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The first morning of voluntary workouts dawns bright and beautiful—cloudless sky, light breeze off the St. Clair, thick sunbeams dappled through the newly-bloomed flowers clustered over maple tree branches. Balmy mid-April heat has lulled most of the city into a tranquil, peaceable state, and so naturally Jared walks into Allen Park’s retro-fitted locker room to be greeted by absolute pandemonium.
“I’m tellin’ you!” Jamo’s standing on the cushion of his locker’s new theater seat, bouncing on socked toes, waving a half-laced cleat around like he’s directing traffic. “You get a bunch of big guys, maybe even some linebackers—”
“Oh, hell no,” Anzalone interrupts from over by the open-air fridge. He twists the cap off of a bottle of cool blue Gatorade, then flicks it in Jamo’s direction. “Not my circus, not my monkey.”
Jamo swats the projectile away, barreling onward. “It’s possible. That’s all I’m sayin’, man, but nobody wants to have an open mind. That’s all it is.”
Jared casts his gaze around the room. Most of the team are loudly inspecting their new digs, but there’s a small crowd hovering around Jamo’s feet, and a couple more guys scattered between the ping pong table and the mounted television on the center pillar. Terrion and the rest of the secondary are busy digging through Kerby’s seatback drawer, already full of snacks the nutritionists will throw a fit over. The only position group actually getting dressed is special teams, though Hogan’s got his NFLPA Care for Health shirt on backwards, floppy tag tucked under his chin.
Ten years in, and part of Jared still feels like the kid in the cafeteria, unsure where to sit. After a moment, he spots Amon-Ra posted up under one of the flat screens, chewing meditatively on a handful of the nasty homemade protein granola he always eats before lifting. Jared meets his gaze, and Amon-Ra brightens—small thing, the way his eyes go wide and soft, light dancing over the iris—then waves him over.
“My boy!” He daps Jared up, West Coast-style—they’re in between handshakes right now, but Amon-Ra will have something new for them by the time the draft rolls around. “Missed you, bro.”
“You too.” Jared keeps their knuckles pressed together for a moment, all of a sudden buzzing with energy, like Amon-Ra’s the raw wire connecting him to a fifty volt electrical current. “What’s Jamo talking about?” he asks, nodding over at their eager WR2.
Amon-Ra raises an eyebrow. “Hugo didn’t catch you by the tunnel?”
“No, I came in the back,” Jared says, shaking his head.
Amon-Ra’s gaze goes sharp, mouth curling dangerous at the corners. “Now, hey—”
“Pause,” Jared relents, lips pursed against a grin as Amon-Ra cackles, wheezing like an underfilled tea kettle, bumping his forehead against the flat of Jared’s shoulder.
Across the room, David decides to join whatever insane argument the social media guys have started, chin resting thoughtfully on one gloved hand. “It doesn’t matter if it’s theoretically possible,” he says—Craig, over his shoulder, mouths theoretically, with great drama— “the minute that first guy gets his head torn off, I guarantee the other ninety-nine are having second thoughts.”
Terrion pauses, a plastic bag of Meijer-brand fruit snacks hanging limply between his fingers and Moe’s. “Hold up,” he says, brow furrowing. “Gorillas can’t actually do that, though?”
David nods, eyes soft and solemn, all camp counselor-gravity. “One twist,” he says. “Spine cracked like a lobster tail. Blood spurting out. Limbs still twitching ‘cause the rest of the body don’t even know it’s dead yet.”
Terrion’s face crinkles up as he snatches the fruit snacks, holding them protectively to his chest. “Man, what is wrong with you?” he snaps.
“That’s what I said!” Sam points enthusiastically at David, then curls his arm back, amends: “Well, kinda. He added the Skull Island stuff.”
“It’s a good point, though.” Jahmyr says. He’s cross-legged at Sam’s feet, temple tucked against Sam’s kneecap, messing around with the strip lights below the seats. “How do these hundred guys get chosen? ‘Cause you put me in there with a gorilla and I’m running.”
“Running.” Jamo crosses his arms, unimpressed.
“Mhm.” Jahmyr nods, hitting something on his phone—the LEDs under Sam’s locker fade from warm white to electric blue. “Like I’m on a flare route. I hope you can keep up.”
Jamo makes a noise like the horn on a Plymouth Road Runner. “Ay, you hope?”
The room dissolves into further argument, then—Jared catches four-three six, four-one, then “I could probably hit a four-one if I really put my back into it” from David before Jamo squawks, launches a rolled-up pair of socks down at him. “Ref, do something!” Jahmyr calls, and receives the same treatment.
Beside him, Amon-Ra shifts, nudges their shoulders together. “They look good,” he says—low, even-toned. His Captainly voice. The inflection sounds a little bit like Randle El, but Jared’s not gonna be the one to tell him that.
Instead, he nods. “Transfers do too,” Jared adds, nodding to where Stuard is comparing KT tape with Rock Ya-Sin, gesturing animatedly. “They’re fitting right in.”
Amon-Ra huffs a laugh, voice returning to normal. “I swear to God, sometimes I forget DJ didn’t come up with the other rookies. Last week TA sent me a Snapchat of him doing a backflip off a diving board. I thought he was gonna break his neck.”
Over by the ping pong table, Chris clears his throat, knocking his paddle against the wood. “Guys,” he says, “it’s not like it’s a superhero gorilla. Wouldn’t it get tired halfway through? Then the other fifty guys could take it, no problem.”
Graham snorts. “It’s a gorilla, dude, it’s not you doing updowns.” The nearby linemen oooohh, converging on Chris and Graham like seagulls descending on bread scraps.
“How about you?” Amon-Ra asks. “You ready?”
He probably didn’t mean for it to be a loaded question, but still, it hits like a gut punch. Jared makes sure he keeps his eyes soft, lets out a hum as he thinks.
Change in the league is mostly sudden and always inevitable. Jared knows that better than most. Losing Ben and AG was scary, but they’d had almost a full year to prepare. Losing CDIII and Ify stung, but they’ll be stars in their own right, and Dan and Brad know what they’re doing.
Losing Frank hurts like hell cracked open. Their center hasn’t said anything to them, not officially, but the day after the divisional, when Jared had told him to get home safe and Frank said you know, one of these days I’m gonna get you back out on the water, teach you how to set a hook without looking like a nerd—he’d known, then.
Change is inevitable. They don’t use words like window. Jared tries not to focus on the sand slipping through his fingers, but he’s a few months out of practice.
Still—the room is here. These guys. Jared is and will be whatever they need him to be.
“Y’know,” Aidan says, starfished out over a collapsible foam roller, “gorillas are pretty peaceful. There’s never actually been a record of one killing a human being.”
Kerby shakes his head. There’s a pile of discarded snacks growing in his lap, mostly comprised of the blue cheese potato chips that only Jamo eats. “Nah, bruh, that can’t be true. What about Harambe?”
“O-kay,” Decker says, “famously, Harambe didn’t kill that kid.”
“So you’re saying to befriend the gorilla.” At some point, Craig had moved to their side of the room—he rests an arm on Amon-Ra’s shoulder. “And use it to take out the opps.”
Amon-Ra scoffs. “What kinda opps do you have, moisturizer?” He grabs Craig’s arm by the wrist, manages to pinch at an elbow even as he squirms away. “Look at this, so ashy.”
Craig wriggles against Amon-Ra’s hold—putting on a good show, but Jared gets the feeling he’s not trying all that hard. “Son, you have just moved to the top of the list,” he says, kicking a socked foot out at Amon-Ra’s shin. “Prepare to meet my gorilla’s fists in battle.”
And there it is—the breathless cackle, the tea kettle wheeze, Amon-Ra’s grin splitting his face. Craig smiles, smug, like he’s won the Spelling Bee. “Bro, the fuck?” Amon-Ra gasps through laughter, grappling at him with his other arm, and—okay, Jared should probably shut this down before someone gets hurt.
“Fellas, fellas,” he says, weaving between them, breaking the grip Amon-Ra’s got on Craig’s wrist. “Play nice. I’m sure you’re both equally wrong.”
Another roar from the peanut gallery, some whistles, Terrion’s above-average imitation of a comedy snare drum. “Alriight, JG,” David says. “What do you got?”
Honest to God, Jared’s still not entirely sure what the question was to begin with. He waffles for a moment, then settles on something mostly true: “I guess—I just don’t think it’s an interesting hypothetical.”
Hypothetical, Craig mouths.
“You got something better?” Amon-Ra asks, a challenging glint in his eyes. Low, steady tone—Randle El again.
The thing is, there’s been good, too. Lots of it. Extensions and signings, Aidan back on his feet, Rodrigo and Alim keeping pace with their recoveries. Seeing everyone at the Pro Bowl, the NFL Honors, the St. Brown Gala where Amon-Ra made that ridiculous face in every picture. Christen nearing her third trimester, and every morning Jared laying a hand on her stomach to feel his daughter kick—she’s got a foot like Uncle Jake, Christen said after the first time, and for a moment Jared couldn’t breathe with how lucky he was, how rich in anything that mattered at all.
“Yeah, okay,” Jared says, “here’s a good one.”
The room goes silent. Everyone’s watching—waiting for his go. Jared’s heart thrums with it, that fifty volt current.
“So,” he says, “imagine there’s an immortal, hyper-intelligent snail…”