Page 109 of These Secret Years

“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.

It’s been two weeks since I parted ways with Sullivan and we “broke up” or whatever. I’ve been getting off at least once a day, and I’m trying a new form of self-inflicted conversion therapy by only jerking off to straight porn. I get off on watching the guy a hundred percent of the time, but baby steps. Sullivan isn’t altogether wrong about the wisdom of having a girlfriend. I’ve been thinking about that, too. Do I think I’m gonna find one who’d be super cool with a very low to non-existent sex life and wants to be with the quarterback? I highly doubt it, but anything’s possible. Still, I don’t even have any friends who are girls.