The comment was innocent—directed at the freshman, not at me. But it landed wrong anyway, and I felt myself flinch.
Seth stopped mid-sentence. His fork hovered over his plate, and he watched me push the same piece of chicken around for the third time.
“Tanner.”
I looked up. “What?”
“Where are you right now?” He set the fork down. “Because you’re not here.”
I should tell him. The thought surfaced, and I pushed it down. What was I supposed to say? “I read an article about your success, and now I’m terrified you’re going to leave me for the NFL?”It sounded paranoid even in my own head. Seth had been nothing but clear about his intentions. He’d submitted grad school applications. He’d talked about Wilmington like it was certain.
But so had Dad, once. He’d talked about retirement, about coaching youth leagues, about all the time he’d have to spend with Mom and me once he stopped playing. He’d had plans too. And then he’d gotten one more contract offer, and one more after that, and by the time he finally stopped, his brain was already eating itself alive.
“I saw the article,” I said. “In the campus paper.”
Seth’s expression flickered. “About the season stats?”
“Yeah.”
“I meant to tell you about that. The reporter cornered me after the game last weekend.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I tried to keep it low-key, but she had all these questions about my ‘trajectory’ and whether I had ‘professional aspirations.’”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth. That I’m focused on finishing the season strong and then moving on to the next chapter.” His hand found mine across the table. “Tanner, you know that article doesn’t change anything, right?”
I knew what he was saying. I just wasn’t sure I believed it anymore.
“The scouts,” I said. “She mentioned scouts at the Ole Miss game.”
“There are scouts at every game. They’re there for the guys who actually have a shot at the draft.” He squeezed my fingers. “That’s not me.”
“But it could be.” The words came out before I could stop them. “You’re having the best season of your career. What if?—”
“What if what?” His voice had gone gentle, but there was an edge underneath. “What if I suddenly decide I want to go pro after telling you a hundred times that I don’t?”
“People change their minds.”
“I’m not going to change my mind.”
“You don’t know that.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Seth pulled his hand back, and I felt the loss of contact like a physical thing.
“Is that what you’ve been worried about all day?” he asked. “That I’m going to bail on everything we’ve planned because some reporter wrote a puff piece about my stats?”
When he put it like that, it sounded ridiculous. But the fear didn’t care about logic. The fear had been living in my chest since I was sixteen years old, watching my father forget how to tie his shoes, and it didn’t respond to reasonable arguments.
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I just— I saw your face in that article, and all I could think about was what happens if you get drafted. What happens if someone offers you a contract and suddenly grad school doesn’t seem as important? What happens if?—”
“If I turn into your father?”
The words landed like a slap. I flinched back, and Seth’s expression crumpled.
“Shit. I’m sorry.” He reached for me, but I was already standing, moving toward the kitchen with my plate even though I’d barely touched the food. “Tanner, that came out wrong.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine. I shouldn’t have said that.”
