CHAPTER 3
Chris
Inhaling, I hunker further over the press desk and bounce my knee to release the restless energy brewing inside me. My joints are killing me, and it’s all I can do to focus on the game in this humidity.
He promised me he wouldn’t. He fucking promised, but the joke’s on me for believing him.
I knew he was lurking in the back of the room, just waiting for the first opportunity to pounce on one of the line coordinators.
I can hear him—that boisterous Vince Mightener laugh.
He wore his damn college bowl ring today. I should have known.
Can’t he just accept the fact that I’m lucky I’m even sitting here in the press box?
I have. I will always be grateful that he and Mom brought me home to recover.
Grateful for how hard they fought to get me the best care possible.
I can’t imagine what it was like for them to see me like that after I’d been so capable my entire life.
But how much of what little I’ve accomplished after that, do I have to share with Dad?
I only started going to local high school games just to have an excuse to get out of the house when I was able to finally move on my own again.
Writing about the games afterward became something to pass the time, a way to keep my mind sharp and prevent me from climbing the walls of that bedroom that seemed to close in more each day I was under my parents’ roof.
I knew I’d never play sports again, nor be well enough for any kind of physical labor.
It’s laughable how I put the cart before the horse back in college, majoring in communications like I’d be broadcasting NFL games after I retired from an illustrious career on the field.
Sitting in that stupid hospital bed that my parents had put in my old room, a light went on, though.
If I couldn’t play the game, maybe I could at least write about it.
I knew football. It’s all I know, really.
That and how to write articles for the press.
Overhearing Dad trying to talk me up to people who owe me nothing leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
He might have been a big reason why I fell in love with the game and how I learned the plays at a young age, but the writing?
I did that on my own. That’s mine. It’s all I have left, and I hate that he’s so disappointed in me that he’s trying to pimp me out for more glory.
Always pushing for more. Pushing for me to be a star at something else. It’s fucking embarrassing.
“Chris! Hey, Chris!” he shouts from across the room, making the guy from the Houston Gazette next to me turn and frown at the distraction.
Pinching my eyes closed, I curse under my breath and set my pen down on my notepad. I have to go. If I ignore him, he’ll just come over and draw even more attention to both of us.
Pushing up off the narrow counter that runs along the press box window, I get to my feet.
The movement pushes my chair back, but not far enough.
These workspaces are narrow and cramped.
I prefer snagging a seat on the end, but Dad was lollygagging on the way up, so I wasn’t able to get here early enough to secure a prime spot.
Shuffling to the side, I make my apologies to a coach and reporter in the seats I have to squeeze behind to get to the end of the aisle.
I’m a big guy. Getting injured didn’t deplete my size.
I’ve certainly shifted from some muscle to more fat over the years, since I can’t work out the way I used to, though.
Either way, I’m too big to be able to make a smooth exit, bumping into the backs of their chairs.
Glancing over, I give Dad a chin nod to let him know I’m coming.
The last thing I need is his hollering across the press box again.
By the time I make it up the carpeted, dull gray steps, I’ve worked some of the stiffness out of my joints from being squished behind the press workspace, so my movements are more fluid and dignified for the pony show he no doubt has planned.
He’s standing next to Glen Moriarty, an offensive coordinator, who’s clearly analyzing footage.
To top it off, I can see Glen communicating with someone on the field via the headset he’s wearing, a standard practice during gameplay.
I flinch, watching Dad clap him on the shoulder. For God’s sake. I know things have changed since he was in college, but he should know better than to interrupt one of the team coaches during a game. Just because the guy’s in the press box doesn’t mean he isn’t working.
“Here he is, Glen. Have you met my boy, Chris?”
“Dad,” I warn, giving my head a shake as Glen holds up a hand and says something into his headset. I can tell my plea will be all for naught, judging by the excited smile on Dad’s face. Fuck. He’s already in his element.
When Glen finally looks up at him, Dad gives me a clap on the shoulder this time, reverberating the ache in my back. “Chris used to be a Panther. Tight end.”
As he rattles off my former stats like they matter at all, I want the floor to open up and swallow me.
I’m pretty sure Glen already knows who I am.
He’s seen me up here a few times since I got on with the San Antonio Times and cleared to come to the press box.
I’ve congratulated him and the other coaches on a few wins without dropping my past. Without bragging about the nothing I have to brag about.
You know, kind of like a normal human being who isn’t trying to get their kid a job?
Besides, anyone who can read could look my name up on the internet if they read my articles, which I’m sure the coaches all do.
As Dad goes into way too much detail about my ancient training history and even some of my best plays, I clench and unclench my fingers at my side, trying not to twitch.
He used to do this all the time when I was younger, and I’d just stand there like a dutiful son.
A slab of meat, like cattle being auctioned off for the best price per pound.
I always appreciated how proud he was of me, but I can’t say I was ever comfortable not having a voice while he tried to get me into the best schools, and later, the best agent.
As Glen’s confused gaze shifts from him to me and back, I can’t take it anymore. The poor guy is probably trying to figure out where this is going.
“Dad…” I try to interject, angling my chin toward the press window that overlooks the field. “We’ve got to get back to the game.”
“Went all the way to the NFL,” he continues, unfazed. “Now he covers the games. You should see his articles. Hell, he probably knows the plays better than half the coaching staff.”
Jesus, I fucking can’t anymore. He’s trying to get me into coaching.
I know it. He’s been going on and on about it since the first time I brought him to a press box.
Does he think insulting the guy is the way to get my foot in the door?
It’s not like Glen’s in charge of hiring anyway. Why does he put me through this shit?
Gasps and sounds of horror erupt around us. I turn back toward the window, but all I can see is everyone standing on their feet, a few with their hands to their heads. Shit. What did I miss?
A guy with his arms up drops back into his seat, and I can see a still shot of the Panthers’ quarterback lying on the field, gripping his knee. Oh, man. Not Kinnion. He’s the best QB they’ve had in years.
I move to start back toward my seat when Dad’s hand grips my shoulder. “Chris, wait.”
“We’re working. We’ll talk later, okay?” I assure him even as I hope there’s some way I can avoid doing so.
Without waiting for an answer, I spin back around, but my foot snags on something.
Just as I spot Dad’s backpack strap hooked around my foot, I falter and go down.
I reach out to grab the end of the nearest workspace counter, but I’m already in motion, my weight causing too much momentum to stop the inevitable.
My ribs bash against the side of it. My knee hits the hard floor.
The descent of the stairs makes for an incredibly unkind downhill landing pad, the edge of one step hitting me square across the chest. The scratchy carpeting grates against my cheek as I skid.
“Oh, shit,” someone gasps a second after the thud sound my body makes.
“Who in the hell put that there?” I hear Glen ask as someone untangles Dad’s bag from my foot.
“Chris? You all right? Did you hurt your back?” Dad’s worried voice calls at my side, his hands pawing at my shoulders to try to right me, twisting my spine uncomfortably as he huffs.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, rolling over like a broken sea lion.
I feel hands under my arms as I try to get up. A covert glance around the room tells me Kinnion is momentarily forgotten since all eyes are on me—the awkward nobody whose father is vying to get him a job he doesn’t want and who just face planted.
I shake Dad off as I get to my feet, but he gives me a slap on the back. “See?” he calls out to Glen, chuckling. “He can still take a hit.”
A hit? I just tripped over my own feet in the middle of a crucial game play. My ankle is now throbbing because he left his freaking backpack in the middle of the damn aisle.
Glen gives me a wary look, but then his gaze flicks to the screen. His sense of duty clearly tells him that the game takes precedence over some washed-up old player and their obnoxious father.
“You good, Champ?” Dad murmurs that stupid nickname he gave me when I was a kid. “It’s fine. Don’t even worry about it. I think I can get him to go out for drinks with us after the game.”
His nonchalant confidence is an electric pulse to my system. I can’t tell whether I’m vibrating with anger or on the verge of a panic attack because of the dread coursing through me.
I shake my head before I can even get a word out. “No.”