Page 30

Chapter Thirty

ROWAN

I haven’t even pulled the parking brake before a tap sounds at my window. Jesus Christ, all the fuckin’ spaces in this God damn parking lot, and he finds me this fuckin’ fast. I had a plan. I was going to take a minute to get myself together, explain some stuff to Ruth so she wasn’t blindsided by the way me and my old man are around each other. I was going to grab a drink and then call him to figure out where we were meeting.

Instead I have to face him before I’ve even taken a breath.

The tap comes again before I’m able to respond.

“Rowan?” I’m expecting my dad’s voice, but my name comes from my right. Ruth’s tone is soft, concerned. I turn to look at her and see something a little sad in the set of her lips.

“It’s fine.” I try to brush her off, but her hand reaches out to cover mine.

“Is it?”

“Probably.” I attempt a laugh, but she doesn’t buy it and gives my hand another squeeze.

“We can go?”

I don’t need to say anything. She already knows. She can probably read everything in my face, everything I don’t want to say about the mess we’re walking into.

“He’s literally right outside the car.” I raise an eyebrow.

“I’ll distract him.” She winks. “Or we could just run over his toes.”

A laugh bursts out of me, one I didn’t think I’d be capable of right now. This fuckin’ girl.

“Come on, trouble.” I reach between the seats and unfasten her seatbelt, then mine. “We better get this over with.”

Dad steps back as I push my door open, a wide smile on his face. As soon as I’ve shut it behind me, he’s pulling me into a tight, back-slapping embrace. “Rowan!” I can hear the grin in his voice. “What was all that about?” There’s something unkind in his laugh. Ruth catches it, too, because I haven’t gotten out a word before she’s stepping up next to me and extending a hand.

He’s forced to drop my shoulders to return her shake, his manners too well-embedded to leave somebody hanging. “Hi, Mr Ainsley, I’m Ruth Walcott.”

He looks a little taken aback; I wonder if Mom told him I would be bringing somebody. I can see the cogs turning as he switches gears, adapting to having another person around.

“Please, call me Keith.” He clasps her hand in both of his, and I have to fight back the touch of irritation that prickles me at the sight. “And how do you know my son? Are you two…” He trails off, his eyes darting between us pointedly.

“No.” Ruth’s cheeks stain pink as she abruptly cuts him off. “We’re just friends.”

“Oh, well, that’s nice,” Dad says before checking his watch, already losing interest. “We’d better get inside.”

“The game doesn’t start for another forty minutes,” I try, but he’s already turned on his heel. Walking in long strides toward the stadium entrance, absolutely sure we’ll follow.

“You sure you don’t want to make a run for it?” Ruth nudges me with her elbow.

“Nah.” I sigh and take hold of her hand, doing my best not to overthink it. Ruth startles a little but must realize I’m hanging onto the contact like my last thread, especially as we start walking, moving in the wake my dad’s left behind.

“You know, he’s not all bad,” I start, feeling the urge to defend him. “It’s mostly just around football stuff that he can get a bit…” I wave my free hand, not able to finish the sentence. Ruth doesn’t need me to, just nodding in understanding. “He got hurt his senior year; a linebacker from Raleigh hit him with a dirty tackle.”

“Raleigh?”

I shrug uncomfortably, following her line of sight to the Northridge V Raleigh poster suspended above the stadium entrance. “He comes every year.”

“Why?” she breathes.

“God knows. Maybe he just likes to torture himself.”

“That’s so messed up.”

“Don’t I know it?”

As we make it to our seats, Ruth tugs my hand, nodding toward the where my dad’s already sat down. I know what she’s asking and appreciate the offer, but he wouldn’t take it well if I had Ruth sit by him. I’d probably get an upset phone call from my mother before we made it home. The thought of that alone has me shuffling between the seats, struggling to maneuver my frame into the plastic chair. Ruth sits down next to me and leaves her hand resting palm up on her thigh. The offer’s subtle, but it’s there. I shoot her a smile of thanks.

“How’s your season going?” Dad asks, as if he doesn’t keep meticulous track of my game stats.

“Good,” I answer. “Team’s looking strong, it should be a good year.”

“That’s good to hear.” He nods. “You been working on your handling?”

“Yes, sir.” My tone is clipped.

He looks like he’s about to say something else but gets interrupted by the Northridge cheerleaders taking the field. Loud music blasts through the speakers, effectively drowning out any possible conversation.

“Oh wow,” Ruth breathes. I look over at her before following her gaze to see the Northridge bulldog charging out of the team tunnel. He throws out a couple cartwheels before jogging laps around the cheerleaders, jumping and waving to get the crowd amped up. “Look at him go.”

He’s got nothing on her. Even as it pains a tiny, petty part of me to give Allbreck any credit, Ruth’s the best mascot I’ve ever seen. The way that she can pull off these tricks like it’s nothing. I’ve seen videos from their games, and she’s completely magnetic.

“How’d you two meet?” Dad asks, looking over at me to see Ruth transfixed by what’s on the field. “Are you one of the cheerleaders?”

“Oh no, she’s-”

“I’m the mascot!” Ruth grins, her spine straightening in pride. I love seeing her like this. She knows exactly how good she is.

“Really?” He laughs. I straighten a little, ready to put him in his place if he starts saying stupid shit. I don’t want to get into an argument, but I won’t have him disrespecting Ruth.

“Yeah.” Her smile falters a little, and my chest aches at the sight of it.

“Well, how about that!” His smile is big, but I can see there’s something false in there. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d want to hide that pretty face under a big ol’ mask.”

“Dad,” I half growl in warning.

“What?” he scoffs. “I’m paying her a compliment! You’re pretty enough to cheer. I’m surprised my son hasn’t snapped you up.”

“Jesus Christ,” I hiss out.

“We really are just friends,” Ruth says quietly.

“Oh, I believe you.” Dad grins, leaning forward so that he can talk straight over me. “He was never exactly a ladies’ man.”

Something in me deflates at his statement. He’s always made it clear how strange he finds it that I don’t like to party with the other guys, that I don’t take full advantage of the appeal that being a football player gives me. I’ve never felt the need to come out to my parents, certain they won’t have a clue what it means. The thought of having that conversation is so exhausting that I just don’t bother.

Ruth gives him a wobbly smile, tight around the edges. It’s nothing she doesn’t already know. I’ve said half as much to her before, but he’s hit a nerve. Luckily, before either of us has to come up with a reply, cheers erupt around us. We look back to the field to see the Bulldog finishing some kind of backflip as the cheerleaders make their way off the field.

Ruth’s face lights up. “He’s really good! Most mascots wear sneakers for those kinds of tricks. They’re super hard to land in the full fur.”

“You don’t wear sneakers,” I say. In every clip I’ve seen of her, she’s got those big green things on.

She blushes a little and shrugs modestly. “Oh, look!” She points back to the field. “See that crowd work? He probably can’t even see anywhere above his eye-line, but he’s making the whole crowd feel like he’s cheering right for them.”

I watch him, seeing what she’s talking about. I’d never much noticed what the mascots do outside of the tricks, but she’s right; he’s engaging every single person in the stadium, pulling their eyes to the field right before the players come out.

“I wonder what he uses to keep those gloves on?” she muses, her voice going quiet like she’s talking to herself. “I use Velcro.” She looks at me as she says it.

“I know.” My voice is rough as I remember that moment of holding her arm on my lap the first night we met. I wish I’d known then how much Ruth was going to carve a place inside me.

I keep telling myself we’re just friends, but that excuse is wearing thinner and thinner. As I look at her now, those big green eyes and the tendrils of hair that have escaped her ponytail to curl in ringlets around her face, something clicks into place. I may not know where I’m at, I rarely do when it comes to my own feelings, but I feel like maybe I’ll be okay as long as she’s there with me.

Somehow, Dad makes it to the third quarter without saying anything completely out of line. Mom was right, giving him a witness has kept him on his best behavior. I hate that this is what it takes to get him to treat me with some respect, but at least I know how to play his game. I know he loves me in his own misguided way; he’s just never let me forget that nothing I do is what he would have chosen.

He’s back from grabbing some drinks, leaning over me to pass a soda to Ruth. Northridge are down seven points, and it’s not looking good.

“God damn.” Dad sighs. “Look at Watson, he’s all over the place.”

I already know where this conversation could go. As soon as he starts commenting on their center, it’s only a matter of time before things turn around.

“He’s not so bad. Their coach just needs to change strategies; he needs more cover,” I say, mostly to myself.

“He’s second rate,” Dad hisses.

“Dad…”

“You’re so much more talented than him, son.” His hand comes to clap me on the shoulder. Anybody watching would think it’s a sweet moment, a supportive gesture between father and son. “You would have been incredible here.” He sounds wistful, like he’s grieving for some alternate reality.

“I’m doing a good job at Beaufort.”

“I know, I know.” He waves me away. “I just hate to see you waste all that potential.”

“I’m not wasting anything.”

“You’re throwing it away.” He starts to raise his voice before realizing everyone around us could easily overhear.

“Jesus, Dad.” I turn to face him more, putting my back to Ruth. Even though I asked her to come, I don’t want her to hear this.

“I just need to say it, Rowan.”

“You always fuckin’ say it,” I reply under my breath.

“Well, much good it’s done me since you never God damn listen.”

“I’m happy at Beaufort.”

“Are you? Do you even have any friends?”

“What are you talking about?” My chest tightens at his words. I don’t know how he’s always able to say the most hurtful thing he can in every moment; it’s like an awful gift.

“You don’t live with the team, your mother tells me you don’t go out with them. All you do is spend your time with that strange boy.”

“Trevor’s not strange.”

“When I was in your shoes, I embraced the experience; I made the most of it.”

I know all this; he never lets me forget it. I spent my whole childhood hearing about his glory days as the Northridge QB. Growing up, all I got was stories about the games, the parties with the team, the girls that flocked to him. For the first year, I tried so hard to be that guy, to live up to everything he wanted from me, but I just couldn’t do it. I was so stressed out, always overwhelmed, and it was starting to affect my game. It was actually Fitz who suggested I get out of that house. He showed me the ad Trevor had placed when his last roommate dropped out.

“I have embraced it. It just looks different to how you did it.”

“You think what you’re doing isn’t a waste of your ability, but that’s only because you don’t see how good you are.” I know that he truly believes this, that my choice to go into coaching is born out of some kind of insecurity, but I know exactly what I’m capable of. I could probably be a half-decent NFL player if I really went for it, but I don’t want it. Not the way he did.

“I know what I want.”

“How can you know? You don’t understand what it’s like to have your choices taken away from you.” He gets more heated the more he speaks.

“Isn’t that exactly what you’re trying to do?” The words come from behind me, and I swivel to see Ruth glaring daggers at my father, leaning forward to see him.

“This really isn’t any of your business.” Dad crosses his arms, rubbing one hand up and down his bicep. It’s a telltale sign that he’s trying to keep his tightly held temper in check.

“I don’t mean to be rude.” Ruth shifts forward until she’s perched right on the edge of her seat, the conversation happening past me. “But you kind of made it all our businesses when you started going on loud enough for everybody to hear.”

He glances around, jaw ticking as he sees all the people around us trying to look as if they’re not listening.

“This is between me and my son.”

“Well, he’s too polite to tell you to shove it, but frankly, I’m not,” Ruth blurts out. I can see her hand trembling slightly before she clenches her fist.

“Ruth,” I murmur. I appreciate her sticking up for me, but it’s not worth it. I’ve been here before, and he’ll never back down.

“Your son’s a great player, but he’s gonna be an incredible coach. And if you can’t see it, then that’s a you problem.”

“I just want what’s best for him.”

“Have you ever asked him what that is? Or do you just think you know? Look, I don’t know what your deal is, and frankly, I don’t care all that much, but I do know that you’re pushing your son away, and that’s the real waste here because he’s an incredible man, and you’d be damn lucky to really get to know him.”

She sounds a little breathless at the end of her speech, and I can’t do anything but stare. Her eyes flicker between me and Dad, realization coming over her expression, then panic.

Her breaths come fast, like she’s hearing herself for the first time. I’m about to say something when she’s up, shuffling past the other people in our row. She’s all apologies and mumbled words until she hits the steps, then she’s gone.