Page 76 of The Fed Sex Man

Jo

I reachedfor the door knob and paused. I was so excited about my new relationship status that I feared I’d make a complete fool of myself in front of my parents. Batting my eyes at Tyson, hanging on his every word, and saying things that made no sense whatsoever while my parents looked at me like I was a lunatic was not the way I wanted to spend the evening. Knowing me, it was more than likely the way it would go.

After inhaling an inaudible breath of courage, I looked at Tyson. “Ready?”

“Almost.” He kissed me gently, leaned away, and brushed the wrinkles from his shirt. “I am now.”

I pushed against the handle and peered inside. “We’re here.”

My father stood just inside the door. He was obviously either prepared to open it, or he was spying on us.

Spying was my guess.

“John Watson.” He extended his hand toward Tyson. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Tyson. I’m uhhm, Tyson.” Tyson babbled. “Tyson Neese.” He shook my father’s hand. “Are you the John Watson, by chance?”

“Depends.” My father chuckled. “You’re not the tax collector, are you?”

“John Watson who threw for fourteen thousand and thirty-three career yards?” Tyson asked. “John Watson who was named Scholastic Coach’s All-American in 1970? John Watson who gave up a career of football to work on his father’s farm? John Watson who inspired me to…”

Tyson wiped his brow, and then looked my father over as if sizing him up. “You are, aren’t you? You’re John Watson.”

Apparently, Tyson knew more of my father’s football accolades than I did. Filled with a smug pride, my heart swelled at the thought of Tyson knowing my father.

Knowing and admiring him.

My father’s eyes darted to my mother, and then to me. Fearing admitting who he was would lead to contradicting my request of no football talk, his eyes locked on mine and paused.

I nodded in approval, hoping the discussion that followed didn’t lead to something that upset Tyson.

I’d never seen my father blush, but his face was as red as a ruby. He gave Tyson a fake look of confusion and raised his index finger to his lip as if pondering his response. “Fourteen thousand and thirty-three yards rings a distant bell. If memory serves me correctly, I took my parent’s farm over when I graduated high school. Hell, you might be standin’ on that sacred ground as we speak.” He put his hands on his hips and smiled. “I suppose I’m the John Watson, yes.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Sir,” Tyson said. “You were an inspiration to my father, and to me.”

My father patted him on the shoulder. “Pleasure to meet you, Tyson. Did you bring your appetite?”

Tyson nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good,” my father said, winking at me as he spoke. “Because we’re having my favorite meal.”

“I can’t wait.” Tyson gleamed. “I still can’t believe it’s you. You inspired my father to be a quarterback, and he inspired me with tales of your high school days. My father loved the sport, but never made it past second string. I made a pretty good showing in passing yards when I was in school. Game’s much different today than it was when you played, though. Back then, it was a rushing man’s game. Today, it’s all about winning.”

“Couldn’t agree with you more.” My father looked at my mother. “How close are we to eatin’?”

“It’s ready now.”

My father patted Tyson’s shoulder. “We’ve only got two dinner table rules. No feedin’ the dog table scraps, and no discussing sports.”

Feeding the dog was a rule I was aware of. Abolishing discussions of sports was something I wished would have happened long before Tyson came for dinner. I gave my father a lingering look. “I keep forgetting that second rule. You know how I love talking about football.”

With his arm draped over Tyson’s shoulder, he turned toward my mother. “This is my wife, Jackie.”

Tyson extended his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, Ma’am.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, Tyson.”

“So, it’s ready?” my father asked.