Page 30 of A Slice of Love

“We’re glad you’re here—not just because of the added hands, but because we’ve been getting extras calls about sending outtheJonas Schwartz to deliver a pizza.” He winks at me, teasing me about the fact that no less than four groups of high school girls came in today to see me. The joys of working in your hometown. “Helps drum up some business.”

“Sorry about them,” I mutter.

“Don’t be. We’re lucky to have you back. It’s been too long since we’ve seen you around these parts.”

“Well, I’m back for now.” I shake my leg at him. “But as soon as I get this old knee moving right again, I’m gone.”

“You better be, and I better get a shout-out when you’re rich and famous. After all, I was the first to employee your sorry, broke ass.” He gives me another pat. “You’re free to go when you’re done wiping down these booths. I’ll clock ya out.”

“Thanks, Mr. Daniels.”

“Dammit, son. Don’t make me tell you again—it’s Simon.”

“Thanks, Simon,” I correct.

He leaves me to finish up, and I’m done within five minutes. I don’t waste any time sitting around shooting the shit with the crew and race out to my car.

I don’t have long to get home and shower before I have to meet Frankie and Julian at The Doorway.

Luckily, Slice isn’t far from my childhood home—a big reason why I agreed to stay and help today—and I’m pulling into the driveaway in no time.

“I’m back!” I holler when I push through the front door.

“In the kitchen, son.”

I round the corner, smiling at the scene in front of me.

My mom’s sitting on my dad’s lap at the table, and they’re enjoying a glass of wine post dinner. It’s a weekly tradition for them, sitting together, sipping wine from Solo cups, and chatting about their day. It’s simple, but I think it’s one of the secrets of their marriage.

A lot of children would think it’s gross to see their parents display such affection, but those children are dumb because I am thankful every single day my parents are still together and going strong after thirty years of marriage.

“How was your day, kiddo?” my mom asks.

“Good. We were slow up until the last few hours then I couldn’t catch a break. Offered to stay late and help Simon until the rush was over.”

“That place is always jam-packed after all these years. He should really consider opening another one in the area,” my dad says. “I bet they’d make a fortune having one on the other end of the island.”

“Probably. Would help with delivery fees, too. Maybe I’ll bring it up to him.”

“How was therapy this morning? Your knee doing any better?”

There it is, the question I was hoping to avoid.

My knee is doing better, but it’s not where I want it to be.

But, to be fair, where I want to be is on the field.

I was told three to six months to heal after surgery, but here I am at six months and I just don’t have the stamina I need to be able to play an entire game.

I need to heal faster. Ihaveto if I ever want to play for the NFL like I’ve been dreaming of for years.

I try to ignore the spark of hope in my father’s eye. If he had his way, I’d stay here forever and help at his shop. It was his dream for us to join forces after college, but all that changed in high school when I made varsity my freshman year and started gaining the attention of college coaches and agents alike. Then the plan became the NFL.

It’s not that my father isn’t proud of me for all my sports accomplishments, but I know deep his in heart, he doesn’t want me to leave him. What parent does?

I think, though, that’s the worst part of all of this. I let my father down by not following his dream for me and now I’ve fucked everything up.

“Everything’s fine,” I say evasively. “I’m gonna grab a quick shower and get going.”

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