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I shook my head. “No. Loved watching it. But I never wanted to play.” Why did my voice sound like that? Like answering this question was slicing up my insides.
Wisely, she dropped it.
That first week, time passed in a strange sort of way. We were getting along better but would often go long stretches without even seeing much of each other throughout the day. Every now and again—usually when we had dinner together or afterward—I caught her staring at me. When I did, she never yanked her eyes away. Never acted embarrassed. Sometimes her cheeks flushed pink, but fuck if she wasn’t so much braver than me.
She’d smile when I caught her. A tiny smile. Nothing more than the gentlest curve of her sweet lips, because in her view, she wasn’t doing anything wrong.
What must that be like?
When I stared at Zoe, I felt like a thief. Like I was stealing some little piece of her that didn’t belong to me, a piece that I’d hoard, that I’d hide away so no one could take it from me. I’d guard it like a big, snarling dragon who’d just gotten his golden egg.
And fuck if those little stolen glances didn’t have devastating consequences. It had been easier when she hated me, I realized. Because then I didn’t wonder.
I didn’t hope.
Hope was the most dangerous of emotions, something I didn’t have much experience with off the field. And even on the field, I didn’thopewe’d win a game. Didn’t hope we’d win a championship.
In that space, I’d simply work harder. Push my teammates to work harder too. Hope implied a lack of control. If you desperately wanted to reach the place, you likely couldn’t do much steering to get there.
Hope is the only thing stronger than fear,my mum used to say.
No matter what I did, I couldn’t tear those words out of my head. And one afternoon, as I drove home from the facilities, I did something I hadn’t done in far too long.
I picked up my phone and punched a button.
“Bloody hell, is that really you?”
I smiled. “Morning, Mum.”
“Nice to see you’re alive, son.”
“I texted you yesterday.”
She snorted. “What was that text again? Three entire words?”
I sighed, battling the sticky coat of shame that told me I was, in fact, a shit son.
She reminded me what I’d written:Maybe next year.
“We’d all love to see you, Liam. It’s been two years since you’ve been home, and I’ve half a mind to hop on a plane without telling you so I can come see your little girl.” She paused. “You still haven’t sent me another picture, by the way.”
“I sent you two a couple weeks ago because you wouldn’t stop pestering me about it,” I said. “And she’s not my little girl. I’m just ... helping.”
“She didn’t even have her eyes open, Liam. They were blurry, and you could hardly see half her face.” She clucked her tongue. “You’re rubbish at taking photos, and you know it.”
“Believe me, spend an afternoon with her and tell me how easy it is to get her to sit still.”
Mum went quiet, and fuck if that didn’t make me nervous.
“I’d love to meet her. See you with her,” she added. Then she emitted a soft laugh. “You with a little girl, Liam. I can’t tell you what my heart does thinking about it.”
As she said this, I pulled onto the street that led to the house. Words crawled up my throat, and it was almost impossible to ignore them. Before the accident, Chris had been the one who’d get them, who’d listen without judgment to all the thoughts churning through my head.
“She scares the absolute bloody hell out of me, Mum.”
“Oh, Liam.” She sighed. “Talk to me, darling.”
Everything about my life was in a surreal state of limbo, and I didn’t know how to change it. Things felt ... normal. They were anything but.
