By the time I get to my car, I’m already replaying everything I didn’t say as I drive toward campus.
I don’t head to the student center like I told him. By the time I realize where I’m going, the arena is already in front of me, the parking lot coming into view as my stomach flips. I pull into a spot outside the athletics facility and sit in my car longer than I meant to, working up the courage to get out.
You’ve got this, Brinley.I tell myself that repeatedly as I make my way toward the building.
Following the directions on the wall, I make my way through the halls until I’m standing in front of a woman at the front desk. She looks up at me, her expression is neutral but warm.
“Can I help you?”
“I—uh.” My throat tightens. “I’m here to see Coach Dawson. I’m a… family member.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly. “Is he expecting you? I don’t see anything mentioned on his calendar.”
“No,” I admit. “But… he knows me.”
She smiles thinly, clearly unconvinced, but picks up the phone anyway. “Let me see if he’s available then.”
I shuffle anxiously as she attempts to call him before she hangs up a moment later.
“You can go on back. His office is the third door on the left.”
I nod, flashing her a polite smile. The walk to his office feels like I’m floating. My pulse is loud in my ears. The door is cracked open, and I knock once before I push it open wider.
“Hey, babe,” he says without so much as glancing up. “I thought you were at—”
He looks up and stops mid-sentence.
The room goes quiet, like the air has been sucked out all at once. His eyes narrow, confusion flickering across his face before it settles into something else entirely.
A mixture of recognition and shock, then something harder.
“Brinley,” he says, my name heavy like it takes effort to say out loud.
I close the door behind me. My hand is shaking, so I shove it into my jacket pocket before he can see it.
“Hi,” I manage.
He stands too fast, the chair scraping loudly across the floor. “What are you doing here?”
Clearly, he’s not happy to see me. All the softness in his voice from a second ago is gone.
“I wanted to talk to you.”
His jaw tightens. He glances toward the hallway, then back at me. “Not here.”
“If not here, then where?” My voice comes out sharp. “When?”
“You should’ve called. Or emailed.” His tone is clipped now. “You can’t just show up like this.”
My heart feels like it’s beating out of my chest.
I told myself I was prepared for this. I’ve replayed dozens of scenarios in my head, trying to imagine how this conversation would go down.
Not one of them went like this.
“I didn’t think I needed an appointment to see my own father,” I say quietly.
His expression flickers, and he exhales a heavy sigh, taking a seat in his chair.
