Page 122 of Hard to Score

“Those are just words, Mom. They mean shit because even when he wasn’t there, the whispers and comments still were. Every goddamn game. Don’t you think it would have been easier if I’d had him in my corner? Wasn’t it selfish to leave me to face all of that alone? Was it too hard for him to come to a game or simply say he was proud of me? Or did he resent me so much because I played a game he was too chickenshit to fight for?” I shake my head.

She pushes the box across the table. “Open it.”

“Why? Whatever is in that box isn’t going to solve our fucked-up family.”

“Open the damn box, Drew, and stop being difficult.”

When I lift the lid off the box, I uncover a bunch of binders or maybe scrapbooks. I glance at my mom as I pick one at random and pull it out.

“Open it,” she urges.

And when I do, I’m met with an image of me during a game. The black and white photo of the newspaper cutting is one I remember vividly. It was a conference championship in college that we lost in a nail-biter.

But just as clearly as I remember that first article, when I flip the pages, there are dozens behind it that I don’t. Little scraps with a mention of me. Squares of game stats glued to a page. A faded picture in action. A college team brochure.

I look at page after page, each one chronicling my history. Each page documenting a moment in time I never would have remembered.

“He did care, Drew. He followed every single step of your career. The highs. The lows. The in-betweens. These are his proof. And what you find in that binder, there are dozens more just like it.”

I don’t bother hiding my tears. This is a little boy’s wish answered and in the way I’ve always wanted.

I’ve looked for him. In every game I’ve taken the field, I’ve looked for him, so why didn’t he tell me he’d been following me? Why couldn’t he have sent text messages, emails, picked up the fucking phone, anything that said he was proud of me?

Is proud of me.

The visible proof is here in front of me that he cared, but what am I supposed to do with it now? It’s like a belated birthday card—nice to get, but a reminder someone forgot the big day.

“Wouldn’t saying it have been easier?” I ask as I stare until the words in the article become blurred.

“Would you have believed them if he had said the words? Or would you have thought he was justifying his absence?”

“I don’t know, but I still needed to hear from my dad that he thought I could be starting quarterback. I stayed on the sidelines, not believing I had the talent.”

“I know you think he only cared about himself—and I can understand why you think that, but I also thought you should know there are two sides to every story, Drew. When it comes to you, this is his side. His proof. You’re who kept him going most days.” She rises from her seat and walks around the table to press a kiss to the top of my head. “I’m sorry you never knew about these until now.”

“Mom?” I ask, struggling to accept all of this.

“As a parent, all you want to do is protect your children from everything. And sometimes, you don’t see until it’s too late that protecting them is what ends up hurting them.”

“Okay. Fine. But why won’t he give me answers? Us answers? Don’t I deserve an explanation about why our life spiraled into such chaos?”

Her somber eyes meet mine and a bittersweet smile ghosts over her lips. “I did just explain,” she says softly before turning and walking out of my house, leaving the box behind.

As a parent, all you want to do is protect your children from everything. And sometimes, you don’t see until it’s too late that protecting them is what ends up hurting them.

What the hell does that mean?

And a man who thought he had it all figured out, is now conflicted once again.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

BREXTON

“HEY, IT’S ME,” I SAY to Drew’s voicemail. “I know you need space but I wanted you to know I’d never ask you to choose between me and your family. I don’t want you to feel like that’s a choice you have to make. I do love you, Drew. Madly. And I’d walk away from us if that’s what it takes for you to be happy.” I almost choke on the words but know I’d do that for him. “And I hate that you’re hurting. I only wish there was something I could do to help you, but I understand this is something you need to figure out or confront on your own. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready to talk or . . . whatever.”

I stare at my cell phone for a beat as I vacillate between whether I should have said all of that or not, but it’s too late now as it’s been said. I can’t take it back so I end the call.

But this not talking to him thing is killing me. It’s making me doubt myself and how strong I thought we were together.