The Right Swipe (Modern Love, #1)(95)

Al continued. “Like, it was always powerful for me, as a kid, to see other Samoans in this sport that I loved, other guys who looked like me, but when Samson Lima took a stand and straight-up quit because his teammate wasn’t getting the right care? I mean, that was some formative stuff. I’ll remember that until I die.”

The reporter spoke into his mic. “Does it worry you now, playing this game? Knowing as much as we do about head injuries?”

The twentysomething-year-old screwed up his face, the sun reflecting off his sweaty brown skin. “I mean, kind of? But I love it. And I think that’s okay, you can love something and know there are problems with it. Times have changed since Samson walked off that field, and I hope the league continues to work with researchers to make our game safer so we can do what we love.”

Dean hit pause. Samson looked at his friend. “Why’d you show me this?”

“To show you what you’ve done, and to give you an idea of what you could do. Like, don’t google yourself regularly, but you might want to do it once every five years or so, enough to know that kids consider you a hero.”

Samson ran his hands through his hair. “I didn’t intend to be—”

“See, that’s the funny thing. Sometimes you don’t intend to do something, and you do it, and no one gives a fuck what you intended because you’ve done the thing.”

There’s no intent in ghosting.

“You wouldn’t let them put me back in the game, because I was your brother, and I needed your help,” Dean murmured. “Right?”

Samson nodded. Dean tapped the tablet. “You have more brothers out there, Samson. Whether you like it or not, you’re their hero. So you can sit there and talk about how you didn’t ask to be a hero, or you can simply go be the thing we all know you are.”

You made your industry better for the young men who came after you, and the older men who came before you, and you did it just by living your life.

Joe didn’t want anyone else to go through what his brother and nephew did.

Samson swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Not everyone likes me.”

“No one’s universally liked. Beyoncé isn’t universally liked. Has that stopped her? No. Be like Beyoncé.”

Samson grunted. “Being a dad has made you really bossy.”

“I know. We could be teammates again, Samson. Working together for all our other teammates.” While Samson digested that, Dean rose and picked up the tablet. He clapped him on the back. “Call Trevor. At least meet with him.”

After Dean left, Samson wandered into his room and picked up his phone. Still no call from Rhiannon.

What the hell. Before he could think twice, he dialed Trevor.

The other man picked up on the first ring. “Samson. Hello. What a surprise.”

Samson looked out the window and beat back his instinctive, immediate dislike. His personal feelings had no bearing here. “I want more information about this job offer of yours. Will you be out west anytime soon?”

Trevor paused, and when he spoke, it was cautiously, like he wasn’t sure if Samson was kidding or not. “I will be, yes. In a week?”

“Sounds good. I have a condition, though. Before we even sit down to chat.”

“What’s that?”

“I want a public apology.”

There was a beat of silence. “I’m sorry?”

Ahhh yes. He hadn’t even known what he wanted until he’d said the words, and relief, glorious relief coursed through him. “What was it that you said, when I retired? What did you call me?”

“The Lima Curse. Samson, I regret—”

“If you regret it, you’ll give me a public apology.”

“If this is an ego thing, I absolutely understand, but we’re on the same team now, Samson.”

“We were on the same team then too. I walked for Dean. I would have walked for you.” Samson’s hand clenched tight over the phone. “This isn’t for ego. Do you know where my nickname started? The Lima Charm? From my father. When he was himself, before the disease turned him into someone I didn’t recognize. That was all I had of him. And you twisted that. That part of my legacy, you destroyed it.” He took a deep breath. “I want a fucking apology.”

Trevor was quiet for so long, Samson wondered if he’d hung up, but then he spoke. “You’re absolutely right. I’ll be on a couple of morning shows next week. I can deliver an apology right there. Is that public enough?”

“Yes.” The tension leaked out of his shoulders.

“Done. We’ll talk next week about the position then.”

They said their goodbyes, and Samson slumped on the couch. He felt like the weight he’d carried for a decade had been lifted off him. Was that all it took? Telling someone who hurt him that they’d hurt him?

Was this . . . closure?

He didn’t know how long he sat there in a relaxed haze, but he was startled when his phone pinged on his chest. He rarely turned the ringer on, it was always on vibrate.

He crunched up to look at the display, and a new kind of relief suffused him.

Rhiannon. Finally.

Hi. Thank you for texting me, I had my phone off. I’m so sorry for getting mad at you. I land at LAX in about five and a half hours. Will you come pick me up?