Page 92 of The Longshot

I’m absolutely shaking inside and out while Gary stands tall and proud with both of our duffle bags in either of his hands.

“It’s nice to meet you both.” Gary’s as polite as can be despite my parent’s blatant and judgmental stares.

I’ve only ever introduced one boy to my parents before, and that one was a big mistake. But now it’s like the bar has been set. They’ve become attached to said boy, and with every blink of their eye, it's as if they’re wishing this was Simon, not Gary.

“It’s nice to meet you, too.” Dad breaks the awkward silence as he shakes Gary’s hand with some umph. “Come on in, son.”

Gary nods, stepping inside as he embraces my mum in for a hug before planting a kiss on her cheek.

“I’ve got supper made.” My mum points back towards the kitchen, rubbing her hands along her apron thereafter. “It’s uh—actually been ready for a while now.” She looks to the floor. “Given that you did say that you’d be here at half past…”

“Mum.” I shoot her a look, grinding my teeth.

“That’s my fault.” Gary takes the blame. “I was low on petrol and had to fill up. Sorry about that.” He places a careful hand on my upper back—an action my parent's eyes are immediately drawn towards. “But hey, food is always better when it’s reheated, am I right?”

I can’t help but nervously smile at Gary’s innate ability to always look on the bright side of things, prompting my mum to purse her lips with a faint nod.

“I suppose.”

There’s a quiet as we all linger by the front door, waiting for what to do next before Dad gestures for us all to convene in the dining room. “Let’s eat this reheated food. Shall we?”

Gary gulps before he nods, following in closely behind my mum and dad as we make our way into the dining room. As we do, Gary’s eyes gravitate towards the ceiling as he becomes dazed by the chandelier.

“Do you like it?” Dad asks, pulling up a chair at the head of the table and taking a seat.

“It’s insane.” Gary reaches up to touch it but I pull his hand back as if he’s about to dip it into hot lava. That chandelier is my dad’s prized possession. He inherited it from his great grandfather and let’s just say, no one gets to touch it but him… no one.

“Sorry,” Gary teasingly mouths as he raises his hand in defense before pulling out my chair and tucking me in.

“Your home is stunning, Mr. Windsor,” Gary opts to call him. “Truly, it’s magnificent. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Well, thank you, Gary,” Dad’s receptive to the compliment as he looks around, a sense of pride in his eyes. “Sarah and I have spent a lot of time making it our own over the years. We only wanted the best for our girls, you know. The Hull version of Windsor Castle, isn’t that right, Chelsie?” He winks.

“Yes, Dad.” I nod in agreement while routinely placing my handkerchief across my lap, guiding Gary to do the same.

“Speaking of providing, what exactly do you do, Gary?” Dad’s so forward with his question that I can’t help but flash him a look to say, “Really?”

We literally only just sat down.

“I uh—play football, sir.” Gary meticulously adjusts the neck of his dress shirt—the one I told him that he didn’t need to wear, but he’d insisted on anyway.

I’ll admit it looks great, but since he put it on, he hasn’t stopped fussing with it. I think Gary’s only comfortable in one article of clothing: his football uniform.

“Not your hobby, son.” Dad rests his forearms against the table. “I mean your job. What do you do for work?”

“Football is my job, sir, not a hobby,” Gary’s direct as he speaks. “I play professionally.”

“Professionally? Is that right?” Mum cuts Gary’s spiel short as she walks into the room, serving us each a plate before she securely plants herself beside my dad and directly across from Gary. “Simon used to play football,” she naturally slips him into conversation. “Didn’t he, Mark?”

I’m forced to bite down on the inside of my cheek to suppress the anger that I can feel pulsating inside of me. I thought this dinner was for them to make peace with me for the last time they involved Simon? Not reignite the flame.

As if he has a direct line inside of my mind, Gary places his hand on my inner thigh, soothingly rubbing along my bare skin to remind me that I’m okay… that he’s here.

“Yeah, but not professional.” Dad comes to his senses and brushes aside my mum’s remark. “Gary here plays in the EPL. Don’t you, lad?”

There’s a stint of awkward silence before Gary clears his throat and straightens his spine. “Not quite the EPL yet, Mr. Windsor,” he clarifies. “But, I’m working my way up to it. That’s the goal. Hopefully soon.”

“Oh?” Dad cocks a thoughtful brow. “Well, what team do you play for then?”

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