I’m grinning like a fool by the time I slide behind the wheel of the Jeep. It doesn’t matter. Things are going my way, and I’ve got the rare opportunity to spend a couple of hours with my girl on a Friday afternoon.
Plenty of time to worry about football later.
My phone rings and Dad flashes on the screen. I punch the accept button on the steering wheel, a sense of dread seeping into my bones.
“Where are you?” he asks without preamble.
“On campus.” He doesn’t need to know I ditched Global Marketing.
He’s slow to respond. “You didn’t forget about lunch with John, did you? I told you to write it on the calendar.”
Fuck.
How could I have forgotten? Coach’s been riding me about the scout visits all week, trying to get me to commit to the Sunday workout. Hell, it’s all anyone’s been talking about in the locker room and on the field. Even the underclassmen are hoping to make an impression. Me? I’ve been trying to block out the noise and ignore the spectators. I grit my teeth and grip the wheel tighter. Maybe I was a little too focused because I completely forgot about lunch with Hart.
I glance down at my clothes. A Waverly polo and jeans. My father will expect better, but there’s no time to go home and change. It’ll have to do. I check my rearview mirror and swing a U-turn. The sooner I get there, the sooner I can leave.
“No, of course not,” I lie, feeling like an asshole. “I’m on my way, but I can’t stay long. Kennedy’s competing in a mechanical engineering contest this afternoon and I promised to be there.”
When I arrive at the restaurant, my father and Hart are already seated with drinks in hand, no doubt toasting the good old days. The scent of seared beef hangs in the air, but even so, I’m not a fan of the place. It’s got an old-school vibe: heavy wood trim, leather-back chairs, pristine white linens. It’s dark and stuffy and I’d be just as happy grabbing a burger at the Diner, but it’s not up to me.
They stand to greet me and I apologize for being late. Pittsburgh may not be my first choice, but I don’t want Hart to think I’m an entitled asshole. He’s a scout for one of the best teams in the NFL, and I know his time is valuable.
“Don’t sweat it.” He claps me on the back and takes a swig of his beer. I can’t help but notice he’s wearing the team colors. “We just got here ourselves.”
We make small talk as we wait for the server to come by, discussing Pittsburgh’s chances of making the playoffs. My foot is tapping a nervous beat under the table, every minute feeling like an eternity as the clock ticks down to Kennedy’s three-thirty presentation. I’ll be cutting it close, but she won’t care if I miss her competitors as long as I’m there for her.
Once we’ve ordered, talk turns to Waverly’s performance.
“You look good, Austin,” Hart says, crossing his arms over his chest and studying me.
“I feel good, sir.”
Hart and my father exchange a conspiratorial look. “I should think so. You’re eight and one. Plenty of guys in the conference who’d kill for that record.”
“They’ve got a real shot at the national championship,” my father agrees.
I shrug. “I’ve got a great team. It’s easy to win games when you’re playing with a first-rate offense.”
Hart laughs and slaps his knee. “You sure this is your kid, Reid?” he asks my father. “You don’t have a humble bone in your body.”
My dad laughs good-naturedly, but when he turns to me, there’s sadness in his eyes. “He gets it from his mother. He got all the good stuff from her.”
My throat closes up. I want—need—to say something, but I’m not sure how to respond. It’s the first time I can ever remember my father comparing me to my mother. It means more than he realizes. But this isn’t the time or the place to unpack all our baggage. Hell, I’m not sure it’ll ever be the right time. There are too many unspoken truths between us, and I don’t have the first clue where to start.
Fortunately, Hart easily steers the conversation back to football.
“Glad to hear it. I’m always on the lookout for players with a good head on their shoulders. So many kids these days have big egos and bigger attitudes. That doesn’t fly in Pittsburgh.” Hart sips his beer. “But Coach Collins tells me that won’t be an issue for you.”
“No, sir,” I say. “I take my role as a team leader very seriously. I just want to play ball for a good program.”
I’m careful not to specifically express interest in Pittsburgh, not that it matters since it’s assumed.
“Don’t sweat the draft. You’ll land in a good program.” Hart chuckles and shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter if the worst team in the league gets first pick. There’ll be plenty of trades made behind the scenes. Hell, things go right, you could end up playing for your old man’s team if you finish the season strong.”
“Austin won’t settle for anything less than a national title, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, sir.” I drum my fingers on the table. Where the hell is our food? I glance around. It’s midafternoon, and the place isn’t exactly busy. We’ve already burned twenty minutes. I take a deep breath, willing the tension to leave my body. I can still make it to the competition. It’s doable.
“Well, leadership wants
