Page 159 of These Secret Years

The mood downstairs is more somber than tragic today. My aunt and her friend are already up, brewing coffee, baking an egg casserole, toasting bread. The twins and Deandre must still be sleeping. My uncles are out back, sifting leaves out of the pool, and for a second, I mistake Jake for my dad. They look alike in the way all the Winters men do—in the way I do, too. It’s another gut punch, and I turn away from the window, heading for the living room.

My mom is there, lying on the sofa, a blanket over her, but she’s not sleeping. She’s scrolling her phone.

“Hi,” I say.

She makes room for me to sit, drawing her knees closer to her chest. She looks disheveled with her hair in a wonky ponytail and no makeup. “How’d you sleep?” she asks.

“Okay. Did you sleep here?”

“No. Viv made it in late last night, and we used one of the guest rooms.”

Viv is my mom’s sister. Another aunt. “I guess it’s a good thing you guys never downsized.”

Her chin trembles, one tear slipping over her eyelid to streak her face. “I guess so.”

I cover my face with both hands. “I’m sorry.”

I hear the rustle of her legs on the couch, the blanket, and then she’s beside me with one arm around my back and her other hand on my forearm. “This is going to be hard,” she says. “But we’re all gonna be okay. I promise, Knight. Wherever he is, I’m sure he’s screaming mad that this is how he left us.”

I sob, and it’s a broken sounding thing. A wail with a complete collapse of my shoulders. Then I suck it up again and wipe my face, dropping my arms.

“It doesn’t make sense,” I say.

She rubs my back in long, soothing strokes. “No. It doesn’t. And it’s beyond fucking unfair. But I swear to God, if anybody had a good life, it was that man. Your dad. Well-off. Adored. Loved so, so much by so much family. He even has grandkids.”

“He and I were always fighting. The last time I saw him, I didn’t even let him give me a hug.”

She runs a hand soothingly through my hair. “Fighting and having a disagreement aren’t the same thing. You two had so many good years before the last couple. You were close, and he loved you so much. More than that, he deeply understood what was driving you. He always understood that. How could he not? You two were always so alike.”

Talking about my father in the past tense is not something I want to get used to. I hate it.

“He loved you so much, Knight,” she says again. “And maybe sometimes that felt like too much.”

The tears, angry and bitter ones, are streaming again. My nose is running, and I wipe that with my sleeve, but there’s no point trying to make the tears stop. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before. I haven’t lost a grandparent or even a coach. Nothing I’ve ever been through in my life has prepared me for how massive and earth shattering this grief is.

“Why didn’t he want me to play?” I ask weakly.

“Oh, honey, he did.”

“Not according to him. He thought I should be studying fucking accounting or something, like playing football is a huge waste of my time. Did he think I wasn’t good enough?”

“Anyone with eyes can see you’re good enough. When you won the Rose Bowl, he even told me he thought you were better than him. Your uncles think you are, too.”

“Then what?” What were all those fights about if not that?

“He was just worried. The same way I worry.” Her eyes search mine, and I search hers back, not understanding, still—this constant pushing me in some other direction—away from the only dream I ever had.

“Why?” I finally ask.

She gulps down a swallow. “Because the NFL isn’t always the kindest place.”

I frown. “Neither is the SEC.”

“We just…we weren’t sure you could be happy there, and all a parent wants for their children is for them to be happy.”

“Why the hell wouldn’t I be?” I ask, nearing yet another breaking point.

“Knight,” she whispers, and her eyes seem to plead with me now.