Angela

A massive knee injury forced Dominic into early retirement. The kind of injury that no one with half an ounce of sense would try to play on, but Dominic did. Dominic argued hard, in the film that Joe’s watched a thousand times, with his coaches to get back onto the field. While he’d managed to secure the vital first down in his last game of the 1998 season that put the Broncos into the SuperBowl, it cost Dominic. Left him in open tears as he walked, though it was more akin to a limp if not on the verge of a crawl, off the field, surrounded by his teammates and coaches. 

The thing about Trey Dominic, the thing that terrifies Joe just a little, is that Dominic stays in the shadows. He does charity work through his foundation. Dominic speaks at events when asked of course, but he doesn’t do interviews. He didn’t make the moves into being a commentator, like most popular professional athletes do. Didn’t try to transition into movies, or Hollywood. His story starts and ends on the field. Dominic is a ghost, the kind of legend whose story only exists in highlight reels and newspaper clippings. 

But Dominic is actually here, just on the other side of the room of Joe’s own charity event focused on addressing food deserts. An invitation Joe sent on a whim, knowing part of the mission in Dominic’s foundation is similar—a hope on a shooting star kind of invitation. The reality leaves Joe’s heart thundering in his chest. His palms are shaky and damp, even if Joe’s wiped them on the pant’s leg several times. 

“Bro, you’re fucking drooling, just talk to him. He’s just a guy,” Tee laughs. “He’s cool. Besides, you invited him here.”

Tee pointed out Dominic first, after returning to the small corner Joe, Ja’Marr, and Tee huddled into with drinks in hand. Now all Joe can do is watch--like he’s sure others have done to him--with a kind of pathetic want to say something, but unsure of what to say. 

“What the fuck do I say?” Joe hisses. “The guy’s a fucking legend.”

“He’s a human being first.”

Joe gulps down his last sip of water and exhales. He’s just a guy, Joe tells himself. Joe can talk to just a guy. That’s easy. Joe’s done that thousands of times before. Dominic’s alone, eyes casted down to his phone. This is as perfect a time as any to go over. 

He’s just a guy. 

He’s just a guy. 

The mantra plays in Joe’s head as he crosses the room, weaving around other bodies, and edges of tables until there’s only just six measly steps. “Hi, Trey? Trey Dominic?” Joe starts, voice hesitant and unsure to his own ears. He doesn’t want to interrupt if it’s a bad time. 

Trey smiles as he looks up. The gaze is calculated, but warm, and then something like recognition settles. “Hi, Joe.”

Holy shit. “Uh, you-you know who I am? How?”

Trey laughs, but nods. “I’m not dead, you know. And it was your name on the invitation.” Trey extends his hand.

Right, right, Joe did invite him. How could Joe forget that crucial tidbit. The handshake feels more awkward than it should, but Joe’s fumbling, can’t quite find his words again--because why the fuck does he know who I am?- until, “Sorry, that’s not what I meant. I just, I’m a big fan of yours and I didn’t think you’d pay attention to the likes of a quarterback. You’re, like, a legend to me.”

“No, I get you. I understand. I keep my tabs though. Thank you, also. I wouldn’t have been what I was though without the likes of a quarterback, so it’s important to pay attention.”

“I am honored to see you out here for this event. I wouldn’t have guessed you’d come all the way to Ohio.” 

Trey was recruited from a smaller known university in Virginia, after garnering a scholarship from his even smaller hometown high school in the same state. However, with Dominic’s retirement and his foundation being based out of Virginia, it felt like a safe assumption that he’d live there too, in Virginia. But Trey laughs again paired with a head shake that makes Joe’s stomach lurch. Oh, Joe’s an idiot. An absolute fucking idiot. The embarrassment makes Joe’s cheeks hot. “We’ve been in Ohio for quite some time now.”

The thing is Joe doesn’t actually know the address. When he’d been asked about who to invite he threw out Trey’s name to the committee. On a hope, a prayer, and if Joe could’ve, on a conjure too. Make that a quadruple idiot, Joe reprimands himself. “Oh, that’s cool. I take it you like out here then?”

“My family’s happy, so I’m happy.” The response is a little slow, like there’s something under the words. 

Joe can hear the hesitancy, but doesn’t know what to do with it or how to respond. It doesn’t feel like Joe’s place to pry, but the door feels cracked, a hair ajar--so close to be closed that it’s probably safer to assume it was meant to be shut. So Joe does. He leaves it shut and instead grins. “It is Ohio at the end of the day.” 

It earns Joe good graces as Treys leans into the waist high high table a little, turned even more so to face Joe. Trey’s laugh is soft in return. “You’re homegrown, right? Minus your time down in Baton Rouge?” Trey asks. 

Joe laughs, even if he doesn’t want to, his chest swells with a little bit of glee. His favorite fucking player knows about him. “Yeah, Athens originally. But I’m glad at how it worked out. To be in Cincinnati now.”

“Do you feel like being so close to home keeps you grounded, focused?”

“A bit, yeah,” Joe returns. “I appreciate having my family’s support more readily available to me, I think, more than anything. It can get interesting, as you already know all about.”

“That I do. So-”

“Dad.” The voice is soft, a single whispered word, that comes from the right of Joe, from behind. A hand stretching across the table they stand around. The singular smooth dark brown hand, with nails painted a deep rich red dripping in rings and gold bracelets, retreats from Joe’s lower peripheral vision to leave behind one small plate of the finger food. 

“Thanks,” comes the equally soft reply from Trey.

Joe looks up from the mysterious hand to be greeted by a woman--shorter than him, but tall enough that soft pointed chin resides almost squarely at the height of Joe’s shoulder. Her eyes are pointed up into sharp ends, the bridge of her nose slender, but her nose still rests on her face wide. Her grin is bright through the red lipstick. Her hair cut short all the way around, the front--which aren’t bangs but Joe’s not sure what to call it exactly--rests just at her brows. A small bump to the ends keeps the hair from falling flat around her head, but still meticulously placed and styled. 

“Sorry to interrupt and disappear but I’ve got to get someone here,” the woman starts, bouncing a small toddler on her hip, “to the bathroom.” The kid seemingly materializes out of thin air for Joe, face buried in the woman’s shoulder, a whine bubbling over the little girl’s throat. So lost in the planes of the woman’s face, he hadn’t thought to look at anything else, hadn’t registered anything else, but her. A woman who looks so ethereal with her skin like midnight waters, dark and bright brown eyes so striking Joe’s fucking positive his lungs have been iced out by one single glance. Her ears are decorated in gold--studs, hoops, chains of all sizes dotted around in lobes, in cartilage, inside nooks that Joe didn’t even think could be pierced. 

Then she’s off. And as she turns, Joe realizes the top of her hair is just a tiny bit longer than the sides and back, and he is fucked. So utterly fucked. 

“Your daughter?” Joe asks, trying to recover now. Feels how thick and long the silence is. Joe presumes he is correct but doesn’t want to leave the conversation if he can help it. It doesn’t hurt that Joe’s hoping to get a name at least. Joe briefly recalls how someone responded back to the invitation asking if they could bring family but there hadn’t been a name attached, not one that stood out to Joe when he approved the request—the only one to come to his attention. And apparently said request belonged to Trey Dominic. Joe knew Trey was married and had kids, but the only pictures of the family together are twenty some odd years old at this point and the kids from the photos that Joe had seen were maybe five to six years old. Just as Dominic was a ghost, he also ensured to keep his family away from the prying eyes as much as possible. 

“And granddaughter. I promised Marlowe I wouldn’t run away today, and she knows good food will make me stay.”

“Well, I hope it’s good food.”

There’s no mistaking the arched brow--the look only a father could deliver and have it sting. “For my sake or for yours?”

Joe blinks, working hard to keep the rush of blood out of his cheeks. Had he really been caught looking that hard? He swears it was only a few second glance. “Yours.” Because who in their right mind would choose themselves on a question like that. 

“The only correct answer.” Then Trey grins, head shaking again as he takes one of the crackers off the plate Marlowe slid to him. “I like you, kid.”

“Trey.” This voice is more confident, and approaches them from behind. A shorter woman than Marlowe slips in next to Trey and Joe immediately spots the resemblance, the slope of this woman’s nose similar to Marlowe’s. Marlowe’s mother and now grandmother to the child on Marlowe’s hip. “Did Mars stop by?” she asks, looking up to Trey. 

“She did,” Trey holds up the plate. “I’m holding to the promise.”

“Hi,” the woman smiles up at Joe. 

“Regina, Joe. Joe, my wife, Regina,” Trey’s quick around his bite into the cracker to settle the introductions. 

“Nice to meet you,” the two of them echo to each other. This handshake is much easier to get through for Joe. Less of a fumble now thanks to time. Because Trey is just a guy, really at the face of it. Like everyone else. Just a guy. 

“I don’t want to take up all your time,” Joe comments, recognizing now that Dominic isn’t alone here at this event. Staying would be intrusive. “But really, I appreciate you talking with me, accepting the invitation too. I hope we can chat again soon.”

“Yeah, nice talking to you as well. I can be in touch.”

Joe nods, turns to Regina to extend his gratitude in meeting her and nearly, right there on the tip of his tongue, asks that they extend the sentiment to Marlowe. But he’s already in enough hot water about his staring. Joe’s not going to double down on an early grave. 

Marlowe Dominic. Joe feels like a horny teenager later that night in his bed, typing her name into Instagram’s search bar. There’s hope, a kind of wish upon a star buzzing that he might be able to even find her. She may be just as elusive as her father. Especially if she has a kid too. Joe thought about that too—if it would be smart to pursue if she does have a kid. But right now, it’s not about pursuit. It’s about intrigue. He just wants another glimpse at her. 

The verified page is the first result. Right away he can tell even with the minuscule profile picture it's correct because the photo is dripping gold from the tiny corners from her ears again. Her profile picture is a striking straight on photo, her smile shy, lit from the top a sun streak when the page finally loads.

MU(V)A—the only one that brings your true light out. Tap into your beauty now and book with me below.

The pinned pictures aren't focused on her, but rather reels and photos of her work. In some pictures just her hands are visible with brushes, tubes, tins in hand. He taps on the middle video—Marlowe and an older woman in the still frame—and is instant greeted by a bright laugh. “Yes, yes, of course I can make you shine for the gods. What can’t I do?” 

The video swirls, melting the previous opening to a soft whine of a guitar. “Hi, y’all. Today, we’re going to work on my grandma. For her 75th birthday party,” Marlowe’s voice floats in from the background. A dubbed voice over and instruction as it’s clear the work’s already begun. Marlowe’s hands are already gingerly tapping at her grandmother’s face. Joe doesn’t even listen to what’s said fully—catches moisturizer, primer, foundation, something about brows and concealer. 

He can’t even see Marlowe, not fully. Occasionally her profile peek into the frame. But the camera is angled to highlight the work. Her voice bright, a small rough edge to it, but it makes Joe’s chest flutter. His chest tightens when she laughs, her grandmothers quips about not too much makeup now, not a red lip, “Something more…reserved,” the grandmother states. 

“So a nice gold accent to shine for the gods,” Marlowe’s voice drops just an octave for the word gods—a vocal tic that Joe has managed to pick up on over the course of the short video, shared by both her and her grandmother. Clearly meant to invoke emphasis, to sound mockingly proper. Joe wonders who started it--if Marlowe brought it to her grandmother, or if her grandmother did it once and Marlowe carried the torch after. “And yet, reserved.” The words are now back in Marlowe’s normal register. “Consider me a fairy godmother.” 

“Yes, please. And thank you. Let me not forget that for the folks at home,” her grandmother jokes, a tiny arch in her brow for the camera with the lens spike. 

Marlowe laughs again. “Grandma, they’re gonna be scared of you. Don’t make her go get the switch y’all.” 

The tease makes Joe’s chest tight with a small huff of laughter at the exchange.The video plays for a couple minutes longer. Joe still focused on trying to get more than the back of Marlowe’s head or her profile—which are both gorgeous, the slopes and angles that can only be carved by the supernatural, by God himself. But Marlowe’s eyes, that’s what Joe wants to see. Her full face, pinning him into place with one simple—

“Now tell me grandma, did I slay? Or did I slay?”

Marlowe’s in front of the camera now, standing behind her grandmother’s shoulder. Her grin bursts ear to ear over her face. Joe gasps. 

—look. One single glance into the camera and Joe’s heart races, feels it thundering in his chest. Up and up and up. 

“Oh lookahere!” Her grandmother declares, looking into the mirror. “I guess I must say you did indeed slay.” The word cracks just a little, but the pride is easy to see on her grandmother’s face.