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I clenched my jaw so tight that I felt the ominous creak of my molars grinding together. The words didn’t even want to pass my lips because they were so ridiculous. “He ... he made me guardian of his kid. The daughter.” I blinked a few times, studying Coach’s reaction so hard that my eyes started to burn. “Me and Amie’s best friend.”
Coach rocked back slightly on his heels, eyes widening. “So you’re moving into their house or something? Or you’ll do shared custody?”
I scoffed. “I’m not father material, Coach. I have never wanted a family, and Chris knew that.” My voice got louder. Angrier. “He’s the only person who’severknown that, and he did something stupid like this. I can’t fucking figure out why, and I can’t ask him, because he’s fucking dead!”
My chest heaved, and I could hardly suck in oxygen fast enough. Like I’d just run a bloody marathon.
How ridiculous.
Coach narrowed his gaze and watched me. He didn’t say a word while I caught my breath, reined my temper back in. The roar in my ears dulled, and my pulse slowed to a manageable rhythm.
Still, he didn’t speak.
He just watched me. Studied me. I felt as if he’d pinned me to a corkboard like an insect specimen, trying to figure out what made me tick.
“I’m not doing it,” I said. “Told the friend I’d send her a check every month. She can use it for whatever Mira needs, but I’m not playing daddy to some little girl who deserves someone a helluva lot better than me for the job.”
His eyes sharpened. And still, he stayed silent.
I pointed a finger at him. “Stop it.”
His eyebrows rose slowly.
“Stop it right now,” I barked. “Quit fucking looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” he asked. So fucking patient.
The words could hardly come up my throat. They were dragged kicking and screaming the whole way, because it was the last thing I wanted to admit out loud.
But no matter how hard I tried to suppress them, they came up all the same.
“Like you’re disappointed in me,” I managed. The words tumbled out like I’d ground them to a bloody pulp.
There. I’d nailed it in one. Understanding filled his eyes, and I wanted to punch something. Not him, though, because he’d probably punch me right back, and I’d end up with a broken nose.
“You’re better than this, Liam,” he said. “You’re a better man than ignoring your friends’ wishes.”
I took a step forward. “I’m a better man by knowing what I’m not capable of, and filling some mythical father role is not in the cards for me.” My skin was crawling at the thought of it. Shrinking too tight around my frame, like the slightest jolt of energy would have me exploding in a messy burst.
The thought of trying to be Chris, of trying to do the things he did so effortlessly—playing dolls with her, drinking her imaginary tea, and showing her how to swing that big plastic bat in their backyard, even when she couldn’t aim for shit.
Damn it all to hell. My eyes were burning, and I couldn’t fucking make it go away.
“He was the best dad I’ve ever seen,” I told Coach. “He was patient and sweet and kind. He made her laugh all the fucking time, and I cannot be like that.” I hit my chest with a fist. “I do not have that inside me.”
“Don’t you?” he asked. “I’d argue differently.”
“Don’t turn this around and try to coach me through this. It has nothing to do with the team or me as a football player.”
Now it was his turn to lean in, and I fought the urge to back away from the intensity in his face. “Everything you do is a reflection of this team and the family we’ve built. You preach that more than anyone I know. It’s why they respect you so damn much in that locker room, Davies. Why Chris respected you so much.”
I swallowed, unable to hold his stare any longer.
“You’re better than this,” he repeated.
I took a deep breath and let it go. “No, Coach, I’m not.”
And I walked away before he could say another word.
