Chapter Twenty-Seven
I sprint up the porch steps next door, my finger finding the doorbell like muscle memory. I hope it’s not too early.
When I left the house, Dad was still sleeping off last night’s karaoke session. Chú had found the duet partner of his dreams in him, and around midnight, Parker texted, begging me to come drag Dad home.
It’s a little past nine now, but even if Chú is also out of commission, I suspect C? has been bustling around the kitchen since seven, and both Tran brothers are notoriously early risers.
“Dani!” True to form, Nathan answers the door like a human conduit of the sun’s energy. “Good morning!”
“Morning, Nathan.” My voice is a little gravelly in comparison, and I clear my throat. “Are your parents up yet?”
“Dad’s still asleep. Don’t think he’ll be up until lunch. Mom went on a grocery run.” The closest Asian supermarket is nearly an hour’s drive out of town. C? must’ve left bright and early to get dibs on the freshest produce.
I nod, even as I try to peek over his shoulder.
Nathan chuckles. “I know we’re all getting used to this again, but you don’t have to hide why you’re really here. Want me to grab Parker?”
“Yes, please.” I smile at him. “Oh, and if you don’t mind, could I also borrow a football?”
Nathan tilts his head as he considers the request, but he doesn’t ask questions. “Sure. Do you want to come in and wait?”
“I’m okay out here.”
In the chill of late-November air, I zip my windbreaker up to my chin so it conceals what’s left of my hickey.
Tightening my ponytail, I squint at my reflection in the screen door.
I can barely make out my silhouette, but I check myself once, twice, three times, just to be sure I didn’t forget to wipe the toothpaste from my mouth.
The door swings open again, and Parker appears at the threshold.
“Hi.”
There’s a silly flutter in my stomach. “Hi.”
He beams at me. “You wore your hair up. It looks nice.”
“Thank you,” I say, my voice small. “Are you free?”
“I was going to go for a run.” He looks me up and down. “Why do you look like you’re about to do the same?”
I spend most mornings in Silverpine poring over a book with a cup of coffee, entirely sedentary. But an idea had struck me the night before, after I pulled the (literal) plug on the karaoke party and headed home for bed.
To be honest, it had been weighing on me since Parker drove us back from the gorge.
I wanted to show him how much I appreciated him opening up to me, but I was still having trouble giving voice to my thoughts.
Then I remembered our old heart-to-hearts in his backyard, and I had my answer.
But since we didn’t have much time left in Silverpine, I knew I had to act quickly.
Nathan returns just in time to hand me the final piece of my plan. He reaches past Parker to offer me the football. “Here you go.”
The younger Tran brother watches the hand-off, his mouth twisting. “Something is off about this picture.”
“Let’s play catch,” I propose.
His brows raise in what I hope is pleasant surprise. “You want to play football?”
“Nothing fancy.”
“Oh, fun. Can I join?” Nathan nudges his brother in his side. “We could run a few pass plays. It’s been a while.”
Parker plucks the football from my hands.
For one silent moment, he lets his fingers glide over the leather, his forehead scrunching.
A sudden panic creeps over me. Have I dug up some unresolved trauma?
Was this a bad idea? But as he lines his fingers with the laces, a smile passes over his lips, and I finally let out a breath.
“Sure,” he says. “Why not?”
The local park is a short walk away, and we make it there in under ten minutes.
Douglas firs tower above, casting shade over the winding walking paths, and the grass is lush and green, invigorated by the steady Oregon drizzle.
Not much has changed since the last time I was here with these two—except they weren’t over six feet tall back then.
I take a slow look around, and I can almost reimagine the bike rides, playground mishaps, and long-ago picnics.
This is where Parker first taught me how to throw a football.
We appear to be the only visitors at this time of day, aside from the odd jogger dipping in and out of the park. It’s not hard for us to find a spot with an appropriate amount of clearance in the vast green space.
Nathan and Parker are stretching next to me, and I get the vague impression that I’ve ended up on the set of a sports apparel ad.
If a billboard of the brothers went up in Times Square tomorrow, I wouldn’t even question it.
I start to stretch my arms, pretending to know what I’m doing.
Parker’s attention is on me, and it triggers my self-consciousness.
I’m suddenly very mindful that a former Division I football player is watching me pretend I know a thing or two about athleticism.
I feel as if I binged the Food Network for a day, and now I have the task of serving a dish to the Iron Chefs.
Nathan lobs the ball to Parker, who frowns slightly, unhappy with his catch. “You’re right. It’s been a while.”
“You think you’re rusty? I’m about to gravely disappoint you.
” I back away from them, stopping a few feet out.
Then I hold up my hands, forming a triangle.
Parker throws me an easy one with little speed.
I make the connection—mostly thanks to his aim—but the ball still bounces off my fingertips and falls to the grass.
“A fumble in the red zone!” Nathan shouts dramatically, palms on his head. “And with that, Dani Tsai just cost us the Super Bowl!”
“Shut up, Nathan!”
I pick up the ball as Parker crosses his arms. “Did you forget what I taught you?”
“I know, I know. Soft hands, like catching an egg,” I recite from memory.
Drawing from that same vault of football knowledge, I align my fingers on the thread in a way that feels familiar. I think I remember how to do this. Feet apart, knees bent—I follow through with some force in my throw.
Parker catches it smoothly, a little over his right shoulder. “Not bad.”
For someone who’s supposedly out of practice, the former quarterback falls into an effortless rhythm in no time. We spread out as the passes go deeper. Nathan and Parker are getting faster and a little flashier with their throws, and I start to feel bad for disrupting their tempo.
With an effortless windup and release, Parker launches the ball into another breathtaking arc, ripping through the air with a perfectly polished spin. I catch it low in the bucket I make with my arms.
“Nice catch.” Parker gives me a high five when I jog up to him.
“Hey, I need a refresher,” I say. “I can’t seem to throw a spiral like before.”
There’s a flicker in his eyes, and then his face brightens with a smile that revives the decade-old image of a boy who once dominated the gridiron. He’s in his element, thriving off of his love for the game. If this is the payoff for my little plan, then it was totally worth it.
“I got you, Dani.”
But Nathan trots over first, passing his brother on the way. He inspects my right hand on the ball and shakes his head, then steps behind me and guides my fingers along the laces.
“You want to leave a gap between your palm and the ball. It should roll off your fingers, and the spiral comes from your index when you release.”
“Like this?”
“Yeah, that’s good. Now point your left foot at your target and put your weight on the other.”
I try to recenter myself as Nathan pokes at me like I’m a mannequin he’s setting up in a store display. “God, your posture is terrible.”
He squeezes my arms in an effort to straighten me, when Parker raises his voice.
“Nathan.” It startles us both. “I can help her.”
We stare at him, not moving.
“Show of hands: Who here played football at a D1 college?”
I glance behind me, and I swear Nathan’s holding back a laugh. Amusement twitches on his lips, and he nods, stepping aside. “I’ll go long. Dani, you can use me as a target.”
Parker surveys me. His first order of business is readjusting the football in my hand, though it doesn’t look too different from where Nathan had placed it. Then he gets into place in the spot his brother had just occupied.
“Come here,” he says, his voice low, and I scoot a little closer.
I swallow. “You know that Nathan is watching, right?”
“He’s already halfway down the field and blind without his glasses.”
A big, sturdy hand lands on my lower back; the other flattens on my stomach.
I instinctively suck in. He makes modifications to my form, straightening my posture and nudging my legs shoulder-width apart.
His touch is firm but gentle. I’m hoping he doesn’t notice my skyrocketing temperature as his hand slides from my waist to my hip, shifting weight onto my right foot.
“Pull your throwing hand back to your ear, elbow cocked. Off hand close to your body, like this.”
His arms come from behind, directing my hold on the ball. We repeat the motion until I become more fluid with the rotation of my shoulder, the swing at release. He’s so close that his breath is hot against my neck.
“Good. Now when you throw, bring your power from your back foot to the front. Let go above your head, snapping your wrist like I taught you. Remember, pressure comes from your forefinger.”
Okay, I got this. I position myself for the windup just as Parker steps back to give me space.
I draw back my arm, then accelerate forward.
Just as he taught me, I put my legs into the throw, and my fingers roll off the laces with a sharp flick of my wrist. The arc isn’t very pretty and not nearly as clean as Parker’s, but it’s not terrible.
Nathan breaks into a run and catches the football, tucking it cleanly into his body.
I jump up and down, my heart soaring. “Did you see that? I threw a spiral! It totally spun!”