Page 222 of The Sweetest Return

“It felt the same.”

“I know it did.”

He had been there for all of it. Surgeries. Rehab. Days when I came home angry because pain had stripped away everything I thought made me myself. Pops had never been sentimental, but he had been there. Driving me to treatment. Sitting in hospital rooms. Leaving food close enough for me to eat once I stopped being pissed at the world.

“You think your body is the only way a man proves he belongs around football?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

I didn't answer.

That was enough.

The break-room door opened before he could press harder.

Mama came in carrying two glasses of tea and a plate of pound cake with the casual expression of a woman who had definitely been listening from somewhere nearby and didn't intend to confess.

“Don't drink that coffee,” she told me. “It has been disrespecting people all morning.”

Pops frowned. “Ain't nothing wrong with my coffee.”

“There is everything wrong with it.”

“It wakes a man up.”

“It threatens him.”

I took the tea.

Mama kissed my forehead and touched my cheek.

“You look tired, baby.”

“I’m all right.”

“That wasn't what I said.”

Pops huffed. “See? Everybody in this family answers around questions.”

“Because you ask them like a deposition.”

“I ask clear questions.”

“You interrogate.”

They stared at each other before Mama touched his shoulder on the way out.

“Don't keep him too long.” Then she looked at me. “And Andre?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Whatever you decide, make sure fear does not get a vote it did not earn.”

She left.

I stared toward the door.