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“Love,” he says, drawing out the word like it’s something distasteful. “That’s a strong sentiment for someone so young.”

“I don’t think age has anything to do with it,” I say, unsure why I feel the need to contradict him.

My father hums under his breath while his fingers tap a steady rhythm against the tablecloth. I don’t know a lot of the details behind my mother’s disappearance when I was just a baby—he rarely talked about it growing up—but from what I gleaned over the years, it crushed him. In all the time he raised me, he never once brought another woman home. I used to think it was because he worked so much. Between construction and my games, he didn’t have much time. But now I wonder if it was something more, if maybe it destroyed his belief in love.

Avery dumping me the way she did would only reinforce that notion.

“Coach pulled me aside after the game,” I say, wanting to change the subject to higher ground, something that will put a smile on his face instead of the frown he’s wearing. “I guess scouts from New England have been impressed with my performance this year, particularly these last few games.”

The tension around my father’s eyes vanishes. “The Patriots?” he chokes out.

I nod, laughing when my father smacks his palm on the table with a whoop of joy. “Damn, I knew you’d make it! I knew it!” His smile stretches, dark eyes beaming. “So, what now?”

“I guess they asked if I thought about petitioning the NFL and entering the draft early.” I laugh, barely able to believe it myself.

“And? What do you think?”

“I don’t know.” I bite my lip, mulling it over. I’ve barely had time to think about it. “Maybe I’m wise to finish out my final year? Coach thinks that if I perform as well as I did this year, I’ll stir up even more interest.” I shove a hand through my hair, remembering what Coach said and still having a hard time believing it. “He actually thinks I might be the number one pick.”

“My son, a number one pick,” my father says in awe.

Turning, he cranes his neck, waving for a passing waiter. “Excuse me, waiter!” he cries, nearly knocking over his glass of orange juice in his excitement.

When the waiter stops, he waves him over, his eyes bright with pride. “Can we get a bottle of champagne, please? We’re celebrating my son’s future NFL career!”

The waiter hesitates. “Um, I’m sorry, sir. We don’t have champagne.”

“You don’t have champagne? What kind of restaurant is this?” he gripes.

“Uh, Dad, it’s okay,” I say, feeling a flush rise to my cheeks.

“No, no.” He waves me off. “They must have something. What kind of drinks do you have?”

“Actually, we don’t have any cocktails.”

My father stares at him, like he doesn’t believe it.

“Really, Dad. I’m good.”

With a scowl, my father turns back around, dismissing the waiter with a flap of the hand.

“Nothing’s guaranteed yet,” I say once he meets my gaze.

“Nonsense. I always knew you’d make it. But Patriots’ scouts? Number one draft pick potential? That’s . . . well, that’s not nothing, son. When we get back to the East Coast, we’ll have a proper celebration. But for now, we’ll have to settle with this.” He lifts his glass of OJ, and motions to my water.

“Not another toast, Dad.” I groan. “Really, you’re making too big a deal of this.”

“To you,” he declares, ignoring me. “And earning the future you’ve always dreamed of.”

We clink glasses and take a sip of our drinks before tucking back into our meals and discussing my plans for the offseason. I ask Dad about work, his flight home, and his noisy neighbors. Later, once we’re finished, the waiter clears our plates away, while I idly trace the condensation on my water glass as silence settles between us for the first time since I sat down.

“Thanks for the meal, Dad,” I say when the waiter brings him the check.

“I know I’ve said it a million times, but I’m proud of you, son, and I’m excited to see what you do next.”

“Me too.” I flash him a tired smile, more than ready to retire for the night, and wondering if Avery’s still awake.

“This next year is critical,” my father says as he slides out his wallet. “Everything you’ve worked for is within reach.” He holds his hand out, grasping at the air, as if snatching my future in it. “You’re so close to the finish line, but you can’t afford any distractions now. Until you cross it, you need to keep your head down.”