I push myself up from the couch, throat dry, heart already bracing for impact.
“I heard you spoke to Coach,” I say.
He grunts and keeps moving, not stopping until he drops into the recliner.He places the six-pack on the floor beside him and pulls out a bottle.
“Yeah,” he says.“I did.So what?You’re back on the team and you couldn’t fucking tell me?”
“I was going to,” I say.My voice comes out tight, clipped.“I didn’t think you’d care.”
That grabs his attention.
His eyes flick to me—bloodshot, sharp, and evaluating.“Of course I fucking care.You think I put up with your shit all these years because I didn’t believe you could do something with that talent?”
My fists curl at my sides.Nails bite into skin.“You mean football.”
“What else is there?”he snorts, flicks the cap across the room, before taking a long pull from his beer.
The words hit hard.Familiar.Brutal in how normal they sound.
And in that, the truth resides—always lingering between us, decaying in the space we never discuss.The only version of me he’s ever bothered to see.
“Jesus,” I mutter, dragging a hand through my hair.“You only gave a fuck about me when I was flattening guys on the field.”
His laugh’s sharp, mean, soaked in whatever he’s already knocked back.“I pushed you because you had talent.You needed someone to beat the weakness out of you.”
“You mean discipline,” I snap, stepping in.“You mean turning me into some fucking machine so you could brag to your work buddies that your boy was going pro.You tied my worth to tackles and bruises.You only saw me when I was bleeding for the team.”
“And so what, now you’re crying over it?”He shrugs and takes another swig.“You had the shot, hero, then pissed it all away.That’s on you.”
“I was fucking drowning,” I shoot back.“But you never saw that.You didn’t see me unless I was wearing shoulder pads and lighting up the scoreboard.”
“You whine now, but you had it.You could have made it.”He snorts, not even flinching.
“I still can,” I say, quieter this time.“Mayfair wants me.The scout called Coach.They’re setting up a meeting.I need you there.”
That sobers him up.For a beat, he just stares in silence.Then his mouth shifts.Not a smile or anything soft, just that slow curl of pride.The kind he only ever reserves for wins and stats.
“Well, shit,” he mutters.“Mayfair.That’s big.”
“I know.”
He nods and brings the bottle to his lips.“Alright.I’ll come.”
I don’t thank him.I’m not fucking stupid.That nod wasn’t meant for me.It was for the jersey.For the kid who hits hard and keeps his mouth shut.
I walk out before he can utter another goddamn word.I go to my room, close the door, and flop onto my bed, pressing my knuckles into my forehead as if I can force the thoughts out of my skull.My head’s a fucking warzone.Words I didn’t say.Ones he’ll never hear.That hollow, rotten ache where something close to love should’ve been.
My phone buzzes beside me.
Hope flickers quickly and fiercely in my chest.I reach for it before the screen lights up completely, praying with all my heart that it’s her.That she finally gave in.That maybe, just maybe, she wants to hear me out.
But it’s not her.
It’s Noah.
Noah: Party at Ryan’s.Aubs and I might hit it.You should come.Could do you some good to get out for a bit.
I don’t answer.I just toss the phone back onto the bed and lean back, staring up at the ceiling.
