Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
James
I open the back door of the house to find something no man wants to ever see: my dad, standing in the middle of the dark kitchen in nothing but his briefs.
And as far as briefs go, they are brief .
“Dad! Where are your pants?”
Tank doesn’t seem nearly as startled by my presence as I am by his. He smirks, then takes a sip of water before answering. “It’s my party. I can wear pants if I want to.”
I groan at his twisted-up song reference. “No. That’s … no.”
“Fine. I’ll grab something so I don’t offend your delicate sensibilities.”
Chuckling, he disappears into the master bedroom. If possible, from the back, his briefs are even briefer. Is this what I have to look forward to? Growing older and my choice of underwear growing proportionally smaller?
I grab my own glass of water and drink like I’ve been running a marathon. Not just … running away, which is absolutely what I am doing. I squeeze my eyes closed and set the empty glass down, gripping the counter.
“I thought you were staying at the hotel,” Tank calls.
And I thought you’d be asleep. Thought, hoped, maybe even wished as I pulled in the driveway of the home where I grew up.
The house was dark, so it seemed like I had a good chance of sneaking in and going to bed.
The plan was to get up before Tank woke, heading back to the hotel like I’d never been here at all.
“Everything okay?” Tank calls, sounding closer.
Not even remotely.
I’m not the kind of guy who kisses and tells, and I most definitely do NOT want to tell my dad about what just happened with Winnie. He would, of course, be thrilled. Winnie seems to have won him over, and I know Dad has been ecstatic seeing Harper and now Pat getting married.
Even if I wanted to share, I don’t know what to say. There is zero processing happening in my scrambled egg of a brain. Only the memory of those few minutes in the elevator where the world, including all my worries, disappeared.
When my mouth met Winnie’s, when I had her in my arms, the connection was more than any kiss, more than anything physical I’ve had with a woman.
I loved formulas in chemistry, the same way I love finding the right combination when developing flavor profiles.
Words aren’t always my thing, but to put it in terms I understand, our kiss was like beer that’s been barrel-aged and complexly developed.
Not something new. Not a first . It was like working for months or years refining a recipe, letting it age and develop to perfection.
With Winnie it was instant, immediate, unquestionably amazing. We were perfectly melded flavors, an unexpected pairing.
We had something no one has from the start. It was … undeniably amazing.
Until I bolted like a big baby.
Tank returns in a worn shirt and joggers. “So, what happened?”
“There was an issue with the room. I’m going to crash here, if the offer is still open.”
“The offer will always be open.” Tank assesses me. He may be getting older, but his insight is still keen. “So, an issue with the room . I see.”
I nod.
He nods.
We both stand here. Nodding.
I’d like to play it cool, to be Mr. Casual, just popping in because I need a place to stay.
But my palms are sweating, my head is pounding, and I’m still nodding like I’m trying to break a record.
Weirdness or hesitation when it comes to a nosy family member is a drop of blood in the water near a bunch of hungry sharks.
And Tank’s grin is very sharklike when he finally stops nodding and smiles. “Bull.”
I could run. I could fight Tank and maybe even win. We’re evenly matched in terms of size and both have bum knees. I’ve got him in age, but he has me in experience.
But there is little fight left in me.
So, I let Tank steer me by the shoulder out to the back patio. He doesn’t turn on any lights, but ignites the gas fireplace, dragging two chairs closer to it.
“Do you need a sweatshirt?” he asks, but I shake my head. “Sit, son.”
I sit. But I can’t get comfortable in any position.
Not when I’m leaning back, sprawled with my legs out in front of me, not when I’m tensed and leaning forward, my hands falling between my spread knees.
I shift again, crossing one leg over the other, but my foot won’t be still, tapping out a fast rhythm in the air.
“You finally realized you like her.”
I freeze. “What?”
“Winnie. You finally caught up to the rest of us and realized you like her.”
I turn slowly to my father, who’s trying and failing to contain his smile. “ Finally ?”
“Since you met, the two of you’ve been pushing and pulling like a couple of magnets that can’t decide which way to point.”
I sneer, but his grin only widens. Then he laughs. Laughs.
I almost leave. I do. But when it comes to my family and especially with my father, there’s not really an escape. If I leave now, I’ll be dealing with him tomorrow. And the next day. He’s not going to let this go, so might as well get it over with now.
I regret this decision as he starts to speak.
“You should have seen me with your mother at the start. I was a fool for her.”
I become a statue. Maybe more of a gargoyle—completely made of stone, frozen where I’m hunched over with my elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
Bringing up Mom is like invoking some kind of special vow, a promise of total truth, of vulnerability. And when Tank does so now, when I’m already feeling shattered and exposed and all messed-up, I am powerless to move, even though what I want to do is hop on my bike and roar off.
I don’t remember Dad ever talking about dating Mom. It’s always been about the shared memories, the period of time after they were married and dove right into having a bunch of boys like ducks in a row, followed a little later by Harper.
I can’t even move my mouth to ask the thousand questions Tank’s statement invokes, so I simply wait. It hurts to talk about Mom, to hear about her, to acutely feel the loss every time she comes up. But I’m also desperate for a new story, something I don’t know about her.
Dad stares into the fire, the smile from moments ago paired with a look in his eyes that’s both happy and sad.
“My career was everything. I made a promise to myself playing college ball that I wouldn’t be derailed from my goals.
Not by partying. Not by lifestyle or money.
Not by a woman.” He chuckles. “Especially not by a jersey chaser.”
I almost fall out of my chair. “Mom was a jersey chaser?”
I can’t imagine my mother as the kind of woman all pro athletes are warned about.
There are different names—jersey chaser, cleat chaser, puck bunnies—same idea.
These are the women who show up near the private exits, in the restaurants and clubs players frequent, who manage to find the teams’ hotels while they’re traveling.
Hoping for a hookup or more with a player, any player.
For some, it’s the money. Some, the fame. Some hope for a baby so they’ll have a steady paycheck for years to come and a more permanent position, even if it doesn’t end up being marriage.
That’s not all women. But it is absolutely some women. My brothers and I have all had our run-ins, starting in college. Thankfully, because of Tank’s strong cautions, we’ve wisely avoided them.
But—MOM was one of these women? No.
“She definitely was not.” Tank shakes his head, and I can feel my shoulders relax.
“But I thought she was. One of her friends got some kind of fake press pass and got them past security and close to the locker room. Which wasn’t as hard to do back then.
Things were more lax, especially with college ball.
Bianca only came because she thought her friend had too much to drink at the game. ”
“Now, that sounds like Mom.”
Tank smiles as he continues. “She wanted to keep her friend from doing anything stupid. Like falling for a football player. Which is exactly what your mother did.”
I close my eyes, falling back into my chair, an image of Mom’s face before her sickness flashing before me. She was beautiful, so full of life.
And snark , I think suddenly, remembering her through new, adult eyes. I can hear her laughter and a sassy remark that has my dad chasing her through the house, tickling her until she couldn’t breathe.
For years, I’ve kept my memories of her tucked away, only pulling them out here and there, and only a little at a time. Keeping them, keeping her, keeping myself safe. Now, a flood of images and emotions wash over me. I’m seeing more than just the few easy stories I always keep near the surface.
I hear Mom and Dad arguing heatedly, then embracing with just as much passion. Mom could be sarcastic, though it was in a teasing way, never mean. Not cutting or cruel. She teased and needled and pushed Dad, but always in the best way.
Not unlike Winnie.
I swallow, and Dad continues, “The attraction between us was instant, but I refused to acknowledge it. I refused to give up my focus. To risk what I’d been working toward. Plus, I had the wrong impression from that first meeting. It took a while for her to wear me down.”
“She chased after you?”
“Not exactly.” Dad scoots his chair closer to the fire, rubbing his hands together. “She was a smart woman. She didn’t chase me so much as just became ubiquitous.”
“Use the word in a sentence, please.”
Dad grins. “As in, your mother became ubiquitous , appearing somehow everywhere I was, all the time. Not chasing me. Not flirting. Just … present. Always there, impossible to ignore, yet not showing interest either. There was eye contact, acknowledgement of my existence—but no smiling or flirting. It drove me wild. First, I was irritated. Then I was intrigued, and finally, I was irrationally desperate. I didn’t ask her out so much as I picked a fight. ”
“I can’t picture any of this.”
Reaching out, Dad grasps my hand. He’s all about touch—something he and my brothers both share more than Harper and me.
But I can’t remember the last time Dad held my hand.
Maybe when I was a kid? It’s both strange and comforting, and I want to pull away and squeeze him tighter. I choose the second.
“I think I’ve done a disservice to you, to all of you, by not talking about your mother enough.” His voice has a gruff edge, the kind that comes from holding back tears. I can hear it in his voice. “I’ve realized this even more, watching my children struggle as you fall in love.”
I stiffen, and Tank squeezes my hand tighter. My mouth is dry, my scalp tingly.
“I’m not … I don’t …”
The words won’t come. I’m not even sure what words are trying to form.
He’s talking about Harper. About Pat. Not about me.
Definitely not me.
“It’s okay, son.”
It is … and it isn’t.
The unspoken things hang between us like the chill in the air.
I am two different men underneath my skin, and they are at great odds.
One is calm and steady, telling me to settle into what Tank has shared, to let the memories and the emotions work their way through me, bringing things up to the surface where they can breathe, where they can stop being scary, being hidden.
The other man is in a panicked state of fight or flight. He wants to do both, simultaneously. Fighting while flighting. He’s having none of this. Not even a little. No memories. No emotions. No processing.
Run! Punch! Go! Flail! Fight!
Tank holds my hand hostage, and only this keeps me in my chair. I focus on just my breaths. Steady, steady. Slow. The gas fire flickers, casting a shifting glow over us. I keep my eyes on the flames, letting the light sear my eyes until I’m seeing nothing but black.
Tank clears his throat, and I startle. He gives my hand a last squeeze before reclining back in his chair. I can tell he wants to say more. I also can tell the moment he thinks better of it and stands, stretching.
“This old man needs sleep. Will you bring Winnie to family brunch Sunday morning?”
I nod before I can think better of it, before I can think about whether Winnie will even be speaking to me then.
Tank slaps me on the back before turning off the fire. “Good. Can you get yourself settled?”
I stand, shoving my hands into my pockets. My fingers brush against the seed Winnie gave me. It’s still there, despite my jeans going through the wash yesterday.
“I think I might actually go for a ride, clear my head.”
He frowns. “At this hour? I don’t like to think about you out there in the dark.”
Dad habits never fade, I guess, even when I’m no longer a kid. I pat his shoulder as I pass, heading for the garage where I’ve got my motorcycle stored along with an extra set of keys. “So, don’t think about it.”
Which is exactly what I plan to do while riding my favorite hills and curves and long stretches of road: not think at all.
But Tank’s voice makes me pause halfway through the garage. He stands in the doorway, and even in the dim light, I don’t miss the intensity on his face.
“Son, I know you may think you’re too old for advice—”
“Dad, I’ll wear a helmet. I’ll be safe.”
He shakes his head. “No. I mean, yes. Do that.” Tank pauses, and I realize before he speaks again that he’s going to go deep, maybe with something I’m really not ready to hear.
“But I was going to say you can’t control everything.
You have to take the risk. You have to try. Even if sometimes you lose.”
As my bike eats up mile after mile in the dark, his words play on repeat in my head: Try, risk, lose .
But are the first two worth the possibility of the third?