After my talk with Coop, I spent the night organizing my playbook. First up is breakfast with my father. I’m nervous as hell and it won’t be easy, but it’s time to man up. I can’t call myself a leader if I don’t even have the balls to advocate for myself. My old man may not like what I have to say, but this conversation is long past due and whatever the outcome, I’ll deal with it.
He’s waiting in the hotel dining room when I arrive, the sports section spread out on the table in front of him. The place is busy, nearly every table full. No surprise there. Probably booked solid due to the Michigan game. He looks up as I approach and folds the paper, setting it off to the side. “Did you see Georgia got knocked off yesterday?”
“Yes, sir.” I pull out a chair and join him at the table, my stomach raging like a category five hurricane. “I was starting to think they might go undefeated.”
He considers. “They’re overrated, but it doesn’t change the fact that they’re leading the SEC.”
We talk shop until the server comes over. She recognizes my dad and starts gushing about how she grew up watching him play. When she finally gets hold of herself, she asks him for his autograph and then takes our orders. My father orders half the breakfast menu, but I stick with eggs and toast, barely able to stomach the idea of food.
I want to get this over with as quickly as possible.
“We need to talk,” I blurt out as soon as the server leaves the table.
My father arches a brow and tilts his head. “Something wrong, son?”
“No—” I stop myself. I need to be honest. My need for approval is what got me into this mess in the first place. “Yes. I don’t want to play ball in Pittsburgh.”
He goes rigid, face hard as stone. His blue eyes, so like my own, search my face as if he thinks this might be a joke. “I don’t understand,” he finally says, lifting a hand from the table. It’s not a dismissive wave, more like a gesture to signal confusion. Can’t blame him. I’ve never said the words to anyone but Kennedy before.
“I don’t want to play ball in Pittsburgh,” I repeat. “Pittsburgh is your legacy, Dad. I’ll always love the city and the fans and the franchise, but I want to make my own mark in the NFL.”
“It’s always been your dream to play ball in Pittsburgh. What’s changed?” He frowns, the expression cutting deep lines into his forehead. “Is this about that girl?”
My temper flares, but I swallow it down. “This has nothing to do with Kennedy,” I say, doing my best to keep my voice even. The last thing we need is a scene. The papers would be all over it. “This is about me and what I want. It’s never been my dream to play ball in Pittsburgh. That was your dream. And Mom’s.”
He leans back, deflating faster than a New England football. “But we thought you wanted it too.”
“I know. I should’ve spoken up sooner.” I wipe my palms on my thighs. “I didn’t want to let you guys down. Especially Mom.” My voice cracks on the last word. My father’s eyes lock on mine, and I know we’re both remembering her as she was before the cancer ravaged her body, vibrant and full of energy. Our biggest fan.
“Your mother and I just wanted what was best for you.”
“Pittsburgh isn’t what’s best for me.” I reach across the table and rest my hand on top of his. It’s clumsy and awkward and it just reinforces the gap Mom left in our family. “I don’t want to spend my life living in your shadow. Do you know what it’s like being compared to you week in and week out? You’re a legend. You hold so many records and you’ve done so much philanthropy. The fans love you. It’s a lot of pressure to live up to.”
He blinks and understanding dawns in his eyes. “And it will only intensify if you’re playing for my old franchise.”
I pull my hand back and shrug. My silence speaks volumes.
“Son, you’re one hell of a football player. You’ll probably break every record I set one day, and nothing would make me prouder,” he says, giving me a faint smile, “but I guess I never stopped to think about the pressure you’re under.”
“It’s not your fault—”
He raises a hand to cut me off. “Yes, it is. Your mother and I wanted what’s best for you, but we should’ve asked what you wanted—I should have asked what you wanted—because you’re our son first and foremost.” His voice hitches when he speaks again. “Losing your mom was the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through and I…I threw myself into making that dream come true because it felt like keeping a piece of her alive. But I know that more than anything, she’d want you to be happy.”
Tears prick the back of my eyes. It’s probably the most honest conversation we’ve had in the six years since my mom died.
“What a mess we’ve made,” he says, shaking his head. It’s rare my father admits making a mistake. This feels like a big admission, but it’s not just his mistake. It’s mine too. I should’ve been honest from the start, but I’ve learned my lesson. From now on, no holding back. I’m going to speak from the heart, even if it makes me the sappiest SOB to ever play the game. “All this time. Well, I’ll support you no matter where you play ball, but there’s always a chance Pittsburgh will draft you.”
“I know,” I say, drumming my fingers on the table. “And if it happens, I’ll sign with a smile. Just…don’t interfere. Let things play out naturally, okay?”
“Of course.” He narrows his eyes. “But I’ve got to know, is there a team you’ve got your
