I’d been raised in a household that didn’t glorify athletes, but everywhere we went, people glorified us for our performance on the field.
Normal people doing abnormal jobs, as my dad used to say. And after playing the game I loved for so many years, I knew just how true that was.
There were plenty of jobs that had demanding, life-altering schedules. People who worked just as hard for a lot less money than I was able to make. The difference was in the spotlight. The cultural weight of the job we did.
Because I was good at this one singular thing, my status was somehow elevated. I didn’t need the fame, but I still struggled with the expectations.
I wasn’t mad at Adaline for knowing her own limits. She’d dated someone in a position like mine, and as much as I couldn’t stand that guy, she would walk into any possible relationship with me with eyes wide open.
It was because of her prior knowledge that she was keeping her hands stretched out, maintaining that distance between us.
Her life would be the one that would have to completely change if she moved forward with me. There were no guarantees I could give her, not for a couple of years, at least. And I wasn’t ready to walk away from the sport.
But I wasn’t ready to walk away from her either.
I signed the last autograph and waved as the parents herded their excited kids away from me. Dad slapped a hand on my back. “Good to see you on the sidelines, Emmett.”
“Good to be here.”
He tilted his head toward a small set of silver bleachers next to the soccer field. “Wanna sit? I’ve hardly had a chance to talk to you. You were gone earlier when I came home between meetings.”
Gone at Adaline’s. After leaving her office, I just … drove around. Tried to clear my head of all the knotted, messy thoughts.
Mom rubbed Dad’s back. “I’ll wait in the car,” she said.
Dad cupped her chin and kissed her softly. “Don’t think I didn’t hear you curse out that ref,” he whispered. “They’re gonna ban us from the games if you keep that up, wife.”
She smiled innocently. “I would love to see them try.”
Dad shook his head as I laughed. Mom patted my stomach and left to give Dad and me some privacy.
He took a seat on the bleacher and groaned. “I swear, I jump around more at these games than during the playoffs for Washington.”
I grinned.
He gave me a sideways look. “Football or no football?”
It was the question he always started with when the two of us had a chance to sit down. Sometimes, I wanted to talk shop because I respected him so damn much as a coach and a player. And sometimes, I just wanted to talk about life with my dad.
I sighed, hanging my hands between my legs. “I don’t know, Dad.”
He studied my face, finally giving a slow nod. “Little of both, maybe.”
“Yeah.”
“You okay?” he asked.
Staring out at the emerald-green fields, I thought about how many years of my life I’d chased something intangible. Winning games wasn’t anything you could hold in your hand. It was mental. Emotional. We pushed our bodies past their limits. We tested the lines of what we were capable of, for something that was all in our heads—the feeling it gave us.
That was why some guys were shit losers and shit winners.
“Is it possible to have a midlife crisis at twenty-six?” I asked.
He laughed. “I think it’s possible any time, kid.” He glanced over at me. “Is that why you’re home?”