Page 16 of Sideline Play

Giving Roman a sickeningly artificial smile, I force out, “Love you, Ro-Boat.”

“Love you too, Squeaks,” he mutters, taking his plate and plopping into one of the chairs at our breakfast table.

Kissing the top of my head as he takes his own plate piled high with two sandwiches, a dozen and a half nuggets, a large order of fries, a salad, and three fruit cups balanced on top of it all, Dad puffs up, “And they said I had no business being a father at eighteen. Look how well you two turned out.”

“Yeah, as well-mannered and behaved as a pack of wild dogs,” Roman laughs. “I mean seriously, Dad. A shirt? Something? We’re eating.”

Taking my own seat, I tilt my head and chide, “He who lives in glass houses should not cast stones. Or do you not remember last weekend when you came down for breakfast in your briefs with a hickey on your neck?”

“Says the girl who wanders around in our jerseys without pants in the morning, ruining a time honored fantasy amongst athletes,” he retorts, stabbing a forkful of lettuce in my direction.

Posing with my hand under my chin, I say, “You’re welcome,” before popping a nugget drenched with sauce in my mouth.

Flicking a blueberry at me that our dad intercepts and eats, Roman asks, “So, how’s Crutches? He gonna be good? Or should I start getting used to Knox?”

Picking around the slices of strawberry, Dad answers, “You should be fuckin’ working on becoming seamless with Knox regardless, but yes. I talked with Jennings earlier. He’s taking Remington in for surgery tomorrow morning, and afterward, Scarlet will take him to Gatlinburg to begin his rehab.

“Princess, will you pass the sauce?” he interrupts, pushing the fruit cup away and opening up his sandwich to dump the condiment on top. “Thank you.”

Not missing a beat he returns to saying, “It’ll be ten weeks of recovery while Jennings is on paternity leave which puts Tate at…”

“Early to mid-December,” I supply, plucking one of the discarded strawberries from my dad’s bowl.

“Yep, December for a return to full training. It’ll be tight, but he’s in good health, and we know Scarlet will crack the whip if he’s not giving 110% every day.”

Frozen with his spicy chicken sandwich halfway to his mouth, Roman slowly clarifies, “Gatlinburg?”

Shrugging as I see the wheels beginning to turn in my brother’s head, I feign indifference and dismiss, “Yeah, he livesthere in the offseason and since he’s out until spring, it’s his offseason.”

“And we’re okay with this?” he asks our dad, completely ignoring me.

“Um, last I checked, I don’t need your permission, Roman.”

“She’s doing her job.”

“No, she’s doing someone else’s job. She’s in clinicals and not an actual trainer.”

Putting my hands on the table, I slowly ask, “Are you saying I’m not capable of rehabbing him?” Winnie comes beside my chair to put her head in my lap, a soft whine in her throat, urging me to soothe her and myself.

“Princess, that’s not what your brother means and you know it.”

“Then enlighten me, Dad. Whatexactlydoes he mean?”

Raising his hands in the air, Roman asks as if we’re all too dense, “Does no one else see a problem with this? She’s going tolivewith Remington. In fucking Gatlinburg. While we’re across the country for the final series and on the road for playoff games. Seriously? Am I the only one here seeing the whole picture?”

“Rehab for a professional athlete is a full time job, Ro. You know that. It’s not uncommon for trainers to live with clients or members of the team they work for post surgery,” Dad answers.

“But Squeaks is astudent.”

“So? I’m the best in the program. Who else would they trust with this? Besides, you heard Dad yesterday. Jennings was already going to have me working with Remington’s hip once the season was over. It’s the same thing.”

“Yeah and for that you would have been going to The Nest then coming home. Notlivingwith him. Therefore, not the same fucking thing!”

Patting Winnie’s head as she whines a bit louder, I steady my voice and ask, “Roman, what issue do you think we’re not seeing?”

“My issue is that no one, not you, Dad, or Jennings, seems to see that Tate is trying to get in your damn pants!”

“Would you be saying this if she were a man?” our dad asks, the silent role of mediator he dons when we argue melting away.

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