Page 118 of Holding On

Chapter Twenty-One

Ethan

Last night with Becca was awesome. Another night of great sex and then I held her in my arms and we slept until she had to leave for work this morning.

During the night we talked again, not long, but long enough for her to tell me that her mom gave her a check, basically trying to pay for Becca's forgiveness. It pissed me off, but sounded like something my parents would do. They use money to solve every problem. I'm so used to it I don't even question it anymore. So when Becca told me about that check, at first I didn't think it was a big deal, but to her it was. She doesn't want a check. She wants her mom back, but that's never going to happen so I told Becca to just cash the check and don't assign any emotion to it. Just let it be money and nothing more. Use it to pay bills. Save for school. Whatever. I told her to pretend it's just a bonus from work. Treat it as if she earned it. That way it's easier to spend.

My words seemed to help her, and after our talk, we drifted off to sleep. I woke up a few hours later with Becca wrapped around me, her arm draped over my chest, and all I could think was how much I like this girl. More than like. And then I started coming up with ways we could be together. Like maybe with this money from her mom, she could finish up school this year, then come with me wherever I end up next year. I know that's a ways off but I can't imagine being without her. She's become my closest friend. The person I confide in. The only person in the world who knows that I, Ethan Baxter, star quarterback, may not want to make football my career.

I still can't believe I told her that. It just shows how much I trust her, which is bad. Never trust anyone. That's what I've learned over the years. And yet I trusted Becca with something I never planned to tell anyone.

Why did I do that? What if she tells someone? And what if that person tells the media? I can't have people thinking I'm not committed to this. Football is all I have, and although I've spent the past couple months re-evaluating my life, imagining a future off the field, the truth is, that's the life I'm meant to have. It's all I know. My dad never even let me explore other options. I've lived and breathed football for as long as I can remember.

My phone rings. Speak of the devil.

"Hey," I answer.

"You need to learn how to answer the phone," my dad scolds. "What if it'd been a reporter calling? You need to sound professional."

I roll my eyes. "I saw it was you who was calling."

"It doesn't matter. You need to get in the habit of sounding professional."

Ignoring his lecture, I say, "What do you need?"

"I'm coming to see you. I'll be there in a half hour."

"What?" I sit up straight. "You're in town?"

"At the airport. I have to make some calls before I head over."

"Why are you here? And why didn't you tell me you were coming?"

"It was a last minute decision. There's a kid not far from you that's showing promise on the field. I want to meet him."

So this isn't about me. It's about whoever this kid is that my dad may want to represent someday. I'm just a quick detour on his way to see someone who actually might make my dad money. Until I'm healed and back on the field, my dad has no interest in me.

"You don't have to stop by," I tell him. "I'm sure you need to get to wherever this kid lives."

"Not until six. He's at football camp during the day. I'll see you soon." He hangs up.

I sigh, and head to the bathroom to shower, then realize it'll take forever to wrap up my cast to keep it dry, so I forget the shower and go wait in the living room.

An hour later, he shows up. He's always late. It's his way of letting me know his time is more important than mine.

"How's the leg?" he asks as he comes in the door, walking past me at a brisk pace. He's all business, his mind on this kid he's going to meet later. Before meeting a prospect, he's always on edge, not in a nervous way but in an eager-to-find-a-potential-money-maker way. Instead of one of his designer suits, he's wearing black dress pants with a shirt and tie. It's intentional. He needs to appear casual and down-to-earth, like the family of his potential client, who probably live in a small town, most likely a farming community. That's all that's around here, unless you drive for hours, in which case he would've flown into a different airport.

"So who's the kid?" I ask. "Is he a senior?"

"I'm not here to talk about him. I'm here to talk about you."

"What about me?"

"Your leg." He points to it. "Is it better yet?"

Seriously? He acts like a fractured leg is like the common cold. A few weeks and you're better.

"It's the same," I tell him as I sit on the couch. He remains standing, his eyes focused on my leg, as if staring at it will magically heal it.

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