says again, and I offer a small smile.

I hope I can prove his words true.