“No.” He slumps down in his chair as he deflates before me. Like the confidence helium he sucked down before meeting me has finally dissolved. “It’s not that at all and I hate that the point I’m trying to make is now being lost in the politics of it. That people are saying that I’m trying to get attention. They have no idea how personal all of this is to me.”
Aha!
I move to write it down, but I’m not a therapist and I don’t want to spook him out of telling me more. So I make sure to tuck that little nugget of information into the depths of my memory.
“Of course it’s personal. If it wasn’t, you wouldn’t do this at all.” I try to relax in my chair, which, though insanely cute, is not the epitome of comfort. “I think I have an idea that could make everyone happy.”
He doesn’t say anything, but the expression that crosses his face says everything. He thinks I’m full of shit. Which could be accurate. I want everyone happy, but I really don’t want to take a journey down to the unemployment office.
But, last night, as I was reading the comment section filled with the scum of the world, an idea popped into my head. And sitting in front of him, seeing that this is something he actually cares about and not a publicity stunt, I know it’s the only angle I have with him.
“You don’t have a foundation.” I open my email and click on one of the six messages I sent myself for this meeting. “Why not?”
He shrugs his shoulders, but that’s all he gives me as far as answers go.
“I think you should start one.” I open one of the links in the email, a player’s foundation website, and hand him the iPad. He tentatively takes it from me, another win in my column. “With a foundation of your own, you can put actual action in place. You can raise money and help the causes you’re so passionate about. I put together a list of about fifteen different player foundations, just go back to the email and you can click through the list.”
I don’t say anything else as he scrolls and reads. Instead, I watch him. I watch the way his eyebrows furrow together, the slight tilt of his lips, the way his spine seems to lengthen. He’s into it. This might actually work!
“I started to set up a foundation last year.” His words catch me all the way off guard. Not that he would notice, because he still hasn’t looked away from the screen. “I did all of the paperwork and was approved for 501(c)(3) status at the beginning of the summer, but let it fall off after that.”
“Wow. Okay, good.” The paperwork would’ve taken us half the season, so this is great for my plan. But even though it makes things easier on me, I can’t help but be irritated that normal people can’t get approved before they have all of the details. Of course, for the rich and mighty Quinton Howard Junior, he can just make things happen with no real intent to follow through. “Do you have anything else for it?”
“Nope, just the approval.” He glances down at the iPad again, like more than a few seconds of eye contact with me is impossible for him. “I filed the papers and then life happened and I didn’t do anything else.”
Life happened?
By that, does he mean he signed a ginormous contract guaranteeing he’ll make more money in a month than I’ll likely see in a lifetime? When life got in the way for me this past year, it was because I was burying my father next to the plot where we buried my mother thirty years ago.
How sad for him.
The embers of leftover anger and irritation begin to spark and I struggle to smother them.
“Yeah, I get that. Life can get pretty tricky.” Luckily for me, none of the frustration I feel comes out when I speak. Unluckily, however, the quivering that tends to happen every time my dad crosses my mind is completely evident, and apparently is the only thing that can pull Quinton’s attention from the iPad.
Dammit.
“Are you alright?” He pushes the tablet across the table as if nothing else matters besides me. And man, what a total freaking mind fuck that is. Because as much as I’ve been telling myself that I hate his guts, the second he turns his attention to me and those black eyes soften, it’s like all of my resolve slips away.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I force a smile on my face and focus on the task at hand, reminding myself of his harsh words from only moments ago. “The fact that you already have the tax part done is huge. Now, it’s all about the details, and I’m a total details girl, so this is the part I love.”
“What’s next?” I can tell he wanted to know what caused my near meltdown, but thankfully he moves on. Or, more accurately, he doesn’t actually care. Either way, it’s a win for me.
“Well, I know you’re busy now that the season has started, but I’ll need your input and help for a lot of this. It’s your foundation after all.” I close my email and open up the calendar app. “If you could tell me days and times that work for you, I’m more than happy to work my schedule around yours. If you are really serious about getting this done, I think we can have a launch event in a month. And I know you aren’t going to love this part, but we’re going to have to set up a few interviews and press conferences for you. If we want this to work, it’s up to you to take control of the narrative. After we flesh out what your foundation is really addressing, I’ll compile some statements and key talking points for you to focus on. This means that when you aren’t doing football, you’ll be doing this. It will be a commitment. Are you ready for this?”
And as much as I want this to work, the little voice in the back of my mind shouts that he’s worth more to the team than I am, if things go south.
“I know you don’t know me. I get that. And I know that people think because I play football and came from a family where my dad also played, that I’m some entitled fuckboy who has been handed everything in life.”
Well fuck me! Not literally. Maybe literally? No. Definitely not.
Is he a mind reader?
“But the people who know me know that’s not true. I work for everything I have . . . and now I’m ready to work for the Black community, whose voices are being ignored.” He leans toward me, his voice somehow getting quieter, yet more powerful at the same time. “We got off to a bad start and that’s on me, but I need you to know that I’m in this. I’m not doing this for attention or because I didn’t get the contract I wanted or whatever other bullshit reason people are coming up with. This matters to me and I work for what’s important to me.”
Even though he’s rude and I hate him, I still respect him. This stance isn’t gaining him many fans. And as a person who has a deep desire to be liked, I think it’s commendable to do something you believe in, consequences be damned.
Also, as much as I hate myself for thinking about it, I can’t help the way every time he looks at me with that dark intensity that my imagination drifts away and I picture him saying those words about me . . . me being what matters to him. To feel like the most important thing to anyone. Something I haven’t felt since I last held my dad’s hand.