She bites her lip, and I track the movement like it’s my job. “I want. But I should warn you—I’m probably going to be weird about it. I haven’t done this in a while.”
“I’ll be weird right back. Balance.”
“Your solution to everything is balance.”
“It’s a good life philosophy. That and always water your plants.”
“Greg does look healthy.”
“It’s all the love. And occasional plant food. But mostly love.”
We eat in comfortable silence for a bit, feet tangled under the table. It feels easy, natural, like we’ve been doing this forever instead of approximately eighteen hours.
“Can I ask you something?” Piper says eventually. “About football?”
My shoulders tense automatically. “Sure.”
“Do you miss it? Really miss it? Not the answer you give everyone.”
I set down my sandwich, considering. Nobody’s asked me that in a long time. Not the real question underneath.
“You want the truth?”
“Always.”
“I was relieved,” I admit, the words feeling strange in my mouth. “When the doctor said I couldn’t play anymore. I sat in that office listening to him explain ligament damage and recovery times, and all I could think was ‘thank god.’”
Her eyes widen. “Really?”
“I know how that sounds. Everyone acted like it was this tragedy. Poor Ethan, lost his future.” I laugh, but it’s hollow. “But it wasn’t my future. It was my dad’s.”
“What do you mean?”
I pick at my sandwich, organizing thoughts I usually keep locked away. “My dad was a high school quarterback. Legend, actually. Full ride to State, NFL scouts sniffing around. Then my mom got pregnant senior year.”
“With you?”
“With me.” I nod. “They were eighteen. Had to make a choice—he could take the scholarship, leave us, chase the dream. Or stay, be a dad, go to community college part-time.”
“He stayed.”
“He stayed. Married Mom, worked construction whilegetting his business degree at night. Owns a hardware store now. Good life, solid life. But...”
“But not the life he planned,” Piper says softly.
“Every time he watched me throw a football, I could see it. That hunger. Living through me.” I finally meet her eyes. “He started training me at six. Private coaches, camps, weight training by middle school. And I was good at it, so I just... kept going.”
“Even though you didn’t want to?”
“I convinced myself I wanted it. Everyone said I did. Coaches, teammates, Dad. Ethan Prescott, future NFL star.” I shake my head. “Then my shoulder got destroyed, and suddenly I had an out.”
“But you said you could have?—”
“I could have come back,” I admit, the secret I’ve never told anyone spilling out. “The doctor said with intensive PT, surgery, I’d probably get back to ninety percent. Maybe ninety-five. Enough to play college ball.”
Understanding dawns on her face. “But you didn’t.”
“I told everyone it was worse than it was. Said the doctor recommended I stop. Let my dad believe his dream died with my shoulder instead of admitting I killed it myself.”
