Chapter 8
EIGHT
JAYDEN
I never expected Colby’s dad to show up at one of my college games. Still, I always looked for him in the stands. I was only four hours east, and LSU home games have a certain allure that I partly hoped would be enough to convince him to make the drive and forget how we ended things.
But I also knew better. Coach Rick Kessler likes his routine.
And he loved his wife. I am a walking, breathing symbol of a wrecking ball, a reminder of how a split second can knock a whole family off kilter.
Canceling high school practice or picking one of my weekend games over his own daughter’s was never in the cards.
Still . . . I always looked for him. That’s part of my routine, I suppose.
Today, when I looked, he was there. I heard his voice above every other sound.
He was all I heard. And for a few hours under the glare of the sweltering Texas sun, I was just the kid again, his go-to stud, the hot shot or ringer he bragged about to other coaches.
I was his. And I fought like hell to make him proud.
So I don’t know why I’m so damn nervous to walk across the concourse and shake his hand.
I’m legit shaking in my shoes. I’m twice his height at this point—well, a full foot taller at least. Yet, one sharp glare is all it would take for him to wreck my confidence back to the ground.
I’d never be able to talk to his daughter again.
“Hey! Quite a game, son,” he says as I approach. I exhale. Son.
I laugh nervously and hold out my hand to shake his. He pulls me in for a hug instead. His hand lands heavy on my back, proving he’s still as strong as he ever was.
“Colby didn’t tell me you’d be here today. Probably to keep me from getting nervous at the plate.”
I figured he’d show up to one of the games, but I didn’t expect him so close. I’m glad he was. I’m also glad it was a surprise. The anticipation would have messed with my head.
“You look good at the plate. Pulling the ball. Hmm, wonder if anyone else has ever told you to to your strength like that?” He puzzles his face, his expression exaggerating his sarcasm as I back away from our hug.
“I think your exact words were, ‘Just hit the effin’ ball over the right field fence already.’” I do my best impression of his grumble to really sell it, and he laughs out hard—thank God.
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t say effin’. I don’t take shortcuts with my words,” he says with a chuckle.
I lean toward him and mutter, “I was trying to be professional.” I wink, and he pats my bicep twice before dropping his hand in his jeans pockets.
Colby slings a travel bag over her shoulder as she exits the away clubhouse and joins us.
Her eyes scan back and forth as she approaches, likely trying to survey what kind of conversation she’s walking into.
“Good win today, huh?” she says, nodding to me, then turning her attention to her father.
“Ha! I mean, I’d say so. Five of those runs were thanks to this fella. So yeah, pretty effin’ good game.” Rick winks at me, and both of us hold our laughs in through puckered lips while Colby scrutinizes our faces.
“O—kayyy, then. We should probably . . .” She gestures toward the exit.
“Right, hit the road. What time does your flight leave?” I ask, hoping I guessed right when I changed my flight last minute. Last night. At about eleven p.m.
“I take off at twelve thirty. Hoping to sleep on the plane,” Colby says. I try not to keep my smile from growing too obvious, but I’m clearly failing, based on the crease forming between her brows.
“What?” she finally asks.
There’s a little snap to her tone which muffles my courage, so I clear my throat and hem and haw a bit before spitting out, “I decided to swing by to see my mom, too. So, looks like we’re on the same flight back.”
Colby’s eyes freeze open, and I swear I catch a twitch in her lashes, as if her lids are attempting to blink but simply can’t because I’ve stunned them inoperable.
“Oh.” She finally speaks, but the blinking remains nil.
“Well, we might as well give you a lift and drop you off at your mom’s place,” Rick says, dropping his gaze to the ground as he feels for his keys in his pocket.
My lungs tighten, and the air in them sours.
This was a bad idea. An impulsive, dumb move on my part.
Rick doesn’t want to spend time driving me around.
He wants to spend time with his daughter, celebrating his late wife—Colby’s mom—whom my dad killed when he was too blitzed to see straight on his way home from the bar.
“Oh, I’m covered. I ordered a ride share.”
I did not.
“The guy should be here soon.”
There is no guy.
“Oh, I mean . . . I know you’re making the bucks now, but you still gotta save. Cancel it. It’s no trouble. It’s on the way.” Rick pats my back again, then walks away as if it’s settled, and Colby’s gaze slides from her father back to me. I don’t think she’s blinked since I dropped this on her.
I shrug.
“Fuck it. Fine,” she mutters, following in her father’s footsteps, her eyelids finally fluttering enough times to make up for the glitch. The eyeroll beneath them is an extra touch just for me, I think.
Rick’s pickup truck is parked in the family section, so it doesn’t take us long to get to it. It’s a newer model of the same truck he’s had since I’ve known him, a maroon Ram crew cab. I peek into the bed before hopping into the back seat.
“Always loaded down with buckets of balls and pop-up nets,” I say with a chuckle.
“Ah, you know what they say . . . you can take the coach out of a pickup truck, but you can’t . . .” He stammers, as though not sure how to finish his clever play on words.
“Take the Texas out of the coach,” I finish for him. He laughs out once as he slips behind the wheel, and when his eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, the crinkles around them show his amusement.
“Now, that’s a fact,” he says, his drawl coming out heavy.
“I like the new ride,” I say, running my hand over the stitched leather seat next to me.
“You win a few state championships, and the district pays you more,” he says with a sigh.
“And yet, you teach a dozen kids how to read and your job’s in jeopardy,” Colby mutters.
There’s not really a response to that, so the three of us sit in silence as her dad whips through a U-turn and heads north, toward Katy.
It’s a clear day, the blue stretching from horizon to horizon, barely a cloud in the sky.
It’s humid, though, so the moisture must be lurking somewhere.
It’s pop-up-storm season here. Usually, you can smell it coming.
So far, all I smell is the remnants of Rick’s last cigar and the sweetness of nearby basil and lemongrass crops.
Small talk fills the short ride to my mom’s hospital.
She gets off her shift soon, so I thought I could take her out for an early dinner before my flight.
I didn’t really think through much beyond that, especially the part about getting to the airport after, and meeting up with Colby by the gate.
And the look she keeps giving me over her shoulder, the closer we get to the drop-off zone at my mom’s work.
“I appreciate the ride, Coach. Coaches, I mean . . .” I clear my throat as I release my seat belt.
“Jayden, it’s no trouble. And if you want to join us . . . when you’re done visiting with your mom . . .”
Rick shifts in his seat so he can look me directly in the eyes, and I can’t tell whether his expression means he’d genuinely like me to come or that this is merely a courtesy invite, words uttered to be polite. He can’t want me there. I’m sure Colby doesn’t.
“Oh, I’m not sure I’ll have time. But . . . thank you.”
I swallow hard, instantly knowing that thank you wasn’t the right response.
But I’m at a complete loss for something better.
I reach my hand over the console before I say more stupid things, and Rick’s gaze drops to my palm about a half second before he takes it in his fist and covers the back with his other hand.
“The invitation is always open,” he says, holding my palm extra tight.
My breath halts as I fall into the abyss of his blue eyes, the red dot where he took a ball in the face still scarring the inside of his right cornea.
“I can give you both a ride to the airport that way. So . . . think about it.”
I manage to pull my mouth into a tight-lipped smile as I nod.
My gaze meets Colby’s as I lean back, but our silent connection is brief, too short for me to read her wishes.
I’m not sure what to do, so I utter, “I will,” then get out of the truck.
The exhaust rumbles behind me as Rick pulls away, and I head into the hospital to check in with the admin desk and figure out what floor my mom is working on today.
I snag a pathetic bouquet of flowers from what’s left in the gift shop, then take the elevator to the fifth floor, where my mom is running one of the nursing stations for post-op recovery.
Her head is down over a keyboard, her fingers flying to keep up with her charts as I sneak up behind her and motion for one of her nurses to keep my secret.
“Working on Mother’s Day?” I tease, leaning over her right shoulder and setting the small vase with semi-wilted daisies and baby’s breath next to her mouse pad.
“Mijo!” She scoots away from me in her wheeled chair, startled but elated. She’s on her feet in a breath, and I catch her small frame as she flings herself into me for a hug.
“I know you were bummed you couldn’t get off for the games this weekend, and I don’t come to Houston for a few weeks yet, so I thought—”
“Hush, you don’t need to make an excuse to see me. You can come see me anytime!” She sinks down on flat feet but keeps her palms on my cheeks, patting them. It’s her way of testing my weight—she swears she can tell how well I’m eating based on my chubby cheeks.