Trying to break them?
Summer
I might be.
That damn attitude.
I can’t get swept up in the back and forth with Summer right now so I lock my phone and continue to change for practice. It boggles my mind, really. One minute I’m pissed off that she’s clouding my thoughts and the next I’m wanting her to invade every piece of them. I can’t fucking think straight when it comes to her lately.
“Hunt! We’re going to mic you up for Sunday night’s game!” Coach Aarons slaps my shoulder when I get back to the sidelines.
I hang my head, laughing at his statement and finally taking off my helmet.
“You don’t want that, Coach.”
“Ah, come on, old man. Let the people see how a team captain gets it done,” another one of the defensive guys says to my left.
I don’t take my role as a captain on the team lightly, I know it’s something I’ve been chosen for by my peers, and that comes with responsibility and a level of respect. I’ve earned that over the last few years and being a play caller on the defense is something I take a lot of pride in.
It’s surprisingly our only prime time game this season and with it being on a Sunday night, there’s no way CeCe can attend with how late it’ll end up running. I’ve already asked Summer if she can come stay with her and thankfully she’ll be done working in time to help out. Although, another late night with Summer isn’t exactly something I want to revisit, I'm once again out of options aside from her.
“Nothing exciting ever comes out of my mouth, so it’ll be a snooze fest. Rethink this one, Coach.”
His lips turn down and he shakes his head. “Nah, you’re a captain. A play caller. You can do it.”
Liam and Nate are both practically jumping up and down at the thought of me having to be mic’d up during a game. The last time this happened, I ended up slipping out that I was about to be a dad to the entire staff who was monitoring the microphone.
After practice, there are two more text messages from Summer, one of them is a picture of my refrigerator and a paragraph about how it should be illegal to have things so organized in there. If I had to bet, hers is probably in shambles and would send me over the edge I’m sure. The second one was a little less judgy and a lot more… thoughtful.
Summer
I hope the picture actually comes through this time, because this moment was too sweet not to capture. She said one of her stuffed animals was in your bedroom, so she went to grab it. After like two minutes, I was concerned when she didn’t come out right away and when I walked in, I saw this.
You should talk to her about him, Chase.
The picture is CeCe sitting in front of an old whiskey barrel in the corner of my room. The stuffed animal she was going to get was sitting on top of it and when she grabbed it, the frame must’ve come down with it.
I’d recognize the wooden frame she’s holding anywhere. It’s one of the few things I’ve kept that belonged to my dad. Quite a bit of his stuff was junk, if I’m being honest, and I know he would’ve thought so too. “Get rid of that shit,” he would’ve said.
Going through his life after he passed away was harder than attending his funeral, I think. That day was spent hearing stories from people who loved him, moments that made me laugh and cry and shake my head. But the stillness that followed—the silence and the sheer amount of time I had alone afterward was the hardest part.
I thought the day of his service would be the worst day of my life. Saying goodbye to the man who raised me, the man who never missed a game and always made the time. But it wasn’t. There were people around constantly, making sure we had what we needed, almost afraid to leave me, my mom, and sister alone.
It was the days after, the weeks. When life for everyone else resumed as normal and all I had was the quiet around me and my own thoughts and memories circulating. The painful reminder that for everyone else who knew my dad—they were sad Jack Hunt had passed away, but they said their goodbyes and got to jump back into their everyday lives and routines. And while I tried to throw myself back into football and my way of life, it was just me desperately trying to avoid being alone and avoid having to talk about him because it hurt too fucking much.
CeCe’s ponytail is falling out and the yellow princess dress is hanging off her shoulder. The stuffed animal is sitting next to her and the beginning of a smile coming together on her face as she stares down at the picture of me and my dad the night I got drafted. Cloudy eyes and proud smiles for both of us.
After taking a minute to let the photo sink in, I lock my phone and get changed. I don’t talk about my dad much to CeCe—if ever, actually. I should, though. I know it. But it’s so damn hard. The moment I think I can start sharing a memory or a piece of who he was I can feel the lump in my throat building and I just shut it down. She asked about him once earlier this year. My mom had just left from a weekend she was staying with us and CeCe questioned why I have a mommy and not a daddy. Kidsare more intuitive and observant than we realize, that’s for damn sure. I wasn’t ready for the question and didn’t know how to answer her without making myself miserable in the process—so I avoided it. I changed the subject after saying something about him no longer living here. It was selfish and wrong, but I just… I wasn’t ready.
Summer knew my dad well. It was a trip seeing the two of them together. Come to think of it, they’re actually pretty similar. My dad was just as sarcastic and witty as Summer. Calling things how he saw them and standing up for the little guy. She reminds me of him in that way, actually. Kind of reckless and impulsive, not always making the best choices, but alwaystryingtheir best. The quick humor, and quite frankly, irreverence they both shared. Not taking life too seriously, I guess, is something they have in common.
He’d call her a spitfire and she’d joke that he was an old man when he’d make noises every time he got up from a chair. He’d always tell me to make sure I was looking out for her along with Abby.
When I walk into my apartment, I set my bag down near the laundry room and make my way toward the living room. I can hear faint sounds coming from the television. When I round the corner and glance into the living room, I see all of my dining room chairs lined up in a row. My barstools are on the other end and a fitted sheet is stretched across them, making a fort over the floor.
“CeCe,” I whisper, but don’t get a reply so I try to quietly move around the chairs and pillows set up in my living room.
When I poke my head around the side, I can see into a very cleverly crafted pillow fort. Couch cushions are lined up around the perimeter and pillows from CeCe’s bed and her comforter are laid out with an extra comforter I had in the hall closet.
