“We met,” my dad explains, smiling and nodding toward Hollis.
My uncle’s face dims at the news, but he quickly masks it.
“Oh, right. Out on the field. Did you get to see any of the action?” my uncle asks.
“I mean, they were pretty great at putting balls in the bucket,” my dad says through a chuckle.
“Ah.” Uncle Joel nods, clearly hoping for a better scouting report.
“Well, Hollis. Now that you’re here . . .”
I tense at my uncle’s lead-in.
“. . . You should stay for dinner. Meg has a roast going. We’re a big meat and potatoes family. You can tell us about New York and your dad. Being coach’s daughter, I mean. That must be—”
“A lot of pressure,” Hollis throws in.
“Yes, right,” Uncle Joel agrees.
There’s clearly a game of chess in play and everyone seems acutely aware. We’re all doing our best to stay off the board and just let Hollis and Uncle Joel battle it out. I refuse to leave her in this alone, though. Without giving her warning, I reach to her side and find her fisted hand pressed against her thigh. It twitches at my touch, and she turns her attention to me with a flinch.
I give her a slight nod. I’m willing to make a grander gesture than this if she refuses. Thankfully, she doesn’t. Her hand unfurls and her fingers stretch out for mine. Our palms meld together as I bring her hand to my mouth and kiss the back of it in a blatant show of solidarity—and an enormous F-U—to my cousin and uncle. They mask their reactions poorly, their eyes seething in a way that shows the connection between the apple and the tree.
“You’ll love my aunt’s cooking. Her roast is seriously the best, like magazine cover-worthy,” I brag. It’s not a lie, and Aunt Meg has no part in this grudge-match. And judging by the approving smile I just got from my father, neither does he.
16
Hollis
Cannon wasn’t wrong about the roast. It was the literal definition of Midwestern home-cooked amazingness. I didn’t think I liked carrots, but it turns out the ingredient I’ve been missing to completely appreciate them is marinating them for hours in a bath of greasy beef broth.
For a little while tonight, I forgot about the weirdness. We all sat around the table laughing while Cannon’s dad and uncle swapped stories about the dumb things they did in high school. Like the time they dragged their team’s field in the middle of the night using their dad’s old Jeep with a bunch of random yard tools tied to the back. Took them an entire weekend to repair the tire grooves and divots they left behind, but they both swear the party dare that led them to do it was worth it.
Cannon’s dad is nice. And not in the way you call someone nice because you don’t think you’ll ever get to know them well so it doesn’t matter. No, he’s truly kind. And when Joel is in the environment we were all in tonight—together, with family—he seems nice, too. It brought out a better side to Zack, as well. It would have been easy to erase the last two and a half weeks and start over, but just as we were leaving, Zack’s dad reminded me that none of them are to be trusted.
“Hey, tell your dad I’ll be giving him a call about that town hall he needs to hold with the board. Routine thing. We’ll just be asking him some questions. It’s good for the public to buy in on things. Helps with fundraising.” He practically whistled out the last few words like a snake.
All I did was nod and say I would. And I have spent—no, wasted!—my short ride home alone with Cannon in his truck thinking about all the things I should have said instead. I should have probed, asked about the last time they held one of those, or subtly hinted how it’s too bad Coach Gage is retiring. Just one little hint to make him wonder if I heard his plan, if I know something.
“So, I can’t tell if that was fun for you.” Cannon sighs and lets his weight fall back into his seat as he shifts into park outside my house.
I texted my dad earlier to let him know I was meeting Cannon’s dad for dinner, and my gut tells me my father’s been waiting for me to roll up to our house ever since. When the blinds at the front window dip and spill out light from the television, I smile and nod to myself. He’s waiting.
“It was mostly fun?” I lift one shoulder and smile on one side of my mouth.
Cannon laughs.
“Okay, fair enough.”
He reaches over and takes my hand in his, turning my palm over and drawing soft lines along the ones in my palm while his mouth hangs open with indecision.
“You’re thinking about apologizing for your uncle and cousin again, aren’t you?” I close my hand around his thumb and jiggle it teasingly.
He laughs again and wiggles his head.
“I am,” he confesses.
“They were fine tonight. I made it through the fire. I survived. And their plan we overheard—”
“Is going to move on to Plan B,” he finishes.
I shrug, pretending I can’t guarantee he’s right, but honestly, he is.
“I liked your dad,” I say, changing the subject to the positive part of the evening.
Cannon grins in response, and I can tell his relationship with his dad means a lot to him.
“You must miss him,” I prompt.
“I do.”
The last thing I want to do is go inside my house right now. Not because my dad will grill me with overprotective questions. He won’t. He’s more the “pretend my daughter doesn’t date” kinda dad. I don’t want to go inside because I don’t want to leave this truck. It’s so warm in here, and being near Cannon without pretense
