Freddie lingers in the doorway. “Also, your game’s good. Really good. Just don’t let her mess with your head. Get it finished.”
I give him a tired smile. “Thanks, man.”
He disappears down the hall, and I finally exhale.
I open my laptop. Load the code. Let myself fall into the one thing I still believe I might actually be good at.
Outside, Greg catches the last of the sunlight like he’s listening.
The car smellslike leather and stale energy drinks, and my dad taps the steering wheel like he’s still hyped from the final touchdown.
“That was a hell of a game,” he says, glancing over at me. “That last-minute pick? Beautiful read. Kid’s got vision.”
“Yeah,” I say, trying to sound more enthusiastic than I feel. “He’s good.”
Dad nods. “Not as good as you were, though.”
I look out the window. Count backwards from five. He doesn’t mean it to hurt—but it does anyway.
“You really didn’t have to come all the way up just for agame,” I say, forcing a light tone. “It’s like, a six-hour round trip.”
He shrugs. “Wouldn’t miss it. I love football more than anything else. And I love watching it with my son.”
My chest tightens. For a second, I almost let myself relax into the compliment.
Then he adds, “Wish I was watching you out there instead of some other kid wasting your scholarship.”
And there it is.
I let out a breath. “We’ve been over this.”
“I know, I know,” he says, waving a hand like the conversation’s casual. “The injury. The rehab. But if you’dpushedharder—if you’d stuck it out—you’d be playing for real right now. Scouts, sponsors, hell, maybe even the draft.”
“I’m not doing this again.”
“I just don’t get it,Eth. You had the potential.”
“I have other potential,” I snap before I can stop myself.
He goes quiet for a second. Then, like he’s switching tactics. “How are your grades?”
I stare at the windshield. “Fine.”
“Fine like passing, or fine like ‘please don’t check the portal’?”
I grip my knee. “I’m working on it.”
“Because, you know, if you’d stuck with football, I wouldn’t care about your GPA. But if you’re not going pro, then you’d better graduate with something worthwhile.”
And just like that, the warmth from earlier shrivels. The shared love of the game, the memories, the jokes—all smothered by expectations I never agreed to carry.
“That last drive was a disaster,” he mutters. “Quarterback had no composure. No vision.”
I nod, even though I thought the kid held up okay under pressure. But I’ve learned not to offer my opinion unless I want a lecture on “mental toughness.”
Dad glances over at me. “You would’ve nailed that throw.”
I stare out the window. “I’m not seventeen anymore. And I don’t play.”
