KNIGHT
Chapter Twenty-Three
I’m alone in my parents’ kitchen. It’s just me and the coffee maker as I watch it drip.
At the house I share with the guys, we have one of those pod coffee machines, so using this big multi-cup one is a whole event, making me wait forever after I barely slept all night.
The call from Sullivan was so fucking upsetting, I slept in twenty minute increments until I finally gave up at dawn and came down here to caffeinate.
My dad’s hand on my back makes me cringe.
I shut my eyes, not sure I can handle him without coffee. Maybe he’ll be quiet. Maybe he’ll see I’m not in the mood to talk—not about anything, including the weather.
“You’re up early. Big plans today?”
“Didn’t sleep well.”
He leans against the counter, near the coffee maker and me. I have a choice now to look at him or the drip drip drip. He’s got his arms folded and looks casual enough in sweats and a long-sleeved t-shirt.
I’m an inch taller than my dad and about fifty pounds of muscle bigger these days, but he still manages to make me feel small. “Did I tell you I’m writing a book?” he asks.
I look at him for that because no. He didn’t. I shake my head. “What’s it about?”
“The only thing I know anything about. Football.”
“Is it like—an autobiography or something?”
“Something like that, but also, you know, lessons learned.”
I’m not sure I like where this is going, but I play along. “Does it have a title?”
“Not yet. But if you think of something catchy, let me know.”
“Are you just thinking about writing it, or are you actually writing it?”
“Ten chapters in.”
“Huh. Good for you.”
“It’s got me thinking…”
I sigh heavily, pointedly. Turning away from him, I check in with the coffee maker. Four cups down, four to go. The drip at this point is a steadier stream, which I find reassuring.
“The chapter I just wrote was about the draft.”
“Do you even know how to write? Are you doing this all by yourself?”
“There will be editors involved, but I’m not a bad writer, I don’t think. Your mom doesn’t think so.”
Being a picky reader myself, I could offer to take a look at it, but I think I’d rather have a cavity filled.
“Was that subject change on purpose?” he asks.
“I thought we were talking about your book.”
“I was talking about my draft.”
I give him a wary glance. “What about it?”
He’s all sunlit sincerity and kind eyes. “I hadn’t realized until I was writing about it how scared I was that week.”
“Hm.”
“At the time, obviously I had to project all this confidence, and I kind of had an idea about where I’d be going, but I remember thinking everything was totally out of my hands.
I couldn’t call the play. I couldn’t dodge or weave—I was on a collision course with a future that I had no idea what it would look like outside of what I’d seen on TV. It was terrifying.”
“But it was what you wanted, right? To play ball?”
“I didn’t know if I was gonna get to play ball. If I’d gone to New York, I would have been third string. I didn’t know how much I’d get passed around, ride the bench. I didn’t know if I’d gel with the team, or what the coaches would be like. A lot of unknowns.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you still planning to play out your eligibility before entering the draft?” he asks.
“It depends.”
“On what?”
Honestly—on what that motherfucker Blake does.
I can finish my degree in two more years, and I have a feeling he’ll bail on his last year of eligibility and go straight for the NFL.
It was something he mentioned a few times when we used to talk.
Going up against him is part of my new revenge fantasy, but I’m not about to try and explain all that to my dad.
“On whether I can wrap up my degree plan first.”
“I think that’s smart.”
“Of course you do,” I mutter.
“Hey,” he says admonishingly. “Don’t go there. You know I’ve only ever wanted you to have a strong backup plan. Shit happens. Injuries happen.”
“That’s what this is about?” I whip a glare his way. “Whether I get injured or not?” I gesture in the general direction of the stairs. “Have you met my O-line? The twins literally puke in the locker room after a game if they let anyone sack me. They’re ridiculous.”
He makes a displeased face. “Why do you get so touchy whenever I try to talk to you about your future?”
“Because I feel like you want me to quit the team and get a job in middle management. You weren’t like this with Kora and Kat.
You let them follow their dreams. You think Kat can’t get hurt with what she does?
If she rolls her ankle, she’s out for two weeks.
Are you breathing down her neck about getting a degree in something else? ”
His brow furrows like he’s never thought about it that way.
I’m glad I could shed some light on how much of a hypocrite he is when it comes to me.
Or maybe he just doesn’t think I’m good enough and doesn’t have the balls to say it.
“I’m just saying I’ve been where you are, and I do wish I’d finished college.
I do wish I’d had something in my life besides football.
When I look back, I think how much of what I have was just dumb fucking luck. ”
That’s bullshit. He was a great player, on and off the field. “But you don’t think I’ll get lucky.”
“No—that’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then why don’t you just say what you want to say.”
He winces, uncrossing his arms to run his hands through his dark hair before recrossing them. “I’m saying it’s a tough life, and if I’d had the chance to bail after five years, I might have taken it, but I couldn’t.”
Well, this is fucking new. “Why bail? Five years in, you were a starter. They built a whole team around you. You won the Super Bowl the next year.”
“And a few years later, I almost lost my wife.”
I shrug. “The way I heard it, that was your fault.”
“The way I remember it, I was crumbling under the pressure, and I made some really dumb fucking decisions that could have gotten me fired and divorced.”
“Well, I can’t wait to get to that chapter in the book.”
“Goddamnit, Knight. Why don’t you tell me what you think I’m trying to say.”
“I think you’re trying to say I can’t cut it in the NFL.”
His jaw locks, and he shakes his head stonily. “No.”
“No?”
“No—that’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what?”
“I wasn’t happy.”
The words are like a cymbal crashing between us.
He wasn’t happy? Not only does that not sound like him, but it’s in direct contradiction to everything he’s ever told me about his love for the game, his championship team, his ability to travel and have a family.
The foundation. He practically built an altar to the NFL in my head when I was eight years old, and I’ve been worshipping it ever since.
One thing I’ve learned in the last few years, though, is that he and I are two very different people.
“Do you think that means I can’t be because you weren’t?
I’m not scared of the pressure, Dad. I’m not scared of the draft either.
Am I scared I’ll get injured? Of course I am.
I’m not stupid, but I’m as careful as I can possibly be.
If I don’t get to play for a couple years, so fucking what? I’m twenty years old.”
“Why do you want this?” he asks, his voice raised, I’m guessing because mine is.
“Because it’s what I’ve always wanted. It’s what you and my uncles raised me to want. What else is there?”
“Knight—” He looks like he knows exactly what he wants to say but stops himself short with a snap of his mouth and a shake of his head. “None of us were as smart as you.”
“Then why are you treating me like an idiot who doesn’t know what to do with my life?”
“I’m not.” He sighs, sounding defeated.
The coffee is as close to done as I can let it get. I take the carafe off the burner and a few missed drops sizzle in the intense silence. I fill the mug I’ve had waiting the whole time and step away from the counter.
“Are you seeing anyone?” my dad asks.
The question pulls me up short. “Huh?”
“At school, maybe? Have you met anyone special?”
“What? Why?”
“Because there’s more to life than football.”
“No shit.”
“I just want you to be happy for Christ’s sake. Am I not allowed to want that for my son?”
I get a grip on my mug and on myself. “Dad, I love you, and I appreciate that you have your concerns, but for both our sakes and this relationship, I think you need to keep them to your fucking self.”
With that, I leave the kitchen to seethe in my bedroom in peace. The coffee sucks.
I manage to avoid my dad the rest of the day, but honestly, I think he’s avoiding me, too.
The twins and I spend most of the day in the basement where all the gym equipment is, conditioning.
They can tell I’m in a shit mood and act like goofballs to try and cheer me up.
It more or less works, and it gets my mind, for a while at least, off my dad and Sullivan.
I’m trying so fucking hard not to freak out about the way he sounded last night—some of the things he said.
Instead of the song, or along with it, I was way too tempted to text him the suicide prevention hotline number, which I did look up after I got off the phone with him.
I felt okay about how we ended things, though, and I told myself to trust him.
But I’m not a counselor, so what the fuck do I know? Besides him. I do know him.
I wanted to claw out my own heart at the sound of him crying like that. I have scratch marks on my chest from lightly attempting it, which does raise the guys’ eyebrows. I tell them I had a mosquito bite.
In the afternoon, after we’ve played as much three-man football as they can handle, I go up to my room to try for a nap. I already texted my mom, and she gave me an address to crash at tonight so I don’t have to have dinner with Dad, but I’m exhausted. I’m also annoyingly horny.