Page 13 of Tight End

That’s what dads do. Not mine, of course, but the good ones.

Now I need to figure out what something like that looks like with my career. It’s going to be an adjustment, that’s for sure. Football’s been my whole life for as long as I can remember. I’ve been lucky. Thanks to the sperm my dad donated, the sport has always come easy for me, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t worked hard and made sacrifices to get where I am today.

I’ve busted my ass day and night to be the best I can be, or at least better than my piece-of-shit father and my other half brother, Anders Kingsley, who doesn’t know I exist.

My brother had the last name, the legacy. He was the one who had a loving and supportive dad in his corner every step of his career.

And fuck.

Every interview, every article splashed across the papers about his perfect family, was a knife twisting in my gut.

I didn’t have any goddamned legacy, and the only last name I had was my own. My career is built on my own blood, sweat, and tears, not handed down to me by some asshole with virile swimmers and a wandering dick.

Since I signed my first contract, I’ve done nothing but strive to be better than the two of them, proving to myself and the world I can do this without his support. I have my mom, my teammates, and my half brother Dean.

And now I have a son.

A son who will know his father, who won’t suffer like I did. Who won’t spend countless sleepless nights wondering what he did wrong, wondering if he’s unlovable, and hoping that if he was good enough, if he tried a little harder, his dad would love him.

For years I lived that life, and I can promise that’s not the legacy I’m passing to my son. I won’t.

I take a deep breath and turn off my car, running my hands around the steering wheel and staring up at that ranch-style house I bought my mom with my first big paycheck. The two-story home I grew up in was nearly impossible for her to navigate, and I felt better knowing she wasn’t still living in the househebought her to keep her quiet.

The sun dips below the horizon, and the streetlight above me turns on, illuminating my car in pale-yellow light.

It’s getting late, but she’s still up. If she wasn’t, the lights in her living room would be off.

Still, maybe I should just go home and spend the night staring at my ceiling, because there’s no way I’ll be able to sleep until I know for sure if I’m Oliver’s dad.

The page Oliver gave me is sitting on the passenger seat, and I glance over at it, running my fingers over the brightlycolored dinosaur, tracing the rays of color that are very much outside the lines.

Being a parent is a full-time responsibility.

Can I do it? Can I be the father Oliver needs?

I may not be ready to be a father, but it’s a responsibility I won’t take lightly. And fuck me—I feel like I’ve missed so much.

I wasn’t there for June’s entire pregnancy. I missed his birth. I missed the first three years of his life, and while he has so many years ahead of him, I’ll never be able to get those moments back. How old was he when he started crawling? When he walked for the first time? Was he fussy when his first tooth came in? What made him smile for the first time? Laugh? What was his first word? First toy?

While not being there wasn’t by choice, I’ve got some time to make up for, and I ... I need some advice because I’m terrified.

I slip out of my car and make my way up my mom’s front porch, noting the loud creak in the top step, which will need to be fixed.

I don’t expect you to immediately jump into Oliver’s life. This is a big decision, and I want you to be sure before you commit to being his dad. I need you to be sure.

With a heavy sigh, I rest my head against my mom’s bright-red front door, my hands braced against the frame. Fuck. I really should turn around and go the fuck home, wallow in self-doubt, and take the paternity test first thing in the morning so it can tell me what I already know—that Oliver is mine.

Not only do I believe June, but after seeing Oliver, there’s no denying what’s clear as day.

But still, without confirmation, should I be spilling everything to my mom?

She has enough on her plate without adding my insecurities on top of all the health issues she’s dealing with.

The door opens suddenly, and if it weren’t for my grip on the doorframe, I’d have fallen face-first into the small foyer.

“Were you planning on coming in for dessert or hanging out on my porch all night?” She places a finger on my chin and forces me to meet her gaze. Her smirk falls from her face, and she squints as she studies me, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth getting deeper the more she frowns. “Come on. Let’s get some pie in you, and then you can tell me what’s got you so upset.”

“Who says I’m upset?” I push away from the doorframe and give her the biggest fake smile I can muster. “I’m perfectly fine.”

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