Page 21

Chapter Twenty-One

ROWAN

I t should probably worry me that I feel more adrenaline getting dumped into my system from seeing my dad’s caller ID flash up, than I do from seeing a linebacker bear down on me in front of twenty thousand people. I debate letting it go to voicemail. I could make up some reason why I can’t talk right now, but that’ll only make things worse. The longer I leave him to stew, the worse things’ll be when we do talk and eventually, Mom will get involved. I don’t want her to have to deal with that.

I answer, my stomach hollowing out in anticipation, but he's halfway through a sentence before I can get a word in. “Do you want your peewee trophy from the game in Ohio?”

“What?” I’m totally lost here.

“The one with the green base, your first MVP!” He sounds half excited, half exasperated, like he doesn’t understand why we’re not on the same page.

“From when I was seven?”

“I can bring it next time I come visit!” He says ‘next time’ as if he’s ever made a trip to Beaufort that wasn’t him driving to the stadium, watching the game, and heading straight home to text me his feedback from the couch. I’m not sure he even knows where I live.

“I don’t need it. What are you even doing with it?”

“Your mother’s having me go through the garage. She wants to put her car in here when it snows so I gotta clean out.”

“About time,” I mutter. The garage has been a shrine to football ever since I was a child. Now, almost every open spot space is taken up by something sports-related. All my old gear, my trophies, my game balls lined up beside his like he’s curating a roadside museum.

“I’ll keep this one here, but we gotta make some cuts.”

“You can get rid of whatever you need to.”

“I’m gonna switch to video.” There’s some fumbling, and then his face appears, a slight frown between his brows that I’m sure matches mine. I look too much like him to be comfortable.

He flips the camera around and I can see open boxes scattered everywhere, the debris of my childhood mixed with his truncated career. My chest tightens as I take it all in.

“What about this one?” He points to a small statuette I got at the state championship back in middle school.

“Lose it.” It was a great day; I loved every second, but I don’t need the trophy. I have all the pictures my mom took if I want to look back on them. A smile creeps out as I remember the one she got printed for the living room. My dad’s clutching my helmeted head and pulling me against his chest for a tight hug. It was the best feeling in the world, finally making him proud.

“You sure? This one’s important.”

“You can keep it if you want, but I thought we were making cuts.”

He huffs out something like agreement.

“And this?” He points to another. The cycle repeats, him pointing out relics from the past and me telling him he doesn’t need to keep them for me. With every item I’m casting out, I can see the line of his jaw getting tighter and the tension growing in his shoulders.

When he finally snaps, I’m almost relieved; at least I don’t have to wait for it anymore.

“You can’t throw all this stuff away, Ro. This is your life!”

“It’s just stuff, Dad.”

“This is our legacy. This is everything we worked for! And you’re gonna toss it all out?”

And there it is, because every time we talk about my career, my success, it turns into a we . Our work, our sacrifices. Nothing is mine alone, not when it comes to football. When I was a kid, it made me happy to have something we could do together, but as I got older, I realized that it was all a trap. The only way I could ever make him happy was to tread the exact path he set out for me, make every move he told me, and let him take the credit.

“I’m not tossing it out.” I sigh. “I’m just telling you I don’t need every shirt or trophy from the past sixteen years boxed up in the garage.”

“I would have thought all of this would have meant more to you than this.”

“You were the one who said we had to get rid of things!”

“Not everything! You just want it all to be a waste?”

I get the sense we’re not talking about the stuff anymore.

“I don’t need the reminders.”

“You just want to forget?”

“That’s not what I said,” I sigh.

“This was your whole life!”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, wondering how I’m ever going to get through to him on this. “It was a great time, but it’s done now.”

“Only because you’re walking away,” he bites out, all his usual pretense gone.

“You’re acting like I’m quitting to do fuckin’ accounting or something.”

“You might as well be,” he spits, and I instinctively cringe. Even after every fight we have, I can’t shut down the part of myself that wants to please him, to make him proud of me. “You’re giving everything up to be a pencil pusher.”

“I’m becoming a coach.”

“You can do that when you retire! Get in ten great years as a player, and then try it!”

“I don’t want to be a player.” I say it slow, as if it’ll finally get through that way.

“Don’t you give me that attitude. I only want what’s best for you.”

I don’t respond, knowing nothing I say will help.

“Listen, think about what I said and let me know what you decide.”

“It’s already dec-”

“Let me know.”

He hangs up before I can say anything or tell him there’s nothing he can say that’s going to make me change my mind. I feel a little sick looking at my phone, knowing that in a few minutes, I’ll get a message from my mom, trying to smooth everything out. I don’t want to speak to her right now, I’m so sick of trying to make everyone happy.

All I want is to finally do something selfish for once, and there’s only one person I want to see.