Page 2 of Unforgettable Player

“Fine,” she huffs.

“There’s something in there for Dad, Scout, and Eli, too,” I add.

Mom carries the light gift bag while I lug the rest of my gear up the driveway. Dad steps onto the porch just as I’m getting to the house. He’s wearing his loafers and his favorite linen shirt. He looks exactly the same as the last time I saw him, before I fucked everything up. They both do. My nerves settle as I remind myself that these people are my anchor. Everything does not have to change at once. Maybe I haven’t fucked everything up.

“Need any help with those bags, bud?” Dad asks.

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks, Dad.”

I put my bags in my room, not hanging around long enough to get nostalgic. I don’t plan on staying here beyond the six weeks ‘mental health break’ my boss gave me. Just long enough to figure my shit out without the pressure of paying rent.

When I get back downstairs, Mom accosts me with a bag of cookies.

“Pistachio,” she says. “From Giuseppina’s.”

I hesitate just long enough for her smile to slip. My sales job in Palo Alto has meant lots of travel, meaning lots of bad airplane food and midnight room service burgers. Going from training as an elite college athlete to eating like a traveling salesman has already done a number on my body. The last thing I need when I look in the mirror is another reminder of all the ways I’ve failed.

Before Mom can ask me what’s wrong, I stuff my hand into the bag and grab a cookie. Her face lights up again.

“What are your plans this summer?” Dad asks, stirring a wooden spoon in whatever’s simmering on the stove. It gives off the familiar tomato and oregano scent of Dad’s signature spaghetti sauce.

“I promised Coach Garvin I’d help with the summer camp kids, but aside from that, probably just catching up with some friends.”

Dad nods. There’s an awkward pause during which I can’t look at either of them. I chew the cookie and swallow the dry lump it’s turned into in my mouth.

Sinking onto a stool at the counter, Mom lets out a long sigh. “Don’t worry about all that now,” she says. “I know you’ll end up doing something great. You always do.”

The heat on the back of my neck intensifies, because that isn’t true and she knows it. But she keeps smiling, fiddling with the corner of the cookie bag as she speaks. “It’s just nice to have you home for a change. Tell us about Palo Alto. How are things there?”

My heart sinks, but I force a smile and start talking.

When my draft team dropped me and I remained buried in the fourth line at Harvard with no chance to show what I can do, my agent suggested I try out for a minor league team. After a heated disagreement, we parted ways.

Then I was put on academic suspension after failing some classes. I took the first good job I could find—California, working in sales for a start-up tech company.

I’m good at sales. I know how to bullshit with the best of them and I can turn a megawatt smile on at the drop of a hat, no matter how shit I’m actually feeling. But despite the occasional high I’d get after making a big sale, it never made me feel the way hockey did. No matter how much I tell myself that hockey is no longer in my future, it doesn’t make it any easier to let go.

I don’t realize I’ve been zoning out until Mom says my name.

“Connor, honey, everything okay?”

“Yeah.” I run a hand over my face, catching on the stubble I haven’t shaved since yesterday.

“You sure?” She reaches out and smooths down a stray tuft of my hair. The gesture is so natural, it makes me feel like a little kid again. I have to force myself not to nuzzle into her hand. I’m a grown man, for fuck’s sake, I can’t go running back to Mommy every time something goes wrong. I have to fix my own shit.

“I’m fine,” I say, clearing my throat and moving my head out of her reach. “Just tired from the drive.”

“We said we’d get you a plane ticket,” Dad calls from the stove.

“I like driving.” The last thing I wanted was to ask them for anything else. Not after I threw away what they already gave me.

I can feel Mom watching me with concern.

“I’m gonna go wash up before dinner.” I take a deep breath as soon as I leave the room, tell myself to man the fuck up.

There’s a text from Brad waiting when I get out of the shower, asking if I want to hang out.

I’m messing around with the basketball outside the house when he shows up.