Chapter 8
EIGHT
PARKER
After the noon home game, Sunday dinner at Dad’s house is pure chaos. The kind that only a giant family can create. Kids running through the kitchen. Highchairs pulled up to the table that Dad and I built so everyone could eat together.
There’s something about building furniture from scratch that’s soothing. Maybe it’s working with your hands or maybe it’s the focus it takes to cut the angles or the patience of sanding a piece down until it’s ready to be stained. Other than when I’m on the field or ice, carpentry calms me.
Greyson and Matt talk about the play calls. Matt lets Greyson change the plays at the line of scrimmage, but Matt calls the play initially. They’re in a discussion about why he changed a play that ended up not working. Without being able to see the film yet, Matt just wants to know what he saw.
Sutton has glasses lined up, pouring wine, while answering a phone call. “Sorry it’s family time. It can wait until tomorrow. I am now on DND.”
Witt says, “What’s DND?”
“Do not disturb.”
Paulina, Greyson and Sutton’s teenage daughter, who will more than likely be a professional tennis player, says, “That’s what mom says when she wants a little lovin’.”
“Paulina!”
“Mom, please. We all know that you and Dad have sex.”
I bark out a laugh, loving how teenagers just blurt things out.
Dad stands outside at the grill, flipping steaks like a king overlooking his kingdom. Our parents wanted us to grow up like every other kid, even though Dad is a college coach and my older brothers are famous. We never lived in town. Always working on the farm in addition to training and school.
Dad calls out to me. “P, bring me a platter.”
I moved out two years ago, but he hasn’t changed much since I lived here, except my old bedroom is the kids playroom. I grab his favorite platter with a big bass fish on it. Noelle hates it and used to always want to use the fancy hand painted one.
Sweat beads from the warm Texas air, spot Dad’s forehead as he arranges the meat on the platter.
“How’s it going with your performance coach?”
I shrug. “Okay, I guess.”
Damn, I guess I’m the topic of conversation for this family. No one’s pregnant. No one’s in the hospital. Everything has been smooth sailing until I got the yips and can’t catch a football.
He waits, reminding me of Annika, like I’ll tell myself eventually.
“Seems like a lot of money for someone to tell me to breathe and say trust. But if saying it helps me catch the ball, I’ll do it.”
Dad chuckles. He’s still fit. Works out every day. If it wasn’t for the crinkles around his eyes and his salt and pepper hair, people would think he’s in his thirties.
“Your mother used to do the same thing to me.”
I look over to him. “What?”
“When I was playing, she’d settle me down before big games.” Dad smiles, reliving the memory.
“How?”
“Lots of ways, rubbing my back, my temples, keeping me in a routine. She’d even calm me once I started coaching. Coaches get those same butterflies, even if we don’t admit it.” The recollection seems to warm his voice, but then he says, “You’re not your brothers, Parker.”
The words hit like a boxer punching me in the chest, unexpectedly. “So, I’m not as good as them.” My voice sounds like sandpaper scraping over my tongue.
He shifts his weight, turning toward me. Not angry. Not apologetic.
Steady.
“Son, you could be.”
I feel the muscles in my face tighten.
“But you took off years for hockey. You didn’t pick up a football for months at a time unless your fraternity was hosting a flag football event.”
I nod. He’s speaking the truth.
“Give yourself some grace. Maybe go do something else you love on your off day tomorrow.”
He grabs me into a hug. “I believe in you, Parker. You need to believe in yourself. And if this Anna can help then I’m all for it.”
“It’s Annika.”
“Oh, I thought… never mind.”
Back inside, the smell of mashed potatoes, roasted Brussels sprouts and barbeque fill the air. And Noelle made her famous honey biscuits. My favorite.
I grab three before anyone can stop me. We crowd around the big dining table, plates piled high. The conversation is loud. Each of us, trying to get in on different conversations.
Birdie, J.D.’s wife, is excited for her new album coming out next week. Between diaper changes, baby swim lessons, t-ball, and dance lessons with their children, she’s been writing songs and her fans can’t wait to hear them.
Sutton says, “Sing us the chorus of the one called, When You Think It’s Over.” The table hushes and she starts humming for a few seconds and then moves into the tender, meaningful lyrics.
It’s beautiful and everyone is mesmerized. And the last words “Let your eyes see what’s in front of you.”
Do I think my career is over? What could I see in front of me? Where would life take me?
She gets a round of applause. One richly deserved. Her name is Genevieve, but when J.D. met her he said, “She has the voice of a songbird,” and nicknamed her Birdie. It’s now her stage name and what we all call her. Paulina sometimes calls her by her real name, thinking she sounds sophisticated.
Paulina just turned sixteen and can’t quit gushing about her new car.
She passes her phone around for everyone to see her shiny used Camry.
She’s made money from her junior tournaments for a long time and even though Sutton and Greyson are filthy rich, you would hardly know it.
They adhere to the way my dad raised us.
Each kid buys their first car. It can’t be new if he’s paying the insurance.
It’s a used mid-size sedan, four doors with a v-6 engine. After she bought it, she had it repainted from dull gray to shiny red.
“Nice. Is it outside?” I ask.
“Not yet. The picture is from the detailing company. We pick it up tomorrow on Dad’s rest day,“ she says bursting with pride.
Rest day.
When you’re a professional athlete, most of the time Mondays are off days, but I wouldn’t call them rest days. Those days are dedicated to muscle recovery, doing rehab, saunas, ice baths—everything to get your body ready for the next week.
Maybe I should take Dad up on his suggestion after I do all of that. Do something other than football. Something else I love.
Sutton clears her throat and says, “Witt and I met Anna.”
“Why does everyone call her Anna? It’s Annika.”
“It’s how she’s listed in the computer.” Witt says, with all the enthusiasm of wet cardboard.
I shake my head. “Before you all ask. I’ve been to her office twice and she came to practice. Why the heck was she talking to my scrawny ass little brother?”
Witt shrugs, “I’m cuter. She’s out of your league in the IQ department. And the looks.”
“Bullshit.” It comes out of my mouth, quick and sharp, before he’s finished his sentence. “She’s nowhere near out of my league.”
Witt has an IQ way above the average person.
He’s been breaking codes, winning online games for money for over a decade and turned it into a multi-million dollar business.
But that’s not why the chatter at the table stops.
It stops because as far as I can remember, Witt has never called anyone cute—female or male.
Greyson cracks a laugh. “Witt, Parker has more girls wanting autographs than the rest of us combined.”
“That’s because the rest of you are old,” I tease, and I admit he’s right, at least to myself, but none of them are interesting. Not like…
Don’t even fucking think it.
After dinner, the parents put the kids to sleep in their rooms, which used to be our bedrooms, and we play a card game of Shang Hai Rum in the basement with the televisions hooked up to baby room monitors.
Granny taught us all how to play so it’s somewhat of a family tradition and requires concentration so there’s no talk of dropping passes or football of any kind.
Or Annika.