Page 60 of Single Dad Dilemma
If not for me, he would’ve been kicked out of college, but I’d begged Coach to give him a second chance. For years, Griffin held that against me, that I’d fought a battle for him that he didn’t ask me to fight. Time passed, and we both took shots at each other that inflicted pain. By the time we were both drafted, we hardly spoke.
My injuries, career-ending and devastating in a manner that I hadn’t anticipated, pitted my brother and me against each other in a different way once I retired and shifted to coaching. Suddenly, I wasn’t just the King brother who played quarterback—I was the youngest offensive coordinator in the league. A couple years later, I was the youngest head coach in the NFL. The Brain, they called me. Griffin was the Brawn.
He was the life of the party. Constantly getting tabloid attention while I was home with a wife and two young kids, trying my best to stay out of the spotlight. In the only meeting we had on the field—me on the sideline with a headset and a giant play card, him playing the game—I came out the victor.
My divorce came shortly after that, which was ugly and public and a second type of devastating because it felt like another place I’d failed. Couldn’t keep a relationship with my brother. Couldn’t keep my wife. At least, that’s how it looked from the outside.
Archer’s words from the office replayed in my head, the truth of them getting uglier and uglier with each pass.
You wouldn’t risk your job—or your reputation—to prove that point. You want everyone to think you’re perfect.
That was what Archer didn’t understand. I knew I wasn’t perfect. But holding myself to high standards wasn’t bad, either, because it meant the people around me could trust that I’d lead by example.
When we were younger, Griffin hated that side of me as well because it made him feel like thebad twin. He wasn’t, he just ... he couldn’t control his impulses, and I’d smothered mine so deeply that I forgot they existed. Neither was healthy.
Because of two meddling children who were too smart for their own good and a new girlfriend who had flipped Griffin’s life upside down, our relationship was better. Not what it used to be, and not where my parents probably wanted it, but it was still progress. A handful of texts and that was it. But to my parents, moments like this—where I’d sit and watch his game, acknowledge his talent—were a relief after years of absolutely nothing. They never pushed either of us too far, just quietly supporting us in the way we needed most.
The three of us watched the first drive, and I had to pause only a couple of times to write down notes while I studied San Diego’s offensive movements. Griffin lined up on the right side, which wasn’t typical for him, but I saw the shift in San Diego’s offensive setup and knew why. Their right side was weak, a rookie tackle lining up opposite Griffin, and my brother was taller, bigger, and faster.
The center snapped the ball, and I leaned forward, watching Griffin execute a spin move that shouldn’t be possible for someone his size. He was on the quarterback before he could even attempt to evade the sack, and as he wrapped his arms around the guy, Griffin knocked the ball clean from his hands long before the quarterback’s knee ever touched the ground.
One of his teammates scooped it up and ran it back forty-five yards for a touchdown, Griffin providing a crucial block when a tight end chased after the defender. I watched my brother sprint down the field to celebrate with his teammates, and found myself swallowing an unusually potent pang of nostalgia.
Years ago, we used to celebrate like that too.
“Do you usually watch his replays?” Dad asked casually.
I blinked, shifting my focus back down to my notebook, and I scrawled out a few notes. “When I think about it, yeah. Caught his first game back after his arm healed.”
Mom snorted. “It wasn’t healed. I swear, three doctors told him he should’ve rested it another two weeks, but you know your brother. He hates being kept off that field. Ruby tried too,” she said, referencing my brother’s fiancée—a whip-smart librarian who we’d known growing up. “She gave up, though. Said he was driving her crazy being stuck at home.”
“I bet.”
“Speak of the devil,” Mom muttered, lifting up her phone to answer an incoming call. “Hello, youngest son of mine.”
“Mother. Just calling to make sure Maggie hasn’t run you out of the house yet,” my brother said.
“You’ve got it on speaker, honey,” Dad whispered.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re up early, Griffin. Just like your brother. I’m sitting here with him now. He and your father were watching your game footage when I came down for coffee.”
I sat back on the couch and closed my eyes, allowing the smallest shake of my head. So maybe she pusheda little.
“Oh yeah?” Griffin asked. “Which game?”
“San Diego,” Dad answered. “Hey, Griff.”
“Pops,” Griffin said. “Barrett make you get up at the crack of dawn with him?”
I opened my eyes, barely stifling an eye roll. “Isn’t it, like, five a.m. there?” I asked.
At the sound of my voice, Griffin made a small little humming noise. “Touché. Ruby loves it when I force her to get up with me too—don’t you, birdy?” he called out. There was a muffled noise in the background, and Griffin laughed. “She just threw something at my head, so I’m going to take that as a no.”
Mom and Dad smiled, and I tried to imagine my playboy brother settled down but couldn’t quite do it. Yet he was. He was happy. Happier than he’d ever been, according to Mom and Dad.
“Tell Ruby we said hi,” Dad said.
“Will do. Anything new and exciting happening out that way?”
