kind of gal who hears no too often. You’ve got balls of brass, boy. Speaking of an overdose of testosterone, what got into you last night? You nearly tore my place apart.”
The brawl at The Moose Nugget nudged his conscience. Joe’s bar and grill, his pride and joy. After rinsing his mouth, Payton stood in front of the sink and stared at the stranger in the mirror. The harsh light made the dark circles under his blue eyes worse. And the bruises on his jaw were raw and swollen. Nice, real nice.
“Sorry about that.” Payton winced. “I’ll pay for everything.”
“Yes, you will, but that doesn’t answer my question.” Joe walked over and leaned against the doorjamb to the bathroom, his face reflected in the mirror over Payton’s shoulder. “You let that loudmouth jackass get to you. What happened to the Iceman?”
Joe referred to the nickname he’d been given when he played pro football for the Dallas Cowboys. Folks in Texas thought everyone from Alaska lived in friggin’ igloos and mushed dogs, so the name stuck through the end of his career. His last stop had been with the Chicago Bears, a period of his life that had gone from bad to worse in a hurry. After Chicago, he wanted to crawl into a hole and forget he ever played the game.
But he’d been dubbed the Iceman mainly for his nerves of steel in the pocket, in the face of a fierce blitz. A quarterback who could take the punishment of a linebacker freight train. Those days were long gone. He’d pissed them all away, with no one to blame except the man in the mirror.
“The Iceman is nothing but urban myth. The agony of defeat replayed over and over on some TV sports channels.” Payton grimaced in the mirror, his blue eyes turning stormy gray.
His gut gnarled. And it had nothing to do with “the morning after” or the nauseating smell of bacon and eggs lingering in the air like a hostile cloud. He was a has been at the ripe old age of thirty-two. Natural athletic ability, scholarships, and prime opportunity, he’d been handed keys to the gates of heaven—to make something of his life after the tragedy of his parents’ death. But he’d fucked it up, for him and for his sister Susannah. And every day he looked in the mirror, it reminded him of the betrayal to his parents’ memory. Utterly pathetic.
“You were always hardest on yourself, Payton. Even growing up, you always set the bar so high. That attitude kept you reaching for the impossible. But when you fell, you fell hard, boy. I never wanted that for you. I wish—”
“I know, Joe.” He brushed by the old man and reached into a trunk to pick out a T-shirt, jeans, and an oversized blue flannel shirt. Mostly, he couldn’t look Joe in the eye.
As Payton dressed, Joe talked.
“You’re alone even in a crowd. I can see it in your eyes, you’ve tossed in the towel. Your whole life is in front of you and you act like it doesn’t count.” Joe stuffed his hands into his pockets but kept his eyes on Payton. “You need to come out of the locker room with a second half, son. Don’t make it about your parents or anybody else. Make it about you, what you want.”
“Hell, what if this is all I’ve got, Joe? Livin’ day-to-day off the bankroll of my glory days. Maybe I’m fresh out ofcomebacks and you’re the one who needs to adjust his thinking.” Payton poured himself a cup of coffee, took a sip and muttered, “Get used to it. I have.”
Bitterness tainted his mouth, and it had nothing to do with lousy coffee. For a long moment Joe stared in silence. But when the man opened his mouth to speak, Payton’s phone rang, saving him from round two.
He gladly picked it up and ignored the red blinking light of his answering machine, the signal that he had messages waiting.
“Yo. Speak to me.”
“Thank God…Payton.”
A sob swallowed her voice. At first, in his alcohol-addled brain, he didn’t recognize the caller, even in the stillness of his cabin. Eventually it came to him—his
The brawl at The Moose Nugget nudged his conscience. Joe’s bar and grill, his pride and joy. After rinsing his mouth, Payton stood in front of the sink and stared at the stranger in the mirror. The harsh light made the dark circles under his blue eyes worse. And the bruises on his jaw were raw and swollen. Nice, real nice.
“Sorry about that.” Payton winced. “I’ll pay for everything.”
“Yes, you will, but that doesn’t answer my question.” Joe walked over and leaned against the doorjamb to the bathroom, his face reflected in the mirror over Payton’s shoulder. “You let that loudmouth jackass get to you. What happened to the Iceman?”
Joe referred to the nickname he’d been given when he played pro football for the Dallas Cowboys. Folks in Texas thought everyone from Alaska lived in friggin’ igloos and mushed dogs, so the name stuck through the end of his career. His last stop had been with the Chicago Bears, a period of his life that had gone from bad to worse in a hurry. After Chicago, he wanted to crawl into a hole and forget he ever played the game.
But he’d been dubbed the Iceman mainly for his nerves of steel in the pocket, in the face of a fierce blitz. A quarterback who could take the punishment of a linebacker freight train. Those days were long gone. He’d pissed them all away, with no one to blame except the man in the mirror.
“The Iceman is nothing but urban myth. The agony of defeat replayed over and over on some TV sports channels.” Payton grimaced in the mirror, his blue eyes turning stormy gray.
His gut gnarled. And it had nothing to do with “the morning after” or the nauseating smell of bacon and eggs lingering in the air like a hostile cloud. He was a has been at the ripe old age of thirty-two. Natural athletic ability, scholarships, and prime opportunity, he’d been handed keys to the gates of heaven—to make something of his life after the tragedy of his parents’ death. But he’d fucked it up, for him and for his sister Susannah. And every day he looked in the mirror, it reminded him of the betrayal to his parents’ memory. Utterly pathetic.
“You were always hardest on yourself, Payton. Even growing up, you always set the bar so high. That attitude kept you reaching for the impossible. But when you fell, you fell hard, boy. I never wanted that for you. I wish—”
“I know, Joe.” He brushed by the old man and reached into a trunk to pick out a T-shirt, jeans, and an oversized blue flannel shirt. Mostly, he couldn’t look Joe in the eye.
As Payton dressed, Joe talked.
“You’re alone even in a crowd. I can see it in your eyes, you’ve tossed in the towel. Your whole life is in front of you and you act like it doesn’t count.” Joe stuffed his hands into his pockets but kept his eyes on Payton. “You need to come out of the locker room with a second half, son. Don’t make it about your parents or anybody else. Make it about you, what you want.”
“Hell, what if this is all I’ve got, Joe? Livin’ day-to-day off the bankroll of my glory days. Maybe I’m fresh out ofcomebacks and you’re the one who needs to adjust his thinking.” Payton poured himself a cup of coffee, took a sip and muttered, “Get used to it. I have.”
Bitterness tainted his mouth, and it had nothing to do with lousy coffee. For a long moment Joe stared in silence. But when the man opened his mouth to speak, Payton’s phone rang, saving him from round two.
He gladly picked it up and ignored the red blinking light of his answering machine, the signal that he had messages waiting.
“Yo. Speak to me.”
“Thank God…Payton.”
A sob swallowed her voice. At first, in his alcohol-addled brain, he didn’t recognize the caller, even in the stillness of his cabin. Eventually it came to him—his
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