First Down (Beyond the Play, #1)(58)

“And despite not knowing Bex, you think she’s like that?”

I want to look away, but his eyes search mine, keeping me in place with the force of his gaze. “I’m just reminding you to be careful. If you play the way you’ve been playing, in a few days you’ll be a national champ. But then comes the draft. Graduating. Reporting to your first training camp. Your first season, likely in Philly or San Francisco.”

“And I see Bex by my side for all of that. Just like I’ll be at her side for everything she needs and wants to do.”

“Does she?”

I don’t say anything. I think so, but I don’t know. Bex should be a visual arts major; I know she’s lukewarm at best about her business degree. She should be looking at careers that utilize photography. If I asked her to come with me to San Francisco right now, I don’t know what her answer would be; she’s been steadfast about sticking with her mother’s diner. Long distance? I’ve never tried it and I’m not sure I could make myself. There’s a hell of a difference between away games or a couple weeks of training camp and living across the country from your girlfriend.

“I know you love her,” Dad says into the silence. “I know you think you’re going to be with her forever. But you thought that about Sara too, son, and look how that turned out.”

He rubs my shoulder. I blink, swallowing even though my throat is dry. I should tell him off, but the words don’t come.

“Let’s keep going,” I finally say. “Izzy’s going to pick The Family Stone and I can’t put myself through that shit again.”





33





BEX





I’m kind of in love with James’ mother.

When I walked downstairs half an hour ago, the house was quiet. Even in such a big space, I could tell that James and his siblings weren’t around. I tiptoed to the kitchen anyway, hoping to find some coffee, and ran into Sandra instead.

She made me pour-over and insisted on us eating cookies for breakfast. What an icon.

Now she leans back in her chair, bare feet tucked underneath her, and takes another sip of coffee as she looks at me. I have the sense some sort of interrogation is coming. The first and only time I met Darryl’s parents, his mother immediately asked how many children I was planning to have. Sandra could say practically anything and would instantly be better than her.

“You’re wearing my son’s sweater,” she says.

I flush, looking down at myself. It’s just a gray McKee sweatshirt, but on me, it’s baggy and the sleeves flop over my hands. I roll them up, picking at a random thread. “His is cozy.”

She smiles. She has a kind face, natural in its age, with crow’s feet around her eyes that add extra softness to her smile. There’s nothing artificial about her. Even now, she’s just wearing a t-shirt that occurs to me might be Richard’s, and soft cotton pajama pants. Her tongue is stained blue from the frosting on the cookies. Her tortoiseshell glasses frame her face like a character from a Nora Ephron movie. This is the woman who has loved James throughout his whole life. Every win and every loss, every triumph and crisis. She was by his side through everything that went down with Sara.

“James has told me so much about you,” she says. “He was afraid of telling his father, but I make us have regular phone calls, and lately, they’ve been all about you.”

“You’re not making him,” I say honestly. “He’s always happier after you call.”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time together.”

I nod. Even though I have my dorm room, I’ve been spending more and more nights at James’ lately. As the semester was wrapping up, it just made sense—we had work to do for the writing class, and it’s not like I could go to the apartment to get a break from the dorm. Plus, he has a hang-up about me driving home alone late at night. I suspect it’s an excuse to keep me in his bed, but I don’t intend to ever call him out on it. It makes me too happy.

“I was worried, after Sara—he told me you know about Sara—that he would punish himself. What happened was horrible, but it wasn’t his fault. That’s not how a healthy person responds to a breakup.”

“No,” I agree softly. “She’s doing okay now though, right?”

“Yes. I still talk to her mother from time to time. She’s safe and finishing up her degree at a different school, close to her cousins.”

“That’s good.” I pick up my coffee mug, even though it’s nearly empty, and take a small sip.

“But tell me more about you. He says you’re a photographer?”

I tuck my hair behind my ear, looking at the Christmas tree instead of her. The den has another tree, one that I can recognize; it’s decorated with rainbow strings of lights and homemade ornaments from when James and his siblings were little. Last night, Sandra explained that they always do a formal family portrait with the tree in the foyer—it’s ended up in magazines before, usually alongside press for the foundation—but she likes the silly pictures they take in the den way better.

“Yeah,” I say. “I mean, it’s my hobby.”

“Oh,” she says. “That’s not what you’re studying?”