Page 53 of Game Face

My mom nods with a soft smile, then shifts her body to boost my walker up and into the back of Dad’s truck.

“No goofing off,” she says, eyeing her husband first but including me next in that warning.

“No promises,” I say, an answer typical of my dad.

She shakes her head and laughs before getting into her driver’s seat.

“I love you two. See you at home.”

We wait for her to pull out so my dad can open the passenger door all the way, giving me plenty of options of where to hold on to. His hands go to my hips, but I shake my head.

“Let me try on my own first.”

“Okay. I’ll be right here,” he says, the reservation obvious in his tone. It’s not that he doesn’t think I can do this, it’s that it’s hard for him to see me fail. That’s something I’ve learned over the last two weeks. It’s where my father and I crossover the most—we’re competitive to a fault. With ourselves.

Quit racing yourself.

I take a deep breath and bring my right leg up, having to guide it part of the way to ensure my foot is flat on the running board. I search for the perfect holding spots, feeling good about my left hand clutching the grab bar, and settling for my other hand wrapping around the open window frame. My father stands at the door’s edge to keep it from closing on me, and I grunt my way into standing on the running board on my bad leg.

“Holy shit!” My eyes are wide with shock, and my body feels wobbly, but I lifted myself a foot off the ground.

“Atta girl!” My dad’s celebration is warranted this time. I’ll allow it.

Twisting my body proves to be a little trickier than I expect, so I call my dad in for a boost to get my hips moving in the right direction. Soon I’m in the seat, buckling myself in, and excited about getting out on my own when we get home.

My dad fires up the engine, his radio blasting that twenty-year-old rap he loves so much. I giggle and rap a few of the lyrics with him as he pulls out of the Jack’s lot. He turns the volumedown when we hit the road, and after about a mile, he looks my way, ready to get serious.

“Is this going to be one of those talks where I should pull over? Or if we take the long route home, will that be enough?” He slows the truck a little, and I hike my shoulders up, not sure how this is going to go.

“I think you’re going to have to tell me. I know you know what’s going on with Wyatt. What’s wrong? What happened?” I know it’s football, and there’s no way my dad isn’t all up in that business.

My dad’s chest rises with his deep breath. He looks back to the road, then glances into his rearview mirror before looking back at me.

“Long route should do. But how about we make a little stop at the high school? It’s the JV game tonight. They’ll be warming up.” He tilts his head, urging me to say yes. He hasn’t been around much for the high school boys this season. Part of that is because of me, but mostly, he planned to spend this year supporting Wyatt.

“I’d like that,” I answer, my response pushing my dad’s grin up into his cheeks.

He flicks the turn signal on his truck and makes a wide left turn toward the towering light poles in the distance. It’s early yet, so by the time we pull into the Coolidge High lot, most of the guys are just getting dressed out and making the walk from the locker room to the field.

My dad helps me out of my seat so I can stand outside the truck with him while a few of the players jog over to shake his hand.

“Remember to watch for the long pass tonight, Davis,” my dad says to one of the smallest kids on the squad. He suddenly stands taller after getting my dad’s tip, then nods to him andsays, “Yes, Coach,” before pushing his helmet onto his head and rushing out to the field.

“He’s small,” I mutter when Davis is out of earshot.

My dad sighs.

“Yeah, it’s a small few classes we’ve got. They’re fast, though. Looks like we might have to get sneaky to win our division this year.”

Or start illegally recruiting.

I don’t say that thought out loud. It’s a dirty topic but one that every single coach in this state does. The parents participate, shopping for playing time guarantees and recruitment looks before filling out waivers to get their kid into some school several miles away from their home. And the hard truth is my grandfather worked that system for my dad years ago.

“You want to get back in, or you want to sit on the tailgate a little while?” He leans his head to the right and I grin.

“You know that answer.” I hold out an arm so he can help support me as I wobble my way to the back of the truck.

There’s no easy way to hop onto the tailgate, so I let my dad lift me up. I attempt to swing my legs, and it works . . . sort of. I use my left one to push my right. For a minute, I’m a kid again. The only thing missing is a strawberry shake from MicNic’s.

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