Savior

One: Wes

Ya know that feeling? The one where it feels like your head is stuck under water? Your ears are plugged, every sound is cloudy? Your vision won't focus on any one thing. It's just... one great big blur? Yeah, that could accurately describe how I was feeling this bright and cheery (or so I was told) Wednesday morning, sitting in my uncle's office waiting for the lecture I knew was coming. I was momentarily regretting the lack of sleep I'd gotten the night before. Momentarily. A very short moment. Some things were worth feeling like shit over. Like the curvaceous peroxide blonde who's house I'd left to narrowly make it to this stupid meeting on time.

"Hungover?"

I winced as I heard Uncle Bill's voice behind me, and his office door shut. No. Nope, wasn't hungover. I would be in a few hours when I stopped being drunk however. "No, sir."

"So, you're still drunk then?" he practically snarled. He rounded his desk and sank into the cushy office chair in front of me. He stared at me disapprovingly and shook his head. "Nine o'clock on a Wednesday morning, and you couldn't even manage to be sober."

I hung my head and gulped. Uncle Bill was the only real father figure I'd ever really had. My mother died shortly after my birth and my father slipped into a deep depression that he never managed to pull himself out of. I knew my father, it wasn't some sob story like that. I'd see him on the weekends and all the holidays. He'd always been a part of my life, he just couldn't take care of me. Bill was his eldest brother and had more than enough space in his home for me. He and his wife Belinda had three children of their own, two boys and a girl, who basically became my siblings. Honestly, it wasn't even until I was nine or so that I even realized Bill wasn't my dad. He acted like one. He treated me like he was. Even now when I was almost thirty.

"I'm sorry," I apologized softly, looking at my hands folded together in my lap.

"Look at me when you're talking," Bill commanded. He was stern, always had been. But then with a kid like me, he didn't have much choice but to be. "What the hell is wrong with you, Weston? Three PR agents in the last eighteen months? You've damn near been through my entire staff!"

I sighed. "I know. It's not my fault..."

"Not your fault?" he scoffed at me. "Are you kidding me? You're a damn near thirty-year-old man that still acts like a frat boy. How in God's name is it not your fault? You show up to events drunk. You get arrested for anything under the goddamn sun. You're photographed with a new bunny every fucking day of the week. When are you gonna grow the fuck up, son?"

I shrugged. "What else am I supposed to do? Not like I can play."

Bill shook his head. "And who's fault is that?"

"I blew out my shoulder!" I cried with a laugh. "How the fuck is that my fault?!"

"Your injury isn't your fault, it's your actions after that still have you sitting idle!" Bill exclaimed. "You think if you had just rehabbed and behaved yourself someone wouldn't have picked you up by now?"

I shrugged. "Who knows."

"Wes, you were one of the best quarterbacks in the league. If you could just get your shit together..."

I rolled my eyes. "Do you have anything new to say or is this going to be the same lecture as always, because I can definitely think of things I'd rather be doing. A root canal for instance..."

"You think this is how I want to spend my morning?" Bill retorted with a bit of a hiss. "I'm a fucking sixty-three-year-old-man trying to get his twenty-nine-year-old-nephew to pull his head out of his ass! You keep living like this, Weston, and you won't have anything left!"