I eased my way out of the kitchen and into the hall, looking for a little break from all the family members who wanted to hear the details about my first season as a pro football player, as if they didn’t know. I’d lost count of how many times I’d agreed that this had been a growing year, that we were a young team, that Coach Harris was a wonderful man and that our quarterback Gideon Maynard was due to have an amazing season. I’d promised tickets to my uncle and two cousins, and I’d told my other teenaged cousin—female variety—that I’d do my damnedest to get her a signed picture of Gideon. “I’d take Corey Iverson, too,” she’d added, wagging her eyebrows. “He’s hot.” “He’s also married.” I tapped her on the nose. “And way too old for you.” She stuck out her tongue at me. “You’re no fun.” I wanted to laugh. Yeah, that seems to be the general opinion of the world at large. The hallway was a little quieter. I could hear my mother’s voice as she greeted newcomers at the door, and in the living room, my brother Simon laughed.
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