The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(53)

Until I bolted like a big baby.

Tank returns in a worn shirt and joggers. “So, what happened?”

“There was an issue with the room. I’m going to crash here, if the offer is still open.”

“The offer will always be open.” Tank assesses me. He may be getting older, but his insight is still keen. “So, an issue with the room. I see.”

I nod.

He nods.

We both stand here. Nodding.

I’d like to play it cool, to be Mr. Casual, just popping in because I need a place to stay. But my palms are sweating, my head is pounding, and I’m still nodding like I’m trying to break a record. Weirdness or hesitation when it comes to a nosy family member is a drop of blood in the water near a bunch of hungry sharks.

And Tank’s grin is very sharklike when he finally stops nodding and smiles. “Bull.”

I could run. I could fight Tank and maybe even win. We’re evenly matched in terms of size and both have bum knees. I’ve got him in age, but he has me in experience.

But there is little fight left in me.

So, I let Tank steer me by the shoulder out to the back patio. He doesn’t turn on any lights, but ignites the gas fireplace, dragging two chairs closer to it.

“Do you need a sweatshirt?” he asks, but I shake my head. “Sit, son.”

I sit. But I can’t get comfortable in any position. Not when I’m leaning back, sprawled with my legs out in front of me, not when I’m tensed and leaning forward, my hands falling between my spread knees. I shift again, crossing one leg over the other, but my foot won’t be still, tapping out a fast rhythm in the air.

“You finally realized you like her.”

I freeze. “What?”

“Winnie. You finally caught up to the rest of us and realized you like her.”

I turn slowly to my father, who’s trying and failing to contain his smile. “Finally?”

“Since you met, the two of you’ve been pushing and pulling like a couple of magnets that can’t decide which way to point.”

I sneer, but his grin only widens. Then he laughs. Laughs.

I almost leave. I do. But when it comes to my family and especially with my father, there’s not really an escape. If I leave now, I’ll be dealing with him tomorrow. And the next day. He’s not going to let this go, so might as well get it over with now.

I regret this decision as he starts to speak.

“You should have seen me with your mother at the start. I was a fool for her.”

I become a statue. Maybe more of a gargoyle—completely made of stone, frozen where I’m hunched over with my elbows on my knees, head in my hands.

Bringing up Mom is like invoking some kind of special vow, a promise of total truth, of vulnerability. And when Tank does so now, when I’m already feeling shattered and exposed and all messed-up, I am powerless to move, even though what I want to do is hop on my bike and roar off.

I don’t remember Dad ever talking about dating Mom. It’s always been about the shared memories, the period of time after they were married and dove right into having a bunch of boys like ducks in a row, followed a little later by Harper.

I can’t even move my mouth to ask the thousand questions Tank’s statement invokes, so I simply wait. It hurts to talk about Mom, to hear about her, to acutely feel the loss every time she comes up. But I’m also desperate for a new story, something I don’t know about her.

Dad stares into the fire, the smile from moments ago paired with a look in his eyes that’s both happy and sad. “My career was everything. I made a promise to myself playing college ball that I wouldn’t be derailed from my goals. Not by partying. Not by lifestyle or money. Not by a woman.” He chuckles. “Especially not by a jersey chaser.”

I almost fall out of my chair. “Mom was a jersey chaser?”

I can’t imagine my mother as the kind of woman all pro athletes are warned about. There are different names—jersey chaser, cleat chaser, puck bunnies—same idea. These are the women who show up near the private exits, in the restaurants and clubs players frequent, who manage to find the teams’ hotels while they’re traveling. Hoping for a hookup or more with a player, any player.

For some, it’s the money. Some, the fame. Some hope for a baby so they’ll have a steady paycheck for years to come and a more permanent position, even if it doesn’t end up being marriage.

That’s not all women. But it is absolutely some women. My brothers and I have all had our run-ins, starting in college. Thankfully, because of Tank’s strong cautions, we’ve wisely avoided them.

But—MOM was one of these women? No.

“She definitely was not.” Tank shakes his head, and I can feel my shoulders relax. “But I thought she was. One of her friends got some kind of fake press pass and got them past security and close to the locker room. Which wasn’t as hard to do back then. Things were more lax, especially with college ball. Bianca only came because she thought her friend had too much to drink at the game.”

“Now, that sounds like Mom.”

Tank smiles as he continues. “She wanted to keep her friend from doing anything stupid. Like falling for a football player. Which is exactly what your mother did.”

I close my eyes, falling back into my chair, an image of Mom’s face before her sickness flashing before me. She was beautiful, so full of life.