Page 46 of Holding On

"Is it football? Does playing football make you happy?"

"It used to, but now...I don't really know."

"Because of your leg," she says, assuming that's the reason. "You're worried you might not be able to play anymore. But isn't it too soon to tell? I mean there's still a chance—"

"That's not it." I set my pizza down and gaze down at the table, my heart beating fast at the thought of admitting this. Because if I admit it, then what the fuck have I been doing with my life? Has it all been just a giant waste of time?

She's quiet, waiting for me to continue. But do I? Do I tell her how I feel? I barely know her. So why would I share something so personal? I won't even tell my own parents this. Or Jackson, one of my closest friends. Or Coach, who's been like a father to me since freshman year.

"It's not football." There. I said it. And shit, it felt good to finally admit that.

"Then why do you do it?"

"Because I'm good at it," I say, keeping my eyes on the table. "I'm really fucking good at it."

"But it doesn't make you happy."

"It used to. When I first starting playing, I loved it. But then..." I take a breath.

"Then what?"

"Then I got good at it. And people noticed. My dad noticed." I feel a lump forming in my throat and try to cough it away. I pick up my soda and gulp it down.

"Your dad's a sports agent, right?"

"Yeah. And sometimes I think..." This is hard to say but I do it anyway. "Sometimes I think he wants me more as a client than as a son."

My heart's pounding even harder. I can't believe I just admitted that. Out loud. To a girl I just met.

Her hand reaches over and lands on my forearm. "I'm sorry."

I just nod.

We sit in silence for a moment, then her hand slides back to her side of the table. "Parents can be assholes sometimes."

For some reason that makes me laugh. I look up and see her laughing too.

After our laughter subsides, I say, "Your dad didn't sound like an asshole."

"He wasn't. He was great. But my mom is an asshole. Or whatever term fits a person who abandons her family and cares only about herself."

This time, I'm the one who reaches over and puts my hand over hers. "I'm sorry."

She shrugs. "What are you going do? You can't change them. My mom will always be that way and it sounds like your dad's not going to change."

"No, definitely not. He lives for his job. It's what defines him. He only got married and had a kid because he thought it would advance his career. Make him look compassionate, stable. Someone parents of a young athlete headed for the pros would trust with their kids' career. And it worked. My dad's a huge success."

"But he's not a father."

"He pretends to be when other people are around. But close the door and I become just a bunch of dollar signs. An investment he made that he's waiting to collect on. He spent a lot of money getting me the best coaches, sending me to the top training camps, doing everything possible to make sure I was the best. And now it's time for me to pay him back by making the pros and giving him a cut of the profits."

"So growing up, football became less about having fun and more about pleasing your dad."

Goddamn, she actually gets it. It took me years to figure that out.

"It was the only time he paid attention to me," I say. "The only time he said anything positive to me."

"And now?"

---