Brandon doesn’t say anything to that, which means he’s either thinking about this or already has a fully formed opinion he’s deciding on whether to share or not.
“Financial ground for you and Linden?” he finally asks, and I swallow thickly. The question sits between us as I watch the bird spread its wings and disappear into the neighboring garden.
“Partly, yes.”
“And the other part—who’s that for?”
It’s not a real question this time. He already knows. I can feel it in the way he’s looking at me. Maybe Linden told him, but I don’t believe that. Instead, I think back to the afternoon out by the fence, with the wire coil in my hands, Oak and Owen chasing each other through the dry grass.
“Part of my scholarship money goes to my parents. That won’t change once I make a secure living,” I say, a little surprised by how easily the words come over my lips this time. “My dad…he always needs something for his…for his projects and the community. And my mom’s in Thailand and—” I cringe when I notice how crazy this comes across when stripped of the context I laid out so carefully for Linden.“I know how that sounds. It’s not that bad,” I tell him quickly. “They just need some support to—”
“Micah,” Brandon interrupts me gently before I can talk myself into a frenzy. “It sounds like you’ve been carrying a lot of stuff that isn’t yours to carry,” he states calmly, his voice void of any pity or anger. Just facts.
“They’re my parents,” I remind him weakly, my hands clasped in front of me.
“They are,” he agrees with me, his arm dropping off my shoulder as he leans back on the step. “But that doesn’t make it your job to support them financially. Not when their situation is a consequence of their own decisions—and forgive me the assumption, but from what I gathered, it sounds like it is.”
I think of my mom, lying in the darkness of our living room, her gaunt face under my fingertips. I think of the desperation in my father’s eyes, the police stalking through our backyard, taking samples from the little stream. I think about Benny in my lap, his tiny body trembling. I think of the van, beaches, national parks, sunsets at the coast, and peaches in Georgia.
“They didn’t have it easy,” I murmur. “They did what they could, and now it’s my turn to do what I can.”
“I’m not here to argue with that, but do you know the difference between parents providing for their child and a child providing for their parents?” Brandon asks, not unkindly.
I don’t answer that, just press my lips together in a thin line as I stare down at my hands.
“One of them,” he continues, “is the right order and the other is not.”
Something moves in my chest—similar to when I sat in Coach Wagner’s office—like a knot loosening in the middle of it and allowing me to breathe easier.
Not easily.
Easier.
“Is football what you want?” Brandon asks patiently. “Not what your parents might want or what your coaches might want, but whatyouwant?”
I lift my hands to my face, my fingers rubbing over my eyes, afraid that he’ll see the answer plainly in my features. I know the right one to that question. It sits on the tip of my tongue:Of course it is. I love the game, I’ve loved it since I first stepped onto a field and found something I was really good at, a purpose and an escape. A direction.
But I also think of Seb and his scratched-up arms. I think of Coach Wagner and some things not being worth the cost. I think of compartmentalizing and secret relationships. I think of Linden choosing himself over the future carved out for him. I think of a small farm in Vermont and a summer when football never once crossed my mind.
“I love football,” I say quietly, my words barely audible even to my own ears. “But even early on, it had this…shadowattached to it. I was never allowed to just love it; I had towantit,needit. Like it’s my only shot in life, and if I fuck it up, I fuck everything else up, too. And I’ve seen what it does to others—to my best friend. The pressure, the demands, the schedules. It takes over our lives and owns us completely. And I…I’m not sure I want to be owned by it. Not, if I had a chance to choose.”
I stop talking when I realize my hands are shaking from the impact of what I just let slip. I haven’t said any of this to anyone before—not to Linden, not to Seb, not to myself. I haven’t evenallowed myself to think it in the dark of my own bedroom. And now the words are out, and I can’t take them back.
“That’s an honest answer,” Brandon says. His arm has found its place on my shoulder again, pulling me against his side for a moment. My whole body goes stiff under his touch. I can’t remember the last time I was hugged by a parent like this—whether it was before my mother boarded a plane to Thailand or after. I’ve forgotten how nice it feels. Like, for just a second, I don’t need to hold everything up on my own and can just be.
“I need you to know that you have a choice, Micah. Football isn’t your only shot at a good life. You’re twenty-two years old. You can try ten new things and put them all down again. You’re a hard-working kid, and you’ll graduate from this school debt-free—that’s something football did for you, and it’s okay to take that and then put that part of your life to rest. But it’s also okay to pursue a career in the NFL. It’s okay to do something else completely. Play your last season here and enjoy it. You don’t have to decide anything tonight, but I need you to know that you’ve got achoice. I almost fucked that up with Linden, and I feel like if I’m not making sure you know this now, no one will tell you.”
“Okay,” I rasp out, my throat tight again, my hands back in my lap. “Okay.”
“And,” he continues, his hand increasing the pressure on my shoulder, commanding my full attention, “there’ll always be a place on the Woodrow farm for you. To work, to just think, or to do both. A place, no matter where Linden is or what you guys will end up doing. It’ll just…be there whenever you need it. Consider it a standing offer.”
My jaw drops at that, and I pull back a little to get a better view of Brandon, to see if I might have misheard. If this is some kind of cruel joke. He meets my eyes, completely serious andunbothered, like he didn’t just offer me a place at his table at any given time.
“Brandon—” I start, my throat completely closed now. I take a careful breath through my nose, blinking to ease the sting in my eyes. I’m not going to sit here and cry in front of a grumpy farmer who also happens to be my boyfriend’s father. I refuse. But fuck, I’m close.
“Don’t make it into a big thing,” Brandon warns me, and I let out a short laugh.
“Right,” I say, then add, “Thank you.”
