I place one hand on my belly and the other on my chest. I’m grasping at anything to try and level myself. Trying to feel my breathing, the beat of my heart, whatever I can to bring myself back down.
It doesn’t feel like it’s working, so I shut my eyes, tears streaming down my cheeks, and put my head in my hands. The sound that fills the inside ofmy car catches me off guard—it’s strangled and painful. I look in the rear view mirror and realize it’s me. That sound came from me.
Part of me always wondered what would happen if my dad came back around. In my head, he always had this hefty apology; one with remorse and the kind you can feel the pain singe the edges. He tells us why he had to leave and it makes at least a little sense. He begs to have a conversation, anything we’d be willing to give him.
With that phone call, he stole something from me. Something I didn’t know was up for grabs.
Hope. That’s what he stole. Hope that he’d try to make the horrible thing he did right. Hope that he’d find a way to redeem the first man I was supposed to love. The realization would bring me to my knees if I wasn’t already crumpled in this car.
I need to get out of here. I put the keys in the ignition, feel the engine turn over, and let muscle memory take me home. The roads are practically empty and I use all the mental capacity I have to be a responsible driver.
I grip the steering wheel, letting my knuckles turn white, like the few snowflakes trying to stick. Even though I try to breathe through it, and keep the tears at bay, I’m unsuccessful. Tears continue to fall, steady and heavy, bringing with it all the things I thought were behind me when it came to this man—the piece of the puzzle that never resurfaced.
And then it hits me, the thought I’ve run from for a long time…
The man meant to care for me didn’t love me enough to stay. So why would anyone else?
Thirteen
Tyson
Coachwouldbepissedif he knew I drank too much bourbon last night and am now acting like I’m not hungover as I walk on the team plane. But what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Blair didn’t show up. She didn’t call and when I tried calling her, she sent me to voicemail, only to text me saying she was too tired and lost track of time. I sat and stared at cold takeout, racking my brain for what it meant, and when I thought I had a handle on it, I was already pouring bourbon for dinner.
I’ve seen Blair when she’s had three hours of sleep in two days but even then she didn’t want to cancel plans. We’ve been to the movies when she’s fallen asleep in the middle due to soccer practice and studying kicking her ass, plus her waiting for me to get out of night class, so we could see something together.
But last night was different.
Fuck, it stung.
I get settled in my seat and try to think of something else. Football is my job and no matter how shitty I feel, I owe it to my team, coaches, and fans, to separate all that be ready to work.
Even when I see her walk on to the plane wearing a Cosmos hat. I think she’ll look for me, maybe even want to take an empty seat in my row. Instead, she slides into the first empty row she sees, grabbing a window seat.
I wonder if she’s nervous. Excited. This is the first time she’s traveling with the team and it feels weird to not know. To not be part of it.
The last thing I ever wanted to do was make her uncomfortable or change things. Fuck, that’s really what I didn’t want. It felt like everything I wanted was in reach. I could almost see a future I’ve wanted for so long—me and Blair together. So close I could almost taste it… feel her lips on mine.
And she didn’t even show up. Maybe getting interrupted let her figure out what she really wanted. From here, it doesn’t look like that’s me, and that fucking hurts.
We’rewinningthisgamebut we sure of hell don’t deserve it. In the first half, our quarterback threw two interceptions—both returned for a touchdown—and our special teams fumbled a punt return, giving the ball back to them at the seven yard line.
It’s the start of the third quarter and Tripp Owens just caught a touchdown pass and we’re ahead by a single point. Lining up for the extra point, the cheers are almost deafening—the norm since Blair has been part of the team. It’s amazing how excited everyone gets when she steps on the field.No matter what’s going on between us, she will always be one of my favorite people, and seeing her do this will never get old.
I hear the kick of the ball and then see it go wide right. She missed. Her first miss. I watch her jog off the field, teammates tapping her helmet and shoulder in support.
As we go on defense, I keep trying to catch her eyes but she doesn’t even take her helmet off. She keeps her chin down, motion tight. Zack and Coach Dylan crowd around her with the tablet, showing her the kick, trying to break down what went wrong. I know that look—she’s barely hearing a word of it. She’s somewhere else, locked up in her own head, beating herself up.
My ankle throbs—I tweaked it early in the game. I keep moving it, shifting my weight back and forth, not pushing the tape job too far but not letting the muscles get cold. I know my leg is compensating, the tightness pulling on my hamstrings and quads. I can’t think about it for too long because it’s not just the leg, it’s my whole body.
I look around and find a few Cosmos fans in the first rows behind us—common for away games. There’s a dad holding a little girl, wearing a Zack Andersen jersey, and an older boy with his mom, wearing a generic Cosmos hoodie. The little boy catches me looking and he waves, his eyes lighting up in the way he knows I see him. I wave back and it’s like part of me is splitting from itself.
Sometimes, playing football is like walking willingly into a car crash. The promise of the big hits or stops was what kept me going when I first got into the league. Now, I’m not so sure. I wonder what it would be like where you go to work and you’re not worried about breaking a bone, tearing a ligament, pulling a muscle, or putting your brain at risk.
I glance at Blair again. She’s got her hands clasped tight between her knees, helmet still on, jaw locked like she’s holding everything in. And yeah, it stings that she won’t look at me. But I can tell this isn’t just about a missedkick. Something shifted recently—off the field—and even if she won’t say it, I can feel it in the way she keeps bracing against the world. I know I should be hurt, but mostly I just want to be let in. I want her to be okay.
This game? The team aspect? I love it. But it’s moments like this when I feel it shifting into past tense—something I loved and was proud to be part of.
