Page 15 of Forging Legacy

“You really want to know?” Wyatt leans forward toward me like he really wants to tell me about this, like he needs someone to listen.

“Sure. I’m a pretty good problem solver.”

He laughs. “Yeah, that’s true. Well. Like I said, my bio dad is a piece of shit. My step-dad has always wanted to adopt me, but dirtbag wouldn’t relinquish his parental rights. It was a whole fucking thing my parents dealt with for years.” His face shifts, like the memories make him uncomfortable. “I couldn’t get a passport. You need both parents to sign for that to leave the country. So, my whole family couldn’t travel unless they left me at home. Which, to their credit, they never once complained about where I could hear them.” He puffs out a breath. “But my parents are both heavily involved with the national soccer teams, and Dad competed in the Olympics a few times…Mom coaches all over Europe. They always had to leave me and my sister home with family.”

“You have a sister?” I’m not sure why this is what I latch onto in that whole heartbreaking story, but the rest of it is so foreign to me. A family that competes internationally in sports? Forget about it. My dad can’t even hold down a job.

Wyatt nods. “Birdie. Yeah. She’s an elite soccer player, too. Anyway, the second I turned 18 we got the passport sorted out. But I wanted to change my name, to be like the rest of my family.” He bites his lip, scooting his chair closer, like someone might be listening to him. “I went to try and do it myself, and they make you run an ad in the newspaper that you’re changing your name and offer a number if someone objects.”

“What? That’s nuts.” I never heard of anything like that. “My mom didn’t have to do that when she married my dad…not that that lasted longer than a few seconds.”

Wyatt waves a hand. “If you’re married or divorced, it’s easy. But otherwise, they think you’re trying to avoid credit card debt, so you have to go through hoops. I didn’t hoop properly, and I wound up poking the bear.”

I frown. “Your bio-father, you mean?”

He nods. “Yeah.” He groans. “It’s so dumb. I called him thinking–I don't know. That we’d be buddies or something? I wanted to tip him off that I was changing my name.”

I shrug. “That doesn’t sound dumb. I always hoped my dad would be my buddy, but I gave up trusting that he’d ever show up when he said he was going to.”

Wyatt drags a hand through his hair. “Yeah, well, once Nick caught wind of what was happening, he started threatening me.”

A chill runs through me, and I hug my arms to my chest. There’s something about the look in Wyatt’s eye: this big, muscular athlete with a wealthy family and resources being scared of someone. “What did he say?”

Wyatt shakes his head. “I’m not getting into all that. I just can’t have him stirring up shit for my parents. That’s what he’d do, mostly. Create bad press. Tell lies. Drag my mom’s name through the mud again.” He sighs like the weight of the entire library is crashing down on his strong shoulders. “She worked too hard to get away from him and make something of herself, to get me away from him.”

I bite my lip and tap my finger on my lap. “But you’re kind of a big deal athlete, from what I hear.”

He grins at this. “You’ve been hearing stuff about me, Fern?”

I roll my eyes. “Knock it off. That’s my point. People talk about you.”

He nods. “Yeah, and every time they do, it’s only a matter of time before they run a search, and news articles come up about poor Wyatt, the kid who had to be rescued by the police.” Wyatt looks over my shoulder and out the window at the bustling city. Students pour out of the 7/11 and the Dunkin’ Donuts. Tourists stop at a sidewalk cart to buy university t-shirts. Here, we’re just two people under a lot of pressure, in different ways, trying to keep our noses down and get through it all.

A fist of anguish punches my heart, thinking of a little boy going through that again and again his whole life as that scary incident comes up in every news article about him playing soccer. “That sounds awful. The police thing.”

He nods. “I was thinking maybe I blew it out of proportion in my mind, you know? But once I actually reached out to him … he showed me that I had it right all along.”

I should hug this man. Student or not … he’s hurting. Unsure what to do, I reach out and squeeze his knee. “You couldn’t have known that he’d threaten your family. It’s been years. I get why you thought he’d work on himself.”

Wyatt puffs out a laugh. I grin. “I have fantasies about my dad going on meds or something. Getting a therapist. Getting a job… buying me a birthday card.” I shake my head. “What will you do after you graduate? You said you have an agent?”

Wyatt swallows, and when he meets my eyes, he looks more vulnerable than I felt the night he took me home. “I’m trying to play internationally. But I need to sort out my name to sign my contract as Wyatt Moyer. It’s important to me.”

We stare at one another for a long time. “Can’t your agent help with that?”

Wyatt groans and sinks lower into his chair, dragging a palm down his face. “He’s my dad’s agent, too. And my cousin’s. Like I said, I can’t have any of this impacting my family. It’s something I really want to do on my own. Like … a lot of stuff has been handed to me over the years. It feels like the least I can do is sort out my legal problems.”

I’m not sure what to say in response to that. I know family law is a horrifying ordeal. My dad hasn’t even been unpleasant or vindictive, and it was still a nightmare for my mom for a long time. So much was out of her control, always. And she always felt like she was being scrutinized by the court. I can’t imagine how much more stressful that would have been if my father had been abusive.

Neglectful, sure, but never abusive. I want to reach out to Wyatt, to gather him in my arms and tell him I understand. But that feels like crossing a line, so I just press my lips together and nod. “Thank you,” I stammer. “For telling me all that. I won’t betray your trust.”

He nods, takes a deep breath, and stares up at the ceiling while he blows it out. Then he points at his notebook. “Feel like talking me throughthoseproblems again? I’m not feeling good about the exam.”

A warm current flows through me at the thought of helping Wyatt, of working closely with him on the language of the universe. “Sure. Tell me where you’re the most stuck.”

We spend the next few hours talking through the various word problems and I figure out that Wyatt’s been forgetting how to count negative numbers. I draw a few number line sketches on his scratch paper, and it’s like flipping a switch for him. He solves the rest of the problems quickly and finally jumps to his feet, pumping his fist. “Hell yeah!” He holds his hand out, I think, for a high five, and I slap his palm tentatively. And then my stomach gurgles louder than his celebration whoop. “Oh, crap. What time is it?” Wyatt looks at his expensive smartwatch. “Want to go grab lunch? The least I can do is buy you a sandwich for helping me on a weekend.”

I wave a hand. “I packed. And you don’t need to thank me. It’s my job to help.”

---