Chapter 9 Harlan
Harlan
“Elvis Presley is in the house!” I shout as I crank up the volume to “Hound Dog,” and Abby lifts her chin to howl at the moon.
I clap, keeping rhythm as my six-year-old uses a wooden spoon as a microphone, crooning along with Elvis’s tune.
She breaks off to grab a rubber spatula from the flour-and-cherry-covered kitchen counter. “You need a mic too, Daddy,” she says, thrusting it at me.
I take the instrument and we slide into our best imitation of The King as we wait for the pie to bake.
We finish our daddy-daughter duet as the timer bleats, and Abby points wildly to the oven. “It’s ready! We can eat it now.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You know the drill. You’ve only made, what, ten million pies with me? We have to let it cool.”
“Ten million and fifty!” She bats her lashes. “But I was just hoping maybe this time.”
I ruffle her curly brown hair, chuckling at her attempt to make me bend.
“Hope is a good thing, little bear,” I tell her as I turn off the timer.
“But pies don’t cool with hope. They cool with time.
Also, you know this pie isn’t for us.” I grab a Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer potholder, open the oven door, and slide out the cherry pie.
I set it on a rack on the counter, then use my hands to direct the scent of sweet and tart fresh fruit and crumbly crust our way.
“It smells so good,” Abby says, bouncing on her toes as she inhales.
“’Course it does. We made it. We rock. And your mom is going to love it.”
Abby arches a mischievous brow. “What if I eat it all first?”
I bend to drop a kiss onto her nose. “Then you’re going to have the biggest bellyache in all of San Francisco,” I tell her, then rub her tummy.
“Fine. I’ll wait. But I hope she lets me have some tonight,” she says with a touch of worry. “I really, really hope so.”
Ah, the dilemmas of youth.
I worry whether this city’s NFL team will offer me a contract next season and if I’ll even want it, whether my kid is making friends at school, and whether she’ll want to find a new gymnastics class, since she decided to quit the one she was taking.
She worries about pie.
It’s a fair trade-off.
An hour later, we’re ready to go. I grab a pie box from the stash I keep, pop in the tasty treat, and tell Abby to find her overnight bag.
It’s bowling night with the guys, so I’m dropping Abby at her mom’s house. I don’t always bring pies, but Danielle and her hubs dig them, so I try to do so as often as I can. Also, it does not suck making pies with my little girl. Win-win.
Abby snags her panda backpack from the hallway and slings it onto both shoulders. “And now I am officially ready.”
I swing open the door. “Panda is on the back, so it’s go time.”
On the sidewalk, Abby reaches for my hand. I take her little one in mine and we head toward California Street.
She looks up at me, concern in her hazel eyes. “Are you sure you have to go to training camp next week?”
Okay, not all her worries are of the sugar variety. This kid misses me when I’m out of town, and I sure as hell miss her.
I throw her a them’s-the-breaks smile. “I do. The Renegades won’t let me play if I don’t show up. But I’ll talk to you every day.”
“I know. I just miss you when you’re gone,” she says, matter-of-factly as we near the corner.
“I miss you too, little bear. Every day. And that’s why I always call you from training camp, and away games, and every night when I’m on the road,” I say.
She sighs, a little forlorn. “And I always can’t wait for your calls.”
Time to cheer her up. Remind her that we have a regular routine. That I’m around a helluva lot. Half and half—that’s how the time split works with her mom. “Did you know I’ve been calling you from every single training camp since you were born? Even when you were only eight months old?”
Her expression turns intensely serious. “I remember that.”
I bark out a laugh as we turn the corner. “You do not remember that. No one remembers stuff from when they were one. Or two, or three, or four, or five, for that matter.”
“Well, I’m six,” she says, like I don’t know her age.
Like I need the reminder of how seismically my life changed that November day more than six years ago.
When she was born, this little bundle of joy and chatter and brightness upended my days and nights, and I learned in an instant what it means to love someone so much it hurts. It hurts so good to love like this.
“I am well aware that you’re six and sassy. But still, you don’t remember me FaceTiming you from the Paleolithic era.”
She crinkles her nose. “What’s pale licks?”
“A long time ago. When dinosaurs roamed Earth.”
“Daddy!” she shouts in a fit of laughter. “I’m not that old, and you’re not either.”
“Oh, I’m pretty old. In football years, I’m definitely a dinosaur. But not a T. rex, because they can’t do anything with their teeny arms,” I say, flapping my left arm like it’s as useful as a big dino’s, while holding the pie high in my right hand like it’s a football.
Abby’s eyes widen to pizza size. “Be careful!”
I thrust the box even farther away with my outstretched arm. “Did you or did you not see my one-handed, game-winning catch in the Super Bowl this year? My second Super Bowl win, Miss I Remember Everything.”
But she’s lasered in on the pie, and only the pie. Back to sugar worry. “I just really don’t want you to drop the pie.”
“And I really didn’t want to drop Armstrong’s thirty-three-yard pass,” I say, taking her back to that beautiful day in February. “So I didn’t.” I put her out of her misery, hauling the pie box back to my chest. “Better?”
A long sigh of relief is her answer. “I’ve been waiting all day for that cherry pie. But it feels like I’ve been waiting a year.”
“I know what you mean, but it’ll be okay. Promise,” I say. Because kid time is eternity.
We weave past a goateed guy pushing a sleeping toddler in a jogging stroller.
The guy stops. “Taylor? Harlan Taylor?”
“That’s me,” I say, hoping he’s a fan, not a hater. We have our share of both in this city. Any team does, and you never know who you’re going to run into.
But the dad breaks into a wide grin, pressing his hands together in a prayer. “Thank you for that catch. But please re-sign this year. If we lose you to another team, I will die.”
He’s exaggerating, of course. But he sure does sound like he’d be devastated if I went elsewhere in free agency.
But it’s not up to me. I have no idea if the Renegades will re-up with an ex-running-back-turned-receiver who’s nearing the end of his playing days.
I’m thirty-six, already on the long end of a long career.
“I’ll do my best to make sure you live,” I tell the fan as I offer my free palm to high-five. He smacks back, then continues on his way.
Abby and I do the same.
“It’s weird that you’re famous,” she says, reaching for my hand and swinging ours together again.
I scoff. “I’m not famous.”
“Please, Daddy. Don’t be silly. You’re sooooo famous. All the kids at school say so.”
“I’m only kind of famous. And only locally. And only with sports fans.”
“That’s still famous, then,” she insists, and I can tell I won’t win this battle with her, so I relent.
“Fine. You win.”
“But you don’t seem famous when we’re at home,” Abby points out.
“Good. That’s how it should be.”
Soon, we turn onto Danielle’s block and head up the front steps to her Victorian home.
Abby pushes the doorbell, but Danielle’s already swinging open the red door, letting her in.
“Hey, cutie-pie,” she says, scooping up our daughter and peppering her cheek with kisses. Then to me, she says, “Hey, you.”
“Hi, Danielle. I brought you your favorite pie.”
“Cherry!” She makes grabby hands. “You’re a godsend. Jamie and I have friends coming over tonight, and I was going to rush out to the bakery and grab a cake.”
“There is never a need for cake when you have me around,” I say, then make my way into her home.
Her husband looks up from the dining table where he’s drawing a pig, or maybe a duck, or possibly a cat, with their two-year-old.
“Hi, Harlan!” the little kid shouts.
Jamie lifts a hand. “How’s it going? You ready for your last season?”
My mind snags on the word last. Is he trying to trick me into confirming the rumors?
Love the dude, but I swear he’s got a bet with his buds he’ll be the first to reveal what I do at the end of the season.
Hell, I’d like someone to reveal it to me.
Danielle comes to the rescue, setting a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “Honey, you’re a broken record. Maybe find a new topic.”
Jamie shoots her a confused look, his gray eyes narrowing. “Like what, sweetheart? The new surgical technique for reattaching a retina? And football is starting soon. Football is the topic.”
Danielle tosses her hands in the air. “How about the latest restaurants in Hayes Valley? Or maybe interesting tech news? Perhaps baseball?”
“Hmm, the new Thai place or whether the city’s star receiver is going to stay or go… What’s more interesting?”
Danielle shrugs helplessly. “Football fans. What can you do?”
Jamie smiles and stands, gesturing to the kitchen and the deck beyond. “You want a beverage, Harlan? Soda? Bubbly water? Beer? We’re grilling later if you want to join us.” He lowers his voice to a stage whisper. “We can talk about baseball. How about those Dragons?”
“They look good this season. Maybe they’ll finally win a World Series,” I say, happy to shift to another sport.
“Home run!” the two-year-old shouts.
“And a bubbly water would be great,” I add.
“I’ll grab it,” Abby calls as she sweeps into the dining room, clutching an early reader book from among the many lying around. “And I like football better, Daddy.”
As the girl joins her mother in the kitchen, Danielle pats Abby’s head. “I wonder why.”
After Abby returns with a raspberry LaCroix, I catch up with Jamie, chatting about the Dragons’ chances of making it to the Fall Classic. When we’ve shot the breeze for thirty minutes, I stretch my arms and tell them I need to take off.
Danielle walks me to the door, motioning for Abby to stay behind.
“Thanks again for the pie, and for the school check,” she says softly.
“Of course,” I say, but I kind of can’t believe she’s thanking me for paying for Abby’s school. What else would I do?
“I appreciate it,” she adds.
“Danielle. C’mon. It’s a given,” I say.
Her expression softens. “I don’t take it for granted.”
“You never have, and I never thought you would,” I say, since friendly is how we do things.
I met Danielle at the University of Washington.
We dated our freshman year of college, but then she transferred to a school with a better pre-med program.
I ran into her again the night I won my first Super Bowl.
She was at a post-game party, and we hit it off again.
I gave her a hard time about her preferring the San Francisco Hawks over the San Francisco Renegades.
Then I gave her a hard time between the sheets, and we said our goodbyes in the morning.
A few weeks later, she learned she was pregnant.
A Super Bowl baby.
The Southern gentleman in me reared his head and asked Danielle if she wanted me to marry her.
I’d never heard a woman laugh so hard in my life.
“We’re not in love. That was a one-night stand. No, sweetie. I just want to know if you’re interested in helping raise this baby. It’s hard being a doctor and a mom.”
Was I interested?
Absolutely.
I wasn’t going to be a deadbeat dad.
“Of course I am,” I said.
“Are you sure? A lot of athletes aren’t.”
“I’m not a lot of athletes.” Sure, I’d been the good-time guy. I was still a helluva ladies’ man back then.
But I also damn well knew what family was, thanks to my mom and the way she looked after all of us after my dad walked out.
I was not going to do that.
So, we agreed to raise Abby together as friends, as co-parents, and as equals.
A few years later, she met Jamie, a fellow surgeon, and married him. Abby and I went to their wedding together.
Now, in the doorway, I give Danielle a serious look. “It’s not only my job to take care of her. It’s my pleasure,” I tell her. “And you, if you need it.”
Danielle lets out a sigh of relief. “I never want to assume.”
“You’re a sweetheart, even if you prefer the Hawks. Glad you’re her mom,” I say, then I cup my hand over my mouth and call to Abby that I’m leaving.
She runs over and leaps into my arms, clutching me like a koala. “Bye, Daddy.”
“I’ll miss you, little bear. But I’ll call you tomorrow night.”
“Just like you did when I was one.” Abby stares up at me, her hazel eyes big and serious. “And I remember you sang Dolly Parton to me as a lullaby.”
Holy shit.
Does my kid have a weird-ass memory from being an infant? How is that possible?
I narrow my eyes in suspicion. “Wait…”
Abby cracks up, swatting my shoulder. “Got you! Mommy told me you did that.”
“Dolly’s the best,” Danielle adds.
“That she is,” I agree, and then I tap Abby’s nose. “Let me know if you want to do gymnastics somewhere else in the fall.”
“I’m still thinking about it.”
“Take your time,” I say gently. But I know how much she loved it, so I hope she’ll want to go again.
She looks away briefly, then nods, resolute. “I will. And I’ll let you know. Promise.”
“Love you, little bear.”
“Love you too.”
I say goodbye, humming “Nine to Five” as I make my way across the city to a bowling alley to meet my buds.
For the next few hours, I have a blast throwing strikes and gutter balls alike with my friends until, one by one, they peel off.
As the clock ticks closer to ten, it’s just Cooper—my quarterback—and me, and we chat as we make our way out, passing the bar inside the bowling alley where my gaze catches on a woman in a formal white dress.
That’s odd enough to rate a look, but something about her feels achingly familiar.
Possibilities nag at me all the way to the exit, then won’t let me leave.
At the door, I tell Cooper I’ll see him at training camp. “I swore I saw someone who looked familiar. I’ll catch you later. I need to go check on something.”
He lifts his chin in a goodbye. “See you at camp.”
I turn around, the blond profile triggering a memory that tugs me back to the bar.
Could it be?
Is that…her?
A tingle of excitement coasts over my skin at the mere possibility.
When I reach the bar, I take a deep breath and look in, then I shake my head in amazement.
The woman in white is none other than someone who, seven years ago, I desperately wanted to see again.
And she’s wearing a wedding dress as she orders another shot of tequila.