The look that comes to Tripp’s face lasts maybe two seconds, but it doesn’t go unnoticed. “I could do that.”
Will shakes his shoulders. “Don’t worry, Callie is an excellent wingwoman, in case you can’t. Count us in.”
Tripphumphs. “Good to know, maybe I’ll bring her next time. How do you feel about sharing?”
I chuckle when Will’s face falls at Tripp’s flirty tone. “Fuck off.”
“You first,” Tripp mocks.
“Both of you better fuck off, the girls practically run this team now—ain’t no way I’m getting on their bad side.”
Will tilts his head. “Fair point. Just text Callie where we’re going and we’ll be there.”
I know where we’re going if I get to pick, but just nod. Looking at Tripp next, I pin him with a stare. “AskEmma if she wants to come, don’t tell her.”
Tripp sends me the middle finger while mumbling some additional curses under his breath as he walks off.
Digging out my phone from my bag, I send a text that will probably go unanswered.
Saw you in the stands tonight with Lucie. I must have missed your fan sign for me. Maybe next time.
After our postgame meeting and dinner in the clubhouse, I’m walking into my townhouse. I toss my bag on the floor and fall back onto the couch. I’m not typically one for silence—I’m all for some background noise or music, but after screaming coaches, teammates, and fans for several hours, I welcome it.
I take two deep breaths to reset then reach for my phone, knowing it’s about to ring. With the first feeling of it vibrating in my hand, I answer. “Hey, you catch the game?”
My dad’s gruff laugh comes through the line. “As if we ever miss one. Isn’t that right, Mils?”
“It was so good, there’s one player that I really like—oh, what’s he play? He stands on one of the sides…” My mom’s voicestarts out chipper, but as she tries to remember, I know it can turn to frustration quick.
“I think it’s first base, honey. Beck plays first.” Dad’s voice is calm and reassuring. It kills me to know that without being there, my mother can’t place me. I know it’s not her fault, but the guilt of it threatens to eat me alive.
We’re coming up on year five of her early-onset Alzheimer’s diagnosis. She was fifty-fucking-two when all this started, but by year one she had already moved into the middle stage of her prognosis. They said that stage was supposed to be the longest, and I did everything in my power to slow the progression down, but it seemed to be nothing but fast. This past year we’ve officially moved into private end-of-life care that keeps her comfortable at home.
It guts me I’m not there with her, but Dad reminds me constantly that it’s because of what I do that she gets the best care imaginable. It never feels like enough.
“Right, he has red hair like you do. I like his name too—Beck. It reminds me of someone…Beck…I think my dad was named Beckham, is that right?”
I can’t seem to swallow the baseball-sized lump in my throat, so I let my dad continue to answer her.
“That’s right, he was. Do you know someone else with that name? He?—”
“Dad,” I snap, finally finding my voice.
He knows I hate when he tries to make her remember. She hasn’t remembered I’m her son for nearly two years. Sometimes she brushes off the idea of a son, but other times she gets so upset and frustrated. I get what he’s trying to do, but I’ll take being a player she likes to watch on TV over forcing her to remember.
“Right. Sorry, son.”
“Son? You have a son?” Mom’s words cut me deep.
There’s a pause, I can tell he’s struggling to not remind her it’s also her son on the phone, but she rarely remembers Dad too. He lets out a small breath. “I do, he’s really great. I think you would love him.”
“Dad,” I state my warning calmly, but he ignores it.
“We can talk about him more when I get back if you want. Or if you’re ready for bed, I’ll let Nurse Jamie know.”
I hold my breath as I wait for her to answer.
“Oh, I’m ready to sleep,” she says. “Just watching those boys run round and round made me tired.”
