Page 14 of Hard to Love

Shame washes over me in a way I’ve grown accustomed to when it comes to him and his outbursts. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve asked him not to come to the games, he still shows up. Still makes his way onto the field somehow after the game to broadcast his in-depth thoughts of how shitty I played.

“This is the ticket to your future, Finn. The NFL. A guaranteed paycheck to cash in for life.”

I take a deep breath and consider my reality. My knees ache constantly, and the rotator cuff surgery I need has already decided my NFL future. There won’t be one. But that’s all I’ve ever been pushed to be. All I’ve ever been allowed to be.

“You know who that man is over there talking to Mason?” My father drones on despite the fact that I haven’t spoken a word in response to him yet. “That’s Carson Vega. One of the best sports agents in the business.” He steps closer and leans down to whisper in my ear and it takes everything I have not to push him away. “He was here watching your team play today and now he’s talking to your backup, Mason, instead of talking to you. You want to know why, son? Because you couldn’t throw for shit today, so Coach pulled you. He benched you when what could be the most important man in your life was standing there taking notes on the game.”

“Not now, Dad.”

“Sports is the only thing you’ve ever loved. Now you’ve just thrown your career down the fucking drain by not performing at your peak when the best in the business has his eyes on you. Step up to the fucking plate, Finn.”

I glance up for the first time since my dad walked over, to focus on someone other than him, and startle when I realize Carson Vega himself is only feet from us—within hearing distance. And of course, I want to crawl in a hole and die from embarrassment when his eyes meet mine. He offers a polite smile and nod before glancing to my side where my father remains bent over like a parent scolding a small child.

“I’ve got to get in the locker room. Coach’s talk and all that,” I mutter and rise from the bench without looking at my dad when I damn well know Coach is across the field still chatting with the media.

But it’s a good excuse to get away from him.

A good out.

Anything to buy me time so that I can drown myself in alcohol later with the guys and forget today ever happened.

The shower is hot, the guys are rowdy over the win we secured once I left the game, and I drag my feet leaving the locker room. The last thing I want to do is go to dinner with my dad and listen to him break down every play, highlight every error, and tell me what I should have done.

Pushing the door to the locker room open, I keep my head down and don’t care that my mood is shitty.

“Sanderson.”

I startle at my name and then stop walking when I see Carson Vega five feet from me. He’s leaning casually against a short concrete wall, arms crossed over his chest, one ankle crossed over the other. His dress shirt is crisp even after being in the hot sun during the game, his sleeves are rolled up at the cuff, and from what I gather, a very expensive watch is on his wrist. His dark hair is styled but not stiff, and as he’s taken his sunglasses off, they’re hooked in the top of his shirt.

“Sir?” I say, my heart pounding. I’m stuck in that moment between excitement over him actually talking to me and mortification over whether or not he heard what my dad said to me earlier.

“Carson Vega,” he says in a smooth voice framed by a genuine smile as he reaches out to shake my hand.

“Finn. Uh, Finn Sanderson.”

“I know who you are,” he says and that has my heart lurching into my throat. “You’ve had a tough go of it lately. Your shoulder’s damaged but you’re waiting for the off-season to have surgery so no one knows how bad it is. Am I right?”

How did he know when I’ve told no one? Not even my dad. Especially not my dad.

My expression must have given my thoughts away because compassion fills his eyes. “You hitch your arm slightly before you go to throw,” he says by way of explanation. “You’re trying to hide it so you don’t upset Coach, and your doctor has said you won’t cause any more damage by playing so you’re doing just that.”

“How—”

“It’s my job to watch and observe and know. And I’ve seen it more times than I care to count.” He shrugs and glances down the corridor where someone yells something before looking back at me. “You’ll get the surgery, you’ll rehab, and you may or may not be back. Sometimes it works and you come back better than new, other times it’s a shitshow and you realize your dream is gone. Not being harsh, but that’s just how it goes.”

I swallow over the lump of emotion that for some reason is lodged in my throat. Maybe it’s relief that someone other than me knows about what I’ve been trying to hide. Maybe it’s feeling like I’m not so fucking alone with this secret anymore. Or maybe it’s because he’s not ripping into me, telling me what a fuck-up I am.

“I’ve been asking around about you while you were in there.” He lifts his chin to the locker room doors I just came out of. “You’ve got decent grades, have a strong work ethic or so Coach Tejada says, and more than anything, you’ve made yourself the go-between for your teammates with the coaching staff. I like that.” He chuckles. “I like that a lot.”

“Thank you,” I say awkwardly, uncertain what one has to do with the other or where this conversation is going.

“Anyway, the reason I waited for you is I wanted to tell you this: your old man is wrong.” My heart sinks at his words because, of course, I was hoping he was waiting to tell me he was interested in me. For the future. In representing me for the NFL. “I couldn’t help but overhear what he said, and I don’t know your dynamic, don’t care to really, but in all honesty, what he said was bullshit. Just because you might not continue your career into the NFL doesn’t mean your life in sports is over.”

I open my mouth to make an excuse for my father but for what feels like the first time in my life, the words don’t come out. Carson’s words resonate that deeply with me. Instead, I shut my mouth and simply nod at this hulking presence in front of me.

Carson fishes in his shirt pocket and holds out what appears to be a business card. I take it without looking at it.

“You graduate with your degree, and if you’re still interested in that career in sports, you come see me. I always need a good intern. Besides,” he says, pushing himself off the wall and smiling, “you never know where that might lead.”