The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(2)

But that’s not what’s on my mind.

It’s my grandpa.

Or Pops, as we called him.

Bernie McMann, the patriarch of the family, the only guy I’ve ever known to swear by using presidents’ names, and my pal, my guy . . . passed away this summer.

And it was fucking devastating.

Crushing.

I couldn’t focus in the classroom. I have some of the worst grades I’ve ever received, and my football season, well, by now you should know how that turned out.

He was sick, something my parents didn’t tell me, something Pops didn’t want me to know. Said he wanted me to treat him the same way I always have.

Unfortunately, I didn’t spend time with him this past summer. To be honest, I didn’t visit him the past three summers, and only saw him during the holidays. I decided to stay home and train instead.

Biggest fucking regret of my life.

“I should have visited him over the summer like I used to.”

“Dude, you didn’t know he was going to pass away.”

“Doesn’t matter, life is too short.” I twist the can of soda in my hand with regret. “I thought he’d be around forever.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Hutton makes a cheese, cracker, and apple combination for me and hands it over. I take it and shove it in my mouth. “Not to make you feel any worse than you do, but do you think your season went the way it did because you weren’t mentally there?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, so you’re aware?”

“Quite aware.” I dust my fingers off and take a swig of my Sprite. “My mental game was completely shot. I was physically there on the field, but mentally, I was with Pops.”

“Glad you’re starting to admit that,” says my dad, who walks into the living room wearing a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. He takes the lumberjack look way too seriously. Doesn’t quite fit in with the vibe here in California, but he owns it.

“Mr. Smith, good to see you,” Hutton says, standing and giving my dad a solid handshake. Dad pulls him into a hug.

“When are you going to start calling me Porter?”

“Never,” Hutton says. “Pretty sure my parents would murder me.”

Dad chuckles. “I wouldn’t say a damn thing.”

“Yes, but it’s a slippery slope, and before you know it, we’d see each other in the grocery store and I would call you Porter in front of my mom, and you know the kind of wallop I’d get across the back of the head.”

“Ahh, Mrs. Marshall is one to fear,” my dad says with a wink. Just then my mom appears in the same doorway Dad came from. Her hair is ruffled and her lipstick is smeared across her face.

Jesus Christ.

“Did I miss anything?”

“Uh, Marley.” My dad touches the side of his mouth, and her eyes go wide.

“Excuse me for a second.”

I groan and say, “While I was in the house? Come on.”

Dad takes a seat in one of the blue chairs next to the couch and picks up a piece of cheese. “Your parents have healthy appetites for each other. Be grateful.”

“He’s right,” Hutton says, leaning over.

I push him away. “I’m wallowing, I would prefer not to know that my parents are horndogs in the next room while I’m trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life.”

Just then, Dad’s laptop, which is on an end table, starts ringing with a Skype call. He accepts and immediately I hear Uncle Paul’s voice.

“Where’s my snookum boy? I want to see how brawny he’s gotten.”

Dad turns the computer toward me, and I’m graced with the sight of Uncle Paul’s shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair and massive bush of a beard that tickles the top of his nipples. Best friends since they were young, Dad and Uncle Paul have been in each other’s lives forever, which is hard to believe because Uncle Paul—Mom’s brother—is eccentric, to say the least. Married with five girls, he treats me as his very own boy.

Hand clasping his chest, he shakes his head and says, “God, you’re handsome. You take after me. See that bone structure, Porter? That’s McMann bone structure.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Dad says with a knowing smile. There’s no denying it. I’m a carbon copy of my father.

“Is that Paul?” Mom says, walking in, looking much more put together.

“It is. Just admiring my godson.”

Mom claps her hands and says, “Now that we’re all here, we can begin.”

“Begin what?” I ask, sitting up.

Dad sets the computer on a chair, as if Uncle Paul is actually occupying space in the room, and all eyes fall on me.

Mom takes a seat next to me on the couch, forcing me to scoot over to the middle, and in her motherly voice, she says, “Sweetie, we want to talk to you.”

I look around the room and note that Uncle Paul is already dabbing at his eyes with a tissue. “Uh, what the hell is going on? Is this some sort of intervention?”

“We don’t need to put a label on it,” Mom says. “But, yes. Yes, it is.”

I glance over at Hutton, who has a cheese and cracker heading toward to his mouth. He pauses and says, “It’s an intervention, dude, and I’m living for it.”