“You hate me because I’m an athlete and women are attracted to me. You assume I’m shallow because I’m late sometimes.”
Her jaw tightens. The little muscles by her ears pop in and out.
“Honestly Parker, we’re not a good fit. I work and I can’t be late or I don’t get paid.”
“I messaged you to let you know.”
“You’re always late.”
“Because my life is planned out six days a week and Sundays I spend with my family.”
“Well you aren’t the only one with a life, and work isn’t optional for me. Everything except football is optional for you. Now go dance before you make me lose another job.”
“You quit… on me. God I can’t win with you.”
She folds her lips inside and presses her palms on the wooden bar. “Everything isn’t about winning or losing.”
“Isn’t it? You study to get A’s. If you get an A it’s a win. For you anything else is a loss.”
“Just go.”
Conversation over. But the tension between us feels anything but finished.
I walk a few steps backward before Henry appears beside me. “Well?”
“Sometimes I think she hates me.”
Henry hands me the beer he was holding. “O’Ryan. That did not look like hate.”
I take a long pull off the light beer.
“Oh, it’s hatred. It doesn’t matter because she annoys the hell out of me.”
“Maybe you should use some of that O’Ryan charm and flash those dimples. Maybe she’s offended that you haven’t made a move on her. You think?”
“Nah, she believes she’s better than me. Works harder than me.”
“Why don’t you just ask her to continue being your tutor?”
“One thing I’ve learned is to trust how people act. I told myself when I left the University of Michigan and quit hockey that I need to trust my eyes and ears. Peoplearewhothey say theyare.First thing Monday morning: get a new tutor.”
I glance over my shoulder. Annika’s scrubbing the bar like it’s contaminated with a stubborn stain. Judging by the death stare she shoots at me, I’m pretty sure that it’s my face she sees.
THREE
PARKER - THREE YEARS LATER
The ball hits my hands—and drops.
Not a bad throw. No wind. Not sweat.
Just me, a professional wide receiver not being able to catch a damn football in the backyard.
I stare down at the grass like it personally betrayed me, my chest tight in a way that has nothing to do with conditioning and everything to do with fear. The kind that doesn’t hit all at once but creeps in, quiet and relentless.
Not the awkward kind. The heavier kind.
Matt, offensive coordinator for the Austin Armadillos, and my brother-in-law, doesn’t react. He never does when it matters. Just bends, picks up the ball, and hands it back to his toddler. “Again.”
