As Glen’s confused gaze shifts from him to me and back, I can’t take it anymore. The poor guy is probably trying to figure out where this is going.
“Dad…” I try to interject, angling my chin toward the press window that overlooks the field. “We’ve got to get back to the game.”
“Went all the way to the NFL,” he continues, unfazed. “Now he covers the games. You should see his articles. Hell, he probably knows the plays better than half the coaching staff.”
Jesus, I fucking can’t anymore. He’s trying to get me into coaching. I know it. He’s been going on and on about it since the first time I brought him to a press box. Does he think insulting the guy is the way to get my foot in the door? It’s not like Glen’s in charge of hiring anyway. Why does he put me through this shit?
Gasps and sounds of horror erupt around us. I turn back toward the window, but all I can see is everyone standing on their feet, a few with their hands to their heads. Shit. What did I miss?
A guy with his arms up drops back into his seat, and I can see a still shot of the Panthers’ quarterback lying on the field,gripping his knee. Oh, man. Not Kinnion. He’s the best QB they’ve had in years.
I move to start back toward my seat when Dad’s hand grips my shoulder. “Chris, wait.”
“We’re working. We’ll talk later, okay?” I assure him even as I hope there’s some way I can avoid doing so.
Without waiting for an answer, I spin back around, but my foot snags on something. Just as I spot Dad’s backpack strap hooked around my foot, I falter and go down. I reach out to grab the end of the nearest workspace counter, but I’m already in motion, my weight causing too much momentum to stop the inevitable. My ribs bash against the side of it. My knee hits the hard floor. The descent of the stairs makes for an incredibly unkind downhill landing pad, the edge of one step hitting me square across the chest. The scratchy carpeting grates against my cheek as I skid.
“Oh, shit,” someone gasps a second after thethudsound my body makes.
“Who in the hell put that there?” I hear Glen ask as someone untangles Dad’s bag from my foot.
“Chris? You all right? Did you hurt your back?” Dad’s worried voice calls at my side, his hands pawing at my shoulders to try to right me, twisting my spine uncomfortably as he huffs.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, rolling over like a broken sea lion.
I feel hands under my arms as I try to get up. A covert glance around the room tells me Kinnion is momentarily forgotten since all eyes are on me—the awkward nobody whose father is vying to get him a job he doesn’t want and who just face planted.
I shake Dad off as I get to my feet, but he gives me a slap on the back. “See?” he calls out to Glen, chuckling. “He can still take a hit.”
A hit?I just tripped over my own feet in the middle of a crucial game play. My ankle is now throbbing because he left his freaking backpack in the middle of the damn aisle.
Glen gives me a wary look, but then his gaze flicks to the screen. His sense of duty clearly tells him that the game takes precedence over some washed-up old player and their obnoxious father.
“You good, Champ?” Dad murmurs that stupid nickname he gave me when I was a kid. “It’s fine. Don’t even worry about it. I think I can get him to go out for drinks with us after the game.”
His nonchalant confidence is an electric pulse to my system. I can’t tell whether I’m vibrating with anger or on the verge of a panic attack because of the dread coursing through me.
I shake my head before I can even get a word out. “No.”
It’s only a whisper—a desperate plea to not subject me to feeling more worthless than I already do. Cheers rise in the room, rattling my eardrums. On the screen, I watch Kinnion getting back on his feet. He waves as he walks off the field with a slight hobble in his step. Risen. Saved from the humiliation of the end of a career that’s just being born.
“Hey, that’s how these things work,” Dad assures me. His urgent tone contrasts with the shouts of joy around us. “Someone puts in a good word with someone else. Youknowfootball. You could be coaching, not sitting here writing about it.”
Not crippled. Not a disappointment.
I’m full-on shaking now, my lungs burning. I lock my eyes on the door as though it’s my salvation because it is. If I stay here, I’ll fucking explode or, worse yet, maybe even deck my old man. Angling around him, I dart a glance at the floor. The last thing I need is to wipe out again.
I can hear him calling after me as I shove through the door. The stifled air in the hallway reeks of concrete dust, beer, and sweat. It’s not far enough away.
“Chris! Where are you going?”
“Home.” I can’t look back. If I do, I might say something I’ll regret.
“Hey, it’s fine. You just tripped. No one cares.”
“Icare,” I grit grudgingly, and it strips a piece of me to admit it aloud.
Can’t he leave me with what’s left of my dignity?
