Page 17 of Hard to Score

“Of course,” my mom says with a wave of her hand as if my suggestion is nonsense. At the same time though, I know how hard I struggle with the decision to keep Maggs at arm’s length, so I imagine it’s even harder in Mom’s shoes. “You came all the way over here to tell me that? You could have just called.”

“That would mean you’d actually have to carry your phone with you and answer it,” I say, referring to a long-running gripe I have. They got rid of their landline, but they forget to answer their cell phones.

She gives me the look that every kid knows from their mother. The one that says drop it. “Did you tell Wayne?” she asks, referring to Maggie’s ex and Charley’s father.

“He was the first person I called,” I say, thinking how I stood at my front door watching Brexton’s taillights until they disappeared down the street. How I wished I could have my evening back with her instead of dealing with this bullshit. “He said not to worry. Charley is and will be fine.”

“It still makes me nervous.” She moves around the counter and points to the couch for me to make myself at home. “Please don’t tell your father. When he gets agitated, everything flares up, and we’ve been on a roll of good days lately.”

I nod. “Yeah, I forgot. I need to start tiptoeing around here to forgo the inevitable fight.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She moves closer and lowers her voice. “Maybe you should try talking to him again.”

My laugh is caustic. Memories slam into me. His sharp words and cold shoulder. The man I love more than anything feels like he gets further and further away from me when all I want to do is understand.

Why he walked away.

Why he can’t come to my games.

Why he resents my career because he didn’t fight for his.

“Surely you don’t mean that. Last time was a disaster.” And last time was before his diagnosis.

When I dared to ask him for all the details . . . and we didn’t speak for over a year.

She stares at me, a woman who I think knows way too much and is stuck between her husband’s secrecy and her son’s need to know.

I don’t envy her.

Not one bit.

And that’s why I’m about to leave well enough alone when I hear his voice.

“Drew. What a surprise,” Dad says as he makes his way to his chair and takes a seat. I watch each movement for signs of progression, but my mom is right, despite the tremors in his hands, he seems to be doing okay.

The untouchable man I’ve always hoped someday to be close to again.

“Dad,” I say with a nod as I meet his eyes.

The strain is still there, even after all this time.

The sense of betrayal still between us.

The distance can’t be resolved.

I’m the kid who went against his parents’ wishes. The son who played a game his father left behind and a father who has resented it ever since. I’m the child who has lived a great, upstanding life while Maggie has screwed up everything she touches—everything but Charley, of course—and yet I’m the one who’s still on the opposite end of the awkward silences.

I’m still the one who feels like I don’t belong.

“I watched the game the other night,” he says. “Hobbs needs work. He looks rusty. You need to tell Bellinger that you deserve a chance.”

“Hobbs scored four touchdowns.”

“But his mechanics are off. His elbow was too low and he was missing the obvious pass most plays.”