Page 2 of A Quarterback for Christmas

Clomp. Clomp. Clomp.

Soft steps make their way to me. Too soft to be my father’s, probably because he’s too busy calling an ambulance.

“Are you okay?” An easy-going voice plays in my ear as I lie on the grass, bathing in embarrassment. His voice is the only thing keeping me grounded, and when I turn onto my back, a football rolls next to me, kissing my cheek.

“I'm sorry. I was using the playground fence as my crossbar. And you ran so fast; I didn't see you coming.”

Crossbar? He was playing football.Football?!I shouldn't be surprised that, yet again, the only thing standing in the way of my dad noticing me is football. I can only dream of one day living in a place where it doesn't exist, and my dad has no choice but to love me as much as he loves that stupid sport.

When I look up at the perpetrator, ready to yell, I lose my breath.

Butterscotch hair, brown eyes, and an awkward wince glance down at me with sorrow.

Has Cupid struck me with his arrow?

He's the most beautiful boy I've ever seen.

I'm smitten.

The world has stopped.

Justin Bieber could walk by, and I wouldn't care because every crush that came before this boy ceased to exist.

“Nice throw.” My dad's voice cuts through the cartoon love music playing in my head like a sledgehammer through brick. He slaps my beau on his back and looks at him with appreciation. The same appreciationI'vebeen looking for. “Your technique is impressive. Do you play football?”

The pain from the fall completely drains from my body, replaced with the pain of my father finding a way to somehow ignore me, yet again.

The boy glances between my father and me before answering. “Only when I'm out here, and no one else is around.” He scuffs his old shoes against the grass, not making eye contact with my dad.

“You know, you throw like a young Joe Montana.”

The boy scratches his head, looking bashful, and I want to crawl into the rabbit hole I avoided earlier and die. My dad showed more concern about the boy's throw than my potential injury.

I sit up, rubbing my head furiously because I already feel a lump growing there.

“Daddy,” I whine, hoping he will finally acknowledge me.

Dad gives me a double take before falling to his knees to help me up. As I stand on shaky legs, I spit out the excess dirt and wipe the blades of grass off my face. My shorts and t-shirt are covered in mud, and I'm certain the burning sensation running down my elbows is because I've grazed them, but my dad doesn't check for any injuries because he's too busy staring at the butterscotch dream in front of him. “Aw, you're okay, Belly.” He smiles, waving off my pain as nothing more than a minor inconvenience to his impromptu scouting mission.

“Belly,” the boy whispers, barely audible, but I hear it because something about his voice calms me.

“Too bad you fell. You nearly beat your best time,” my dad says without remorse, before turning back to the boy. “So, I'm guessing you don't play for a team?”

I turn on my heel with an eye roll. Typical. Our first day out together in months, and I have been completely pushed into the background by football. I don't bother looking back at their interaction; I already know we’ll be here for the next few hours while my dad tries to recruit this boy for my high school team.

Trudging into the playground, I sigh as I sit on the swings. Maybe if I make the track team and show some athletic ability, he'll finally take an interest in me. I just wish I didn't play second fiddle to football all the time.

Once a coach, always a coach, I guess.

I watch my foot against the black tarmac as I swing from side to side, waiting for this to end. It's still early in the morning, so the only voices I can hear are my dad's and the boy's. My dad is selling the benefits of my soon-to-be high school and talking about how they could use an arm like his on the team, even offering to help him apply for a scholarship.

All because he threw a ball accurately at his daughter's head.

Leaning my forehead against the swing chain, I can feel the spongy fluid from the bump under my skin press against the cool metal.

Great.

So not only have I lost my father's attention, but I also now have a bump the size of a small Tesla growing on my head.

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