After the noon home game, Sunday dinner at Dad’s house is pure chaos. The kind that only a giant family can create. Kids running through the kitchen. Highchairs pulled up to the table that Dad and I built so everyone could eat together.
There’s something about building furniture from scratch that’s soothing. Maybe it’s working with your hands or maybe it’s the focus it takes to cut the angles or the patience of sanding a piece down until it’s ready to be stained. Other than when I’m on the field or ice, carpentry calms me.
Greyson and Matt talk about the play calls. Matt lets Greyson change the plays at the line of scrimmage, but Matt calls the play initially. They’re in a discussion about why he changed a play that ended up not working. Without being able to see the film yet, Matt just wants to know what he saw.
Sutton has glasses lined up, pouring wine, while answering a phone call. “Sorry it’s family time. It can wait until tomorrow. I am now on DND.”
Witt says, “What’s DND?”
“Do not disturb.”
Paulina, Greyson and Sutton’s teenage daughter, who will more than likely be a professional tennis player, says, “That’s what mom says when she wants a little lovin’.”
“Paulina!”
“Mom, please. We all know that you and Dad have sex.”
I bark out a laugh, loving how teenagers just blurt things out.
Dad stands outside at the grill, flipping steaks like a king overlooking his kingdom. Our parents wanted us to grow up like every other kid, even though Dad is a college coach and my older brothers are famous. We never lived in town. Always working on the farm in addition to training and school.
Dad calls out to me. “P, bring me a platter.”
I moved out two years ago, but he hasn’t changed much since I lived here, except my old bedroom is the kids playroom. I grab his favorite platter with a big bass fish on it. Noelle hates it and used to always want to use the fancy hand painted one.
Sweat beads from the warm Texas air, spot Dad’s forehead as he arranges the meat on the platter.
“How’s it going with your performance coach?”
I shrug. “Okay, I guess.”
Damn, I guess I’m the topic of conversation for this family. No one’s pregnant. No one’s in the hospital. Everything has been smooth sailing until I got the yips and can’t catch a football.
He waits, reminding me of Annika, like I’ll tell myself eventually.
“Seems like a lot of money for someone to tell me tobreathe and say trust. But if saying it helps me catch the ball, I’ll do it.”
Dad chuckles. He’s still fit. Works out every day. If it wasn’t for the crinkles around his eyes and his salt and pepper hair, people would think he’s in his thirties.
“Your mother used to do the same thing to me.”
I look over to him. “What?”
“When I was playing, she’d settle me down before big games.” Dad smiles, reliving the memory.
“How?”
“Lots of ways, rubbing my back, my temples, keeping me in a routine. She’d even calm me once I started coaching. Coaches get those same butterflies, even if we don’t admit it.” The recollection seems to warm his voice, but then he says, “You’re not your brothers, Parker.”
The words hit like a boxer punching me in the chest, unexpectedly. “So, I’m not as good as them.” My voice sounds like sandpaper scraping over my tongue.
He shifts his weight, turning toward me. Not angry. Not apologetic.
Steady.
“Son, you could be.”
I feel the muscles in my face tighten.
