Page 65 of A Play For The Heart
Part of me thought the realization would cause me to panic, but I’ve never been more confident about anything in my life. I want to spend every moment with him. I want to cheer on his every accomplishment and support him through all his low moments.
The realization doesn’t concern me, but the time frame does. We haven’t been dating very long and it feels way too soon to drop that particular four-letter word. I don’t have the most experience on when the right time is to say ‘I love you’, but now seems like the wrong time.
Which leaves me at an impasse.
I’m madly, deeply in love with my best friend, but it’s too soon to tell him.
CHAPTER 26
“You’re my only compass, I might get lost without you”
Compass—The Neighbourhood
Henry
Forabriefmoment,I had forgotten the reason I don’t call my mom as often as I would like to. Unfortunately, that lovely moment has come to an end. Only five minutes into Facetiming with my Mom, Dad has decided to take over the phone call and talk about the one thing I would rather not talk about. Football.
I’ve attempted everything I can to steer the conversation away. I’ve asked my mom about her garden and the orange trees. I’ve talked about winter in Seattle. I’m running out of talking points to keep him from the inevitable playoff game talk. I throw out my Hail Mary.
“Sawyer and I are dating.”
The other side of the phone is silent for one second. Then two. Finally, I hear a screech comparable to a pterodactyl in ‘Jurassic Park’. On the phone screen, my mom is beaming, a grin stretched across her face.
“Oh. My. God!” She screams. I have to turn the volume down. She’s so loud I’m sure the neighbors could hear her.
“Mom, relax.”
I make the half-assed attempt, knowing full and well she isn’t going to relax. This is her Superbowl. She couldn’t care less about football, but she loves to know about my love life. Previously, I’ve done my best to share as little as possible, because she gets way too invested for my liking. But desperate times call for desperate measures. I would much rather have my mom ask slightly invasive questions than talk to my dad about football.
“Matthew,” she yells offscreen. “Did you hear that?! Our baby boy is dating Sawyer.”
I cringe at the term ‘baby boy’. I haven’t been a ‘baby boy’ since I had a growth spurt in the seventh grade. The term of endearment is slightly embarrassing, but I love my mom, so I don’t say anything.
“Yeah, I heard him, June. That’s nice.”
My mom is super excited and my dad couldn’t care less. It’s not entirely shocking, but it’s still disappointing. I don’t expect a friendly father-son chat, but an attempt at excitement would be appreciated.
He hasn’t always been this disinterested in my life. When I was younger, he made it a point to spend time with me. Take me to do things. Sneak me out for ice cream without my mom knowing. He was so busy during the season when he was a player that he would spend the entire offseason with me. We would take trips to the beach and spend hours wandering around Disney, but once I started to show an interest in football, we would spend time throwing a ball in the backyard. When I was young, I loved playing football with my dad. I felt special.
As I grew older, something shifted and now he cares more about how I play football than our relationship. I think to him, it is our relationship. Since he retired, he’s become consumed with my career, constantly calling and giving me tips on how to succeed.
My dad grabs the phone from my mom’s hands, essentially ending our conversation. I frown at how dismissive he was to both her and me. To keep the peace, I say nothing about how he snatched the phone from her hand.
“Are you prepared for the playoff game on Sunday?”
Time’s up.
Part of me wants to just hang up, but you don’t just shrug off advice. Especially not advice from Matthew Parker. As much as I hate admitting it, he has a Super Bowl championship and that makes what he says potentially valuable.
“Feeling good about it.”
“This is make or break, you gotta focus all your attention on winning. Not on some girl.”
The suggestion that Sawyer is ‘some girl’ boils my blood and has me seeing red. He doesn’t have to act excited about my relationship or want to talk about it, but he will respect her.
“Her name is Sawyer, and she isn’t some girl,” I say, teeth clenched to hold back my anger. “Do not refer to her like that again.”
The anger in my voice must be apparent because he drops the topic of girlfriends and goes back to football. I spend ten minutes listening to him break down the Carolina Rams defense and what I need to do to score. All things I’ve heard from my coaches. I let him ramble on about the importance of playoffs and how my career rides on my performance. I make a valiant effort to let it all slide off, not allowing any of it to burrow under my skin. However, some of his comments worm their way into my mind. I can feel the worry settle into my bones. The anxiety to perform slowly creeping in.
