Page 85 of The Underdog

Love, Gramps.

I was floored.

Beside myself.

I hardly had time to process the news before I had Mr. Cunningham put in a formal bid on my behalf for the team—one that I knew would surmount any prospective buyer.

Four hours later, I got the news.

Delaney Matthews—official owner of Crawfield Football Club.

I could’ve sworn I saw Mr. Cunningham smiling when I started to jump for joy. But my excitement was short-lived.

Granting myself ownership of the team was only the first of many steps in my plan. The next being the hardest, and now the most stagnant in my operation forward—Warren agreeing to take over.

“Can you believe we got almost 500,000 dollars more than we were expecting?!” Mom cries out, mouth full of mash, yet the aching smile still manages to break through her eyes.

“I can.” Dad stands up from the table with a wine glass in his hand and raises it into the air.

Oh no.

“What a great segway into our annual Thanksgiving thankful speeches, shall we?”

Please, no.

For as long as I can remember, every Thanksgiving, my family has initiated a round table sharing of what we’re “most thankful for.” One might say, what an appropriate gesture, given the season. I say it’s the subliminal way my family likes to one-up each other’s accomplishments year in and year out.

No one talks about health, happiness, and family.

They talk about investments, major deals, and how their stocks are through the roof.

It’s pitiful. Usually, I try to escape to the washroom when I sense it’s coming, but I suppose this year, my mind’s been preoccupied with more important matters.

“Anyone want to go first?” Dad scans the eyes that line the table, prompting me to dart mine to the floor. Opting for that overused tactic of if I don’t look at you, maybe you won’t see me.

“Anyone?” He probes.

Don’t pick me.

Don’t pick me.

“Delaney!” Dad’s voice inflates with joy as I deflate into my chair.

Shit.

“How about you go first?” he proposes, with a raise of his glass.

I awkwardly sink into my chair. “I’d rather not?—”

Mom nudges her arm into me softly at my rebuttal. “Stand up,” she instructs, forcing me to meet not only her unimpressed stare but everyone’s that now zeros in on me.

I release a long, drawn-out sigh, slowly pushing my way back as I place the napkin that once lined my lap onto the table just ahead.

With my rise, Dad takes a seat, seemingly pleased with himself. “So,” he begins. “Tell us all what you’re thankful for.”

Others might say it’s hard standing in front of your entire family with a lurking secret in the back of your mind, but for me, it’s easy.

My whole life, I’ve held back on my true feelings towards my family—my distaste for how they do things and the way they act.

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