Chapter 35
“Ah, fuck this,” Nate mutters as he’s trying to tape his fingers.
“Why don’t you let one of the trainers help with that?”
“Taping my own fingers shouldn’t be the fucking puzzle it is.” He tosses the tape to his side, standing.
I just shake my head. There’s no talking to Nate when he’s annoyed. Unless I’m five foot nothing and named Mia, he doesn’t listen to anyone.
“Bring it in, boys,” Chase announces as he starts walking into the center of the locker room.
Today’s game should be a good one. I’m ready for it. Seeing my father on the other hand is something I could do without, but I do love seeing my brother. Something I haven’t been able to do much of lately.
I hated the interview with Tess, but not as much as I thought I would.
To be fair, she asked two questions about him—and more specifically, the questions were about his stats.
I can talk about his stats all day long no problem, it’s when things turn more sentimental.
When a reporter thinks that talking about my father in the same breath as football is going to be touching or make me feel some kind of emotional nostalgia—when in reality, I can’t get the dry, boring answer out fast enough.
“This game is a big fucking opportunity today, boys. Let’s do what we know we’re capable of and make sure that, after today, the league hasn’t forgotten how fucking dangerous we are.
I don’t care about last week or next week.
Focus on now. Today. Come on.” Chase paces in the small circle we’ve created around him as he projects his voice.
I nod, hearing every word and knowing that this game means so fucking much to me. I already know my dad’s up in some suite waiting to see how his former team is going to pummel through my line and get to me.
Once I’m introduced and make my way out onto the field, I hear the roar of the fans and the sound of the announcer echoes through the stadium.
My teammates are all lined up as I trot to the sidelines, and I keep my head down as I make contact with my offensive coordinator.
We’ve talked about the game plan a lot this week, which isn’t anything out of the ordinary, but somehow I’ve kept feeling like I need the reminder.
Our walkthrough the other day had me pumped—fucking amped for this game—and I can’t explain how much of that is merely to shove things in my dad’s face.
Demi’s on the sidelines in the shaded area on the home side of the field.
It’s a beautiful day today too. Mid-seventies and kind of cloudy—a miracle mid-October.
Her hair is up in a ponytail with black shorts and a black blazer over a white top.
I smile at her and she gives me a quick head nod as she sees me.
I just want to get through this game and spend time with her. Our schedules haven’t synced up too much in the last week and I’m just missing her.
“I’ll get you, keep running,” one of Denver’s defensive linemen says as he runs up to me just after I’ve thrown the ball. He braces his hands on my forearms, careful not to push me down and get a costly penalty for his team.
“I’ll be here,” I say, smiling as he jogs away.
My dad was right about Denver’s defense being top notch. But I’m fucking proud to say so is my offensive line. The work these guys have been putting in at practice is translating to game days and I couldn’t be more thankful. I don’t think my body could handle another week of beatings.
“Let’s go have some more fun,” I say to the guys in the huddle as our offense takes the field to start the second half.
And I mean that, because today has been fun. I’ve been able to draw their defense offside twice in the last half, and it’s always fun to get a free play out of it.
“Fuck off with your hard count, Evans,” a Denver defensive player says to me as he lines up at the line of scrimmage.
“Why would I stop when they’re so effective?” I tease, smiling through my helmet as I get under center.
He grumbles, and I take a peek at the game clock. Thirteen seconds.
“Blue 32, One, one, one.” I pause my cadence. “Let’s go, let’s go,” I shout, dragging the last word out. “White eighty. Boulder, Boulder, hut.”
Cribley hikes me the ball, and I drop back quickly.
My eyes scan the field, lingering on the left, as Ford bolts down the sideline. For a tight end, he’s one fast son of a bitch.
I can feel pressure to my right and know that they attempted a blitz on defense.
Something my offensive line is doing well holding off with Nate helping to block, but I just need another second to make sure Ford has some separation from their safety.
He’s practically stride for stride with Ford, but I decide to sling it downfield anyway.
All the pressure up front stops as the ball soars toward Ford. He’s an easy thirty yards down the field, and I eagerly look on as Ford extends his hands, towering over the fast young safety and pulls the ball to his chest as he comes down with the catch.
The adrenaline when a play like that happens is instant. It’s a mood and morale booster all around, and the fans erupt in cheers when Ford stands up and starts celebrating.
“Fuck yeah!” I shout as I run toward him.
“Nice throw, baby!” he says when we meet in the end zone.
I glance up, wondering where in the stadium my dad is, only to be caught completely off guard by Demi’s reaction on the sidelines. It’s subtle, but behind a stack of papers I catch her thumbs-up and tip my head at her, smiling.
Who the fuck cares where my dad is.
Demi’s here.
The second half flies by, and thankfully we leave with the victory.
I’m happy to win every single time, but today it feels even sweeter as I step out of the locker room and head toward the exit.
I don’t anticipate seeing anyone as I’m leaving since I’m one of the final few out of the stadium, but low and behold, my father is standing outside the double doors chatting with one of the athletic trainers.
My brother, Landyn, is nowhere to be found, which only irritates me as seeing him would’ve been the only reason I would’ve accepted a run-in with my father.
I say good night to the trainer, but my father’s eyes meet mine, and I stop once I get to my truck. He no doubt weaseled his way into being allowed beyond the gate that’s usually only for players and staff.
In the parking lot to the left, I see a couple of the production crew packing up and notice Demi standing outside of her black SUV chatting with one of her colleagues. Her heels from earlier nowhere in sight, just slippers on the pavement, and I fucking love to see it.
“Liam.” My father’s stern voice brings my attention back to him. “What’d I tell you about their defense, huh?”
“They were solid,” I agree. “Thankfully, my guys were ready.”
He shoves both hands in his pockets, and I stare at his body language. Smug. Arrogant. And I pray that, even though we share similar features, I look nothing like the man in front of me.
“Where’s Landyn?” I ask.
“He’s going to get a table at Lambert’s.”
I nod, knowing he wouldn’t want any witnesses around when he starts insulting me at some point in this conversation.
“You’re welcome to join us. Might be a good idea if you do.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, you and I don’t get out much together.”
I scoff. “You mean we aren’t photographed together enough for your image?” I open my door, tossing my bag into the truck.
I’ve showered and changed, but I still feel sweaty as I stand here.
My jeans feel like they’re clinging to every piece of my legs and I want to take off my hat and whip it across the parking lot.
But it’s him. He’s making every fiber of my being feel like it’s irritated.
On fire. Like I’m an angry, upset teenager all over again.
“Watch your mouth, Liam. It’s in bad taste to start running it.”
I cock my head back with a laugh. I’ve learned over the years to take his verbal beatings, but something lately has me wanting to hit back.
“You thought I’d get slammed today. Hell, you were probably rooting for it.”
“I’d never root for my son to get taken down. You had a good game.” His compliment stuns me into silence until he keeps talking. “It proves how well I’ve taught you. Although if I had to guess your passer rating is around ninety-five.”
“One twenty-four point six.”
The voice is soft, but stern.
It’s full of pride and compassion.
We both turn toward the fence. I know he’s unable to fully see who it is, but I’d recognize that voice anywhere. I hear it in my head daily.
Demi is standing there, one hand propped on her hip, the other holding her phone. Slippers on her feet and her once perfectly bouncing ponytail now in a messier bun on the top of her head.
Her silhouette glows against the lights, brightening the parking lot around us.
“I’m sorry?” my dad questions, taking two steps before stopping.
“His passer rating,” she calls. “It’s not ninety-five. It’s one hundred and twenty-four point six.”
My chest swells with admiration for her.
“Huh.” An amused sound comes from him as he looks down at his feet and then back up at me.
He scoffs and shakes his head. I don’t get attaboys from him or good game compliments. So him taking a swing at my passer rating tonight comes as no shock, but the fact that he doesn’t keep digging in is a surprise.
He’s silent as he nods, paying no attention to Demi as if he doesn’t even remember someone is on the other side of the fence.
His stare is devilish, reminding me of being on the receiving end of it as a kid.
Next would typically come the lash out. Ignoring everything I did right and focusing on anything I did wrong.
“Your throws were high,” he finally says. “Guess it’s good you have tall receivers.”
And there it is.
I’m not giving him the satisfaction of a reply to that.
“I think it’s best if you leave, Dad.”
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he pivots and walks back toward the door, and I watch it close behind him as he heads back into the stadium.
And when I glance over my shoulder, Demi’s gone too.