Brick by Lisa Lang Blakeney
Brick
I sit rigidlyin my chair, the weight of guilt pressing hard on my chest. I’ve been coming to this coffee shop at the same time, every day after practice, for the last week, trying to find the strength to confront her. With a deep breath, I glance across the small cafe table, and trace my gaze over her lithe frame, her delicate features, and the way her eyes glimmer when she smiles.
Anyone would be happy to have a girlfriend like Lisa Adams. She’s pleasant, gorgeous, and more accomplished than most women her age. With the down-to-earth charm of a woman who’s Oklahoma born and bred, she’s a self-made celebrity and millions of people tune in to her cooking show to watch her create her famous low carb recipes with down home flavor.
One of the great things about our relationship is that she understands my life as a pro ballplayer. She totally gets fandom and hectic schedules and didn’t mind any of that. Hell, I’ve been kind of happy with her for the past few months and hoped it would last, but deep down I knew this moment was inevitable.
Gathering my courage, I take a deep breath and say, “I don’t know how to say this…” My voice is barely audible and when she looks up in surprise, noting my expression, her frown deepens.
“What’s wrong, Brick? Is your stomach bothering you again?”
“It’s… it’s not going to work,” I say, my voice cracking slightly. It’s funny how I can play one of the most violent sports ever created, but am the biggest chicken when it comes to breaking up with women. I should be used to it by now.
Things were much easier in high school and definitely in college. I could hook up with girls and then ghost them, but I’m supposed to be more mature now, and this is what mature motherfuckers do. They deal with conflict.
Lisa gapes at me in understandable confusion. There’s no way she saw this coming, and I can literally feel guilt tighten my chest.
“What do you mean?” she asks after a few moments of awkward silence. “What’s not going to work?”
“We have to end this,” I say as I watch the look of realization dawn on her face.
She looks away for a moment, her eyes filled with what appears to be pain, as I feel my throat tighten. I’d expected her to be surprised, but I didn’t realize just how deeply it would affect her. She seems hurt.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, not knowing what else to say to smooth this over, and she nods, her eyes still downcast.
“So what now?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. “You were going to come on the show.”
I’m scheduled to be a guest on Lisa’s cooking show in a few weeks. We were going to each make our own recipe for grilled ribs. She uses beef ribs and grills them slowly using her famous seasoning rub. I use pork ones and smoke the hell out of them using my family’s legendary marinade. I find it interesting though that my appearance on the show seems to be the only thing she’s concerned about.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Maybe you can find a replacement for me, because I think we both need to take some time and focus on ourselves as individuals and not as a couple. For the first time in two seasons, The Nighthawks aren’t in the playoffs and I need to prioritize that.”
Lisa fights hard to contain her emotions, her eyes tearing up, as she nods her head in agreement. I can’t bear to meet her gaze and have to turn my head away as a flood of tears shockingly cascades down her cheeks.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” I say again, and she nods, still not meeting my gaze.
“It’s fine.” She lifts her head up. Her expression hardened. “I’ll find a replacement.”
I’m not sure if she means a replacement for the show or for someone else in her life, but I watch her exit the cafe, feeling a slight pang of guilt as she walks away. I don’t feel this way because I’m regretting my decision but because I hate that I’ve hurt her. It reminds me of exactly why I shouldn’t be in a relationship; because they always end badly.
There’s also a part of me that feels ashamed that I don’t care as much as she does. I mean, what’s wrong with me? It’s not that I don’t respect the hell out of women. I was raised by a wonderful single grandmom whom I loved to pieces. She passed away my senior year of college from cancer that started in her ovaries and spread like wildfire throughout her body.
Diesel, one veteran on the team, who is happily married to his childhood sweetheart, explained that perhaps I can never find someone I feel deeply for because I’m always comparing every woman to my grandmother. Another theory by a woman I was dating a few years ago told me I was “missing a sensitivity chip”.
All of this is why I consider calling out to Lisa, to tell her to stay for a few more minutes so we can talk longer, but I know it wouldn’t do either of us any good. I’ve made my choice and now I have to live with it. Our relationship has evolved into some sort of arranged publicity romance and doesn’t feel real anymore.
It’s time.
I sit in my chair for a long time, staring at my cold latte, reflecting on what I’ve just done. I’ve finally done it. I’ve ended it and she took it way better than I could have hoped. Maybe she was ready to end things too and just didn’t want to be the one to do it.
I have no doubt that my decision will have consequences, both for myself and for her. We live very high-profile lives. People in her world and mine will talk, and not all of it would be kind. Lisa is a beloved influencer and television personality by millions of women in the country and in the world of professional sports. I’m well known too.
For most of my career I’ve kept my private life under the radar and I’m not really used to dealing with a lot of negative online chatter, other than how badly I’m protecting my quarterback, but I know one thing for sure. Regardless of how fantastic of a human being Lisa is, she’s not the one, and it was time for one of us to stand up and admit it to the other.
After a good night’s sleep and maybe a few tears, she’ll realize the same thing. I made the right decision for the both of us. At least, I can go to sleep tonight and feel good about that.
Tomorrow, I’ll focus on what comes next.