Page 60 of The Game We Played

“Tanner.” I can hear the disappointment in Dad’s voice.

I rub my neck. “What do you want?”

“Is this any way to speak to your father?”

I don’t speak to my father if I can help it. Not since I was drafted in the NFL and my father and mother threatened to disinherit me for my decision to play football instead of attend medical school.

“Cut the shit. What do you want?”

“Your mother and I think it’s time to discuss your future.”

“My future? What are you talking about?”

“When you’re finished playing a game for a living.”

I inhale a deep breath before I lash out at him. Lashing out will only result in him pushing harder for what he wants. Never mind what I want.

“I play football. It’s my career. My future is not open to discussion.”

“You can’t play football forever. You must understand the risks, considering you were at the fundraiser for chronic traumatic encephalopathy. Suffering multiple concussions is linked to CTE.”

“I’m aware.”

“And you have suffered multiple concussions.”

I hate to admit he’s right, so I lash out instead. “How would you know?”

He clears his throat. “You are my son. I pay attention.”

A slight spark of hope ignites in my stomach. Does he watch my games? Does he understand how hard I’ve worked to get where I am?

“You’ve watched me play?”

“Of course not. Don’t be obtuse.”

I hate myself for hoping. I should know better by now. My parents have always been completely frank with me. What they call honesty, I consider hurtful. But try explaining it to them. Their cold hearts don’t understand anything but money and reputation.

Shit. Reputation. Is this why Dad rang me? Because he’s heard rumors of what I did? Is my career over before I have the chance to win a Super Bowl ring?

I rub my hand over my forehead. “Get to the point, Dad.”

“I stated my point. I want to meet to discuss your future.”

“My future is football.”

“Don’t ignore reality. You can’t play football forever.”

“I’ve got a few more years left in me.”

“A few more years? Be realistic.”

There’s no sense in having this conversation. We’ll go round and round in circles until Dad hangs up on me or I blow up on him. I’m done with this vicious cycle.

“Bye, Dad.”

“Don’t you dare hang up on me.”

Too late. I did.