I turn around, possibly hoping for another comment, but he’s still watching the game. No father-son chitchat on his lips, just dull interest in his television that looks a lot like avoidance. I take a few steps until I block his line of vision. I’d given him the benefit of the doubt at dinner and while we opened gifts, thinking maybe he was just in a mood. That’s what being around Remy does; it makes you optimistic. I’m about out of optimism for the day now, though.
“Did you know he called to check on me after the accident? He was worried about me.”
“We all were,” he says matter-of-factly, adjusting the sleeve of his sweater.
My stomach twists into knots, seeing the ugly truth of being ignored.
“That wasn’t rhetorical. Did you know?”
His gaze flicks to mine, but no sooner it shifts to the line of windows overlooking the backyard. He gets up out of his chair, which only infuriates me more. Clearly, the game that was holding his attention isn’t all that interesting after all.
“That was a long time ago.”
Another non-answer. Unbelievable. I’ve never disrespected my father in my life, never even stood up to him at times whenI thought he was being too critical and pushing me during my training. I can’t let this go, though.
“Because I think you did.”
I stare at his stiff back. His unflinching silence. The image of the once proud, indestructible, and all-knowing man I thought him to be—my hero—crumbles. All I see is a gatekeeper, a tired old puppet master who held my strings. And I fucking let him.
“Did you see our messages and put it together?” I laugh for some reason, but it’s not amused laughter.
I can hear him sigh a defeated sound from where I’m standing. That tells me everything I needed to know but didn’t want to believe. I’m shaking, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. Remy and I can go to a hotel or drive back to San Antonio after this. I’ll just apologize to Mom, and Remy, bless him, will understand. I need to get this out. The gloves are off.
“Isthatwhy you didn’t tell me? Was it not in line with Vince Mightener’s dream for his football protégé? Because it really would have helped if I’d known he’d called, if I’d knownsomeoneout there who didn’t care about me because of a fucking game was happy because they knew I’d lived. I might have—”
My voice cracks over the possibilities and how the last decade and a half could have gone so differently. Swiping my hand over my face, I can feel it trembling. I take a breath to calm my nerves and get control of my voice. I just spewed all my dirty deeds to an entire auditorium the other day. Dad is just one man. I can do this.
“I’ll never forget what you and Mom have done for me, but you’ve been pulling my strings and making deals for me since I was a kid. And Itrusted you. I thoughtyouknew best. That if I dideverythingyou said I should, life was going to be great.”
I throw my hands up, unable to contain my sarcasm, but my audience is still a statue. In the grand scheme of things, I knowthat I might have been too immature to make a go of anything with Remy back then. I might have screwed it all up, even if I’d felt I had the chance. But damn it, it sure would have been nice to know I’d had one.
“I know I messed up, and I’ve paid for that, but…you didn’t have the right to dothat. I’m not always confident because being too confident leads to bad decisions. I’m not going to be a coach or in some hall of fame, and I’m gay.” I have to pause to take a breath, the vibrations coursing through me threatening to make my knees buckle. “But you know what? Life is pretty great, even when your own father can’t look at you at the dinner table.”
Dad’s head lowers, and I hate myself for sounding so treacherous, but I don’t regret the context. I wait, my heartbeat still thumping in my ears. If I stand here any longer, though, the tears in my eyes might end up spilling over, and I’m not about to ruin Remy’s Christmas by making him see me like that.
“You’ve got nothing to say? For once, the great Vince Mightener has nothing to say?”
Scoffing, I shake my head after yet another beat of silence. Spinning on my heel, I march to the door of a room I’d now like to take a wrecking ball to.
“Chris…”
It comes out calm, not with commanding retribution for my tirade, but it hits like a punch to my back after he stayed quiet for so long. I stop, telling myself I do only because he didn’t say‘Champ.’
“I thought I knew what was best for you.” His gravely voice is subdued, but I roll my eyes at the pathetic excuse he’s offering, grateful he can’t see my face. “I have this son who shines brighter than I ever did in every single way, and I…wanted to show him off to the whole world however I could. I still do. It doesn’t mean I was right.”
I find myself turning around without even thinking about it. I’m too confused over what sounded like a vote of confidence that, for once, wasn’t laced with a dozen reasons for how I’m failing to live up to his expectations. It’s also the closest thing Vince Mightener has ever come to saying he was wrong about anything.
His chest inflates on a ragged breath. Pursing his lips, he looks like words are barbed wire, and if he spits them out, he’ll bleed. There’s nothing proud about him at the moment, such a stark contrast from the image I’ve had of him my entire life.
“I’ve been trying to think of how to say that for weeks. Years, maybe.” His free hand fidgets with the label on his beer bottle, and he sighs. Angling his chin, he motions in the general direction of the living room. “And then you bring home someone who makes it look so simple; it was like a splash of cold water to the face.That’swhy it was too hard to look at you. Somebody’d already given you what I should have a long time ago.”
He finally looks right at me, his gray eyes holding a well of remorse. And I swear he just tried to smile because it felt like the equivalent of a hug.
Something hot and wet hits my cheek. Swiping at it, I’m still shaking but for different reasons now. Maybe it’s merely seconds, but it seems like an eternity that we stand, facing each other, neither of us saying a word. He shifts in place, but keeps holding my gaze. The expression on his face is clearer than any words could ever be—he’s wondering if he can be forgiven for a lifetime of pushing me.
“Merry Christmas.” I nod. It’s the only thing I can think to say that sounds like,‘All right then.’
“Merry Christmas.”
