Chapter Twenty-Five
Roman
My parents welcome me warmly with proud smiles even though I’m not a gold-medal winner.
“We’re still proud of you, Roman,” my mother says, holding my cheeks in her hands. “You played so well. And your team did a good job. The other was just a little better.”
“They got lucky,” I grunt out, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Where is Taco?”
“She’s outside with your father.”
I head through the living room and kitchen to the back door. I pull it open and step onto the porch, finding my father out in the snow-covered yard playing fetch with Taco. She runs the green tennis ball back to him, dropping it at his feet, then scootsbackwards, her tongue hanging out of her mouth and excitement on her face.
My chest warms as she takes off after the ball, my father smiling.
I love my family. I love my dog. And I love my home.
But there’s an ache in my chest because something is missing.
It’s done now, Roman. It’s over. It’s time to move on.
I head down the steps and whistle.
It catches both their attention. My father grins while Taco bolts for me, running as fast as her little legs will take her. I squat down and open my arms. She jumps into them, licking my face and waggling her butt so much that her whole body shakes.
“I missed you, girl,” I whisper, petting and kissing her head. “We’re gonna go home soon. Don’t worry.”
I lift her up as I stand, giving my father a one-armed hug.
“You played well, son.”
“Thanks, Dad. Could’ve done better.”
“You can always do better. Maybe next time.”
“Not sure there will be a next time.”
He waves me off. “Some of those guys out there were in their forties. You’ve got plenty of chances to go back. Stop being so negative.”
He heads inside and I watch as he goes, then look down at Taco.
“I’m not negative, am I, girl?”
She responds by barking, then lapping at my face. I’m not sure if she agrees or not.
We head inside and I put her on the ground, but she stays by my side. My loyal little girl.
“I made your favorite, Roman,” my mother says. “Pot roast, carrots, potatoes, and onions.”
“Don’t forget the bread!” my father calls from the den.
“Oh, yes. I baked bread last night. It’s a sour dough. Came out better than the last.”
“Can’t wait,” I say, a little bit of warmth settling in my chest.
We sit to eat dinner, just the three of us—well, and Taco by my feet. My father and I have beer while my mother sips wine. We eat seconds of her meal because there’s just something about it that is so good. We chat about the Olympics, and as badly as I want to tell them about Nico, I can’t bring him up. I can’t bring myself to talk about him because when I think about him, my throat gets tight. So I dance around our time together and tell them about the games and practices and athletes.
When it’s time to go, my mother packs me a large container full of leftovers and a gallon bag of bread. Taco and I make our way home.
