Holloway glanced at Lincoln, something passing between them I couldn’t read. Then back to me. “Let’s talk about what that might look like.”
The conversation shifted into territory I hadn’t expected—grad school, continued development, the kind of support that Riddell might provide to a researcher working on something aligned with their interests. My head spun as Holloway outlined possibilities: consultation fees, research grants, and potential collaboration on prototyping.
Lincoln cut in when Holloway mentioned intellectual property. “Let’s be clear about one thing. Whatever arrangement you’re proposing needs to compensate Tanner fairly. This is his work. His innovation. Any deal that comes out of this conversation respects that, or we’re not interested.”
Holloway didn’t bristle. If anything, he looked pleased. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. We’re not in the business of exploiting young researchers. I want Tanner developing this technology through grad school with our support, not signing away his rights for a pat on the head.”
“That’s—” I started, then stopped. Tried again. “That’s very generous.”
“It’s smart business. Your father was a hell of a player, like I said. But the real legacy isn’t in game tape. It’s in people like you, trying to fix what the game got wrong.” Holloway reached into his jacket and produced a business card, sliding it across the table. “I’ll have legal draw up a consultation agreement. Nothing binding until you review it with whoever you want: your advisor, a lawyer, your grandmother if she’s got opinions. But I want to move forward with this. Your work deserves to reach the field.”
Nixon, who’d been quietly observing for most of the conversation, spoke up. “What kind of timeline are we looking at? Tanner’s graduating in the spring. He’s been accepted to Wilmington Institute of Technology. We’ll?—”
“Need to factor in potential research partnerships,” Holloway finished. “I know. We’ve done this before—supported researchers through advanced degrees while they develop technology we eventually license or acquire. I can put you in touch with a few, if you want references.”
The waiter appeared with our meals. We ate, and the conversation turned lighter—football mostly, but it didn’t bother me as much as it used to. Underneath my mechanical chewing, my brain was fireworks and static, trying to process what had just happened.
He wants to move forward.
Riddell wants to support my research.
This might actually be real.
After Holloway left—another firm handshake, a reminder to expect documents within the week—Lincoln paid the bill despite my protests and steered us toward the hotel bar, where he ordered whiskeys for himself and Nixon and a beer for me.
“So,” he said, raising his glass. “How does it feel?”
“I don’t know yet.” The beer was cold, the taste sharp on my tongue. “I keep waiting for the catch.”
“There’s always a catch in business. But David’s a good man. He’ll deal with you fairly.” Lincoln’s expression softened. “Your dad would be proud, Tanner. You know that, right?”
I didn’t trust my voice, so I just nodded.
Nixon touched my shoulder, brief and warm. “Proud doesn’t cover it. You’re going to change things. Real things, for real players.”
“That’s the hope.” I managed a smile that felt almost real. “Thank you. Both of you. For setting this up, for being here?—”
“You don’t thank family for showing up,” Lincoln said. “You just show up for them too.”
Family.The word settled in my chest, warm and complicated and exactly right.
They followed me back to Mom’s afterward. Lincoln’s rental car pulled into the driveway behind mine, and I watched his face as he took in the house—the same one he’d visited dozens of timeswhen Dad was alive, though the shutters were a different color now and Mom had planted new roses along the front walk.
She must have heard us pull up because she was at the door before we made it to the porch. Her face lit up when she saw Lincoln and Nixon, and there were hugs all around, the kind that lasted a beat longer than polite.
“Come in, come in. I just put coffee on.” She ushered us inside, and I noticed the way Lincoln’s gaze moved around the living room, cataloging the changes and the things that had stayed the same.
We’d barely settled into the kitchen when the back door opened and Frank walked in—tall, gray at the temples, as comfortable in Mom’s house as he’d been every other time I’d seen him here. He was carrying a bag of groceries and stopped short when he saw the crowd at the table.
“Oh.” Mom’s cheeks flushed pink. “I didn’t realize— Lincoln, Nixon, this is Frank. Frank, this is Lincoln Sims and Nixon Cross. They were friends of Patrick’s.”
Frank set the groceries on the counter and crossed to shake hands, his manner easy but not presumptuous. “I’ve heard a lot about you both. Angie talks about the old days sometimes.”
Lincoln rose to meet him, and I watched something pass across his face—surprise, maybe, followed by something warmer. “Good to meet you, Frank. How long have you two been…?”
“About four months now,” Mom said, and there was a quiet happiness in her voice I hadn’t heard in years. “We met at a grief support group, actually. Frank lost his wife a few years back.”
“We started talking after one of the meetings,” Frank said, smiling at her. “She was the first person who made me feel like it was okay to laugh again.”
