Page 21

Chapter 21

Zack

One of my favorite traditions is my dad coming to my first away game. Since my first college football season, he’s always made the trip—no matter how far or bad the matchup. When it started, I’m guessing it was supposed to be him and my mom, but she got too nervous and backed out.

The family always jokes about how she’s too gentle for football. Even though I’m a special teams player and am rarely in a position for actual injury, she’s only seen me play a handful of times after high school.

My dad and I always grab dinner, or whatever sort of meal we can. One year, I’m pretty sure it was just a platter of chocolate chip cookies and a beer from the mini-bar, around eleven pm, the night before the game.

It may not sound like a lot, but it’s one of the things I look forward to every year. Now I’m able to get him great seats, or a field pass if he wants. I don’t care where he sits, but I play with a different type of energy knowing my dad is there.

We’re playing an early game, so my dad and I are planning to get dinner afterwards.

I’m in the locker room before everyone else—I like to get there early and do everything I need before the entire team is here. Before I turn my phone off, two messages come in.

Riley

be safe and have fun

also, you better win

Me

obviously

let me know how dinner with dad goes

he’s been a little spacey lately

cut the man some slack

he’s tired

he’s worked hard his whole life he’s allowed to be tired lol

Classic Riley, always thinking something is wrong or constantly worried. She’s always been a bit of a hypochondriac, which has proven to cause more harm than good. Like the one time she convinced me, and my parents, that I had spinal meningitis. After a painful spinal tap, and a ridiculous amount of undue stress, turns out I had a normal cold with really swollen lymph nodes that were sore when I turned my neck.

I’m pretty sure that’s what sparked Riley going to therapy—which she desperately needed. We all went with her a few times, on our own, and as a family. Her therapist helped explain what it was like to be Riley; the anxiety of every single day, the things she’d worry about—sometimes make herself physically sick about.

We all learned a lot, and I'm thankful.

My phone buzzes again—this time, it’s Emilie.

EJ

wish I was there

go zack and go cosmos!

Me

thank you

you watching?

wouldn’t miss it

Next, a picture of her wearing my jersey comes through. She’s currently wearing it out in public, at what looks to be a sports bar. Fuck, that’s so hot.

I immediately save it, just like I did when she sent me her fit for what she wore to her sister’s bachelorette non-party. She’s the kind of person who wears clothes, like they were made perfectly for her—doesn’t matter what it is.

Seeing her in that suit vest, with nothing underneath it, had me thinking some thoughts . I dreamt about her taking it off, a single button at a time, but woke up before she completely removed it. I’ve thought about her tits much more than is probably appropriate for a fake girlfriend.

Nerves sit low in my core, like they do before every game. I recognize them, and my love for the game. I turn my phone off and soak up a quiet minute in the locker room.

We pull out the win, thanks to a fifty-eight-yard field goal as time expired—a play I contributed to. It’s so surreal to look up in the stands and see Cosmos blue throughout the stadium during an away game. Doesn’t matter that it’s only our second season as a team in the NFL—Cosmos fans travel.

The elevator opens to the lobby, and I see my dad waiting near the doors. When he sees me, he lights up, and it’s a look I wish I could bottle and keep forever.

“Mr. Undefeated. Come here.” He wraps me in a hug, hitting my back like men do.

“Hell of a game,” I respond, a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks for coming.”

“Always,” he says, but he’s looking around the lobby. Sometimes he’s nervous when it comes to fans approaching us when we’re out. I don’t blame him—the public can be wild.

“You good?”

He rolls his shoulders back and responds, “Yeah, totally. All good. Let’s get to dinner.”

We walk the short four blocks to the steakhouse I picked for dinner, while my dad goes through the highlights from the game. His voice is quick, full of life, and it takes me back to our after-game chats. If there’s something my dad loves, it’s talking about football.

Before I know it, we’re eating fresh bread at the restaurant.

“Emilie still in the picture?” he pokes, and I welcome the change of topic. Not because I don’t love talking about football, but having a beer, talking girls with your dad, is an experience I don’t take for granted.

When I nod yes, he keeps going. “When are you bringing her over for dinner? You know your mom is just salivating to host. Plus, it’s been a minute since you met someone like this.”

I bite. “What do you mean?”

“Just that it seems like she’s kept your attention. And you’ve spent more than a few drunken nights with her. That’s all. ”

This makes me pause. I’ve always had an open type of communication with my parents when it comes to relationships and partners. My parents were always telling Riley and me about safe and consensual sex, making it an open topic for conversation when most of my friends had a parent throw them a box of condoms and tell them “not to get anyone pregnant.”

It catches me off guard because he’s right. I’ve not had serious relationships, rarely bringing people home to meet my parents, which isn’t weird when you’re in college and an athlete. My time was spent at football and making sure my grades were solid enough to keep doing so. It’s weirder when you’re almost twenty-seven.

“Zack, it’s fine. I didn’t say that to make you feel bad about previous decisions or nights, or whatever,” Dad scrambles, sensing my reaction. “It’s just that we’re happy to meet her. When you’re ready.”

I believe him. It’s not that he said what he’s thinking—I’m lucky to have him be honest with me—it’s just making me wonder if I’m missing out. On real people. Genuine connections.

We both take a long drink before he says, “Tell me something about her.”

“She’s so smart. Probably too smart for someone like me,” I make the small self-deprecating joke that I whole-heartedly believe. “She’s the kind of person who can learn almost anything and do it like she’s damn near an expert.”

I launch into how she’s helped Tripp and Willow start a new non-profit and a record label. How much she’s figured out. How no task is too small. How she’ll lend a hand even if she’s drowning, personally.

I only stop when my food arrives. My cheeks are probably warm, a touch embarrassed from the rambling.

“Damn. She sounds like quite the woman.” My dad looks at me over his plate, beaming, matching the smile on my own face .

Dinner is quiet, with both of us hungry enough to clear our plates. Dessert is a must, and when we can’t choose, we get the crème br?lée and bananas foster.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” the woman who brought the dessert asks, but I already have a forkful of pie in my mouth.

I shake my head, and my dad chuckles at my full mouth.

“ Anything at all?” She puts both hands on the table, leaning over a bit with her eyes on me.

I know this bit. She’s trying to get my attention. When she says anything, she means in the bedroom when she’s done with work. I’ve dabbled in anything, but not tonight, not now.

“Nope. All set. Thank you.” I look at her briefly before focusing back on the dessert.

She takes a piece of paper from her cleavage, puts it on the table, and says, “Here. If you change your mind, any time you’re in town.” She gives me a wicked smirk before turning and walking away.

I grab the number, put it in my pocket, and make a mental note to throw it away when I get to the hotel. I press my lips in a thin line, waiting for her to be clear from our table, and glance up to see my dad’s eyebrows scrunched as he looks at me.

“Wild times,” I say, hoping to put an end to this.

“Are you kidding me? What are you doing?”

“Do you want to start with the pie? That’s cool—”

“No, not the fucking dessert. With that woman. You just went on a rant about Emilie. Praising her up and down. Smiling like an idiot talking about someone you could be in love with. Start a life with. Do big things with.”

“What are you talking about?” I’m confused. What happened?

“Don’t interrupt me.” Dad points a finger at me, and it feels like I'm in trouble so I do my best to listen and not move, even as an adult. “You’re better than this, Zack. Your mom and I worked hard and taught you to be a respectful human being; one you could trust, one whose word meant something.” He stops, sits back in his chair while crossing his arms and maintaining eye contact.

“This is about that?” I gesture to the woman who walked away. “For an interaction I didn’t ask for or entertain?”

“You took her number.” His voice is cold as ice.

“Yeah, to throw it away. I don’t need some creep picking it up and calling her. You did teach me to be a respectful human being and that’s what I was doing.” I mean to stop but the words are flying out of my mouth before they get the memo. “I am someone you can trust. I'm someone Emilie can trust. It’s fucking bullshit that you’re upset with me over an interaction with a stranger I didn’t ask for.”

“You’re not going to call her?” he asks and this part stings. I don’t know if he believes me.

“No, I’m not going to call her. Here, you take the number and throw it away, call her in a week to see if I was telling the truth, whatever you want to do.” I pull the piece of paper, small and wadded up, and give it to my dad.

He sighs a long breath out as he stares at the piece of paper.

“I just want you to have everything you deserve. People you deserve. Emilie seems like someone who falls in that category.”

My brain is trying to make sense of this whole thing, and that’s when I remember what Riley said. She noticed something about my dad not being quite right—this conversation falls in line with that.

“Is everything okay? Are you about to tell me you’re sick or something?”

My dad has the spoon in the crème br?lée, tapping the torched sugar topping.

“What? No! I'm not sick. Healthy as a horse. ” He knocks on his chest for emphasis. “When you get older, you think of these things more, or maybe I'm tired from the flight.” He takes a bite of dessert. “Sorry, didn’t mean to jump to conclusions there. That’s not fair.” He offers me a smile.

We sit in silence for a minute before he says, “Hey. I’m proud of you. You know that, right?”

“Thanks, Dad. I know you are.”

I appreciate the change of subject because, while it’s clear something is going on, he’s not ready to talk about it.