Page 17 of Tutored By the Smart Girl

Pat has been a house mother here, according to her, for far too long but we know she loves it. In her mid-fifties, Pat usuallyspends Thursday through Sunday nights with us in her own room on the first floor. She shows up a few other nights a week and hangs out.

“Anything else, Rush?” She closes the door on the small refrigerator in my room that I use for snacks and drinks. “Looks like you have plenty of water bottles. Just text if you need anything.”

“Thanks, Pat.”

I drag my backpack up to me and dig through it for my math book and completed homework.

My phone buzzes and after ignoring him for days, I’m positive who it is without even looking.

“Morning, Dad.”

“Morning. I just got home from eighteen holes. How was practice this morning?”

“Yeah about?—”

“You talk to coach about the things I texted you? I think it would really help your game, son.”

“Not yet. I?—”

“Since you’re on a bye week, what’s coach got you all doing today?”

I wince. Not at the pain of my ankle though. “I had a little mishap on the field yesterday. I’m icing my ankle today. Keeping it elevated.”

“What the hell happened?” Dad lets out a sigh. “What’s the trainer say?”

“Just stay off it this weekend. Keep it iced and elevated today. Make sure?—”

“You sure they’re taking good care of you? Do I need to make some calls? I could make some calls to?—”

“Please don’t make any calls. Yes, they’re taking good care of me.”

The rest of the conversation with my father was mostly my assurance to him that I would get adequate playing time, that the ankle wasn’t too serious, and an injury could ruin my chances to go pro. And just because the Rebels is his home team doesn’t mean I couldn’t enter the transfer portal and find a team who could guarantee more playing time.

His exact words. Guarantee more playing time.

I wish I could just be honest with him— tell him some days I feel insecure about my ability and I’m not sure about going pro. What if I don’t make it? He might be embarrassed if I fail. If I become a physical therapist or an athletic trainer, he may never get over it if I didn’t try to go pro. He’ll be convinced I blew my big chance.

I end the call and take a deep breath.

There’s a tap on my door. “Come in.”

The door squeaks and Adison peeks her head in. “Hey.”

“Come on in.”

Her eyebrows draw together. “Everything okay?” She steps into my room and closes the door. “You look upset.”

I roll my eyes. “Just my dad. It’s always stressful talking to him.”

She sits on the edge of my bed next to me. The vanilla and strawberry scent she’s wearing swims around my head and practically makes me dizzy.

“You don’t get along?” She puts her hand on my knee.

“It’s not that. Since he used to play football here, he always feels the need to get involved in everything I’m doing. When it comes to football anyway.”

“Not always helpful?”

I rub the back of my neck. “Definitely not.”

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