Chapter 6 - My Father Said He Wasn’t The One Who Started It
Mark Brooks arrived at Hartwell without a tie.
That alone told me he was scared.
My father wore a tie to buy gas.
He met me in an empty section of the stadium.
No Coach Reed.
No Tyler.
My choice.
Dad sat three seats away.
“You look good.”
“Don’t.”
He nodded.
Fair.
“Why are you here?”
“Because you’re going to name me.”
“I haven’t decided what I’m going to say publicly.”
“You already told Reed.”
“Yes.”
“He’ll have to report it.”
“Maybe.”
Dad laughed bitterly.
“Maybe?”
“You’re the one who told me not to make one decent decision my whole personality.”
He looked away.
That hit.
Good.
Then:
“I handed you the sheet.”
“Yes.”
“I knew what it was.”
“Yes.”
“But I didn’t get it.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“That’s what I came to tell you.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know.”
I almost stood.
He raised a hand.
“Sit down.”
“No.”
“Evan.”
“You drove here to give me another technically true sentence.”
His face tightened.
“I found it in my office.”
“When?”
“Friday before the game.”
“And you used it.”
“Yes.”
“Without asking where it came from.”
“I asked.”
“Who?”
“Our analyst.”
“What did he say?”
“He thought recruiting had sourced it.”
“Recruiting?”
“Advance scouting. Public film. Whatever.”
“You believed that?”
Dad stared at the field.
“No.”
That stopped me.
“When did you know?”
“Immediately.”
“Then why use it?”
He laughed once.
“Because it was useful.”
No noble explanation.
Good.
Northlake had lost two straight conference title games.
Dad’s contract was under pressure.
Our head coach had begun interviewing replacements quietly.
My father knew.
So did I, although nobody had admitted it.
Dad had spent twenty-five years in football climbing toward a job he thought might disappear after one bad month.
A suspiciously perfect sheet appeared.
He told himself somebody else had verified the source.
Then he stopped asking.
“You handed it to me anyway.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you were my quarterback.”
Not:
my son.
That hurt more than I expected.
He noticed.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Yes, you did.”
He looked down.
“I needed you to run the offense.”
“You needed me to make the choice you didn’t want to own.”
He said nothing.
That was accurate.
Then:
“Who else knew?”
“Our head coach knew we had something.”
“What did he think it was?”
“Scouting.”
“Did he ask?”
“No.”
Of course.
Useful information creates terrible curiosity.
I asked:
“Why did you tell Reed I refused immediately?”
Dad stared at his hands.
“I was ashamed.”
“Of me?”
“No.”
“Then?”
“That you looked at the same thing I did and eventually stopped.”
Eventually.
The right word.
Dad had kept going.
He stayed through the rest of the game.
Through the championship.
Through the season.
I walked.
Not immediately.
Still walked.
“I told myself I was protecting you.”
“You were protecting yourself from having a son who was more honest than you.”
His face tightened.
“That’s cruel.”
“Yes.”
“Also true?”
He looked away.
“Yes.”
We sat for a while.
Then he said:
“Reed called me three months ago.”
“I know.”
“No. After he started recruiting you.”
I turned.
“What?”
“He wanted me to tell you not to transfer there.”
That made no sense.
“Why?”
“Because you kept refusing his calls.”
I almost laughed.
“So Coach Reed used my father to convince me to avoid Coach Reed?”
“He thought reverse psychology might work.”
“That sounds insane.”
“It worked. You called him the next week.”
Unfortunately true.
Dad almost smiled.
Then the smile disappeared.
“He told me something else.”
“What?”
“He said he needed you to choose Hartwell for football.”
“As opposed to?”
“Guilt.”
I stared.
Dad continued.
“Reed knew you were carrying what happened like a sentence.”
“He wasn’t wrong.”
“No.”
“He also knew having you at Hartwell would make people talk about the semifinal again.”
“Yes.”
“Did he care?”
Dad thought.
“Yes.”
At least.
Then:
“But I don’t think that’s why he recruited you.”
That surprised me.
“You just spent twenty minutes telling me everyone acts out of self-interest.”
“I said people can have more than one reason.”
I hated how often the older people in my life became insightful after the damage.
Dad looked toward the fifty-yard line.
“He thought you could play.”
“I know.”
“And he thought football might give you a place to make decisions without me standing behind you.”
I did not want that sentence.
Too kind to Reed.
Too accurate about me.
Then Dad said:
“I told him not to take you.”
“Because I’d expose you?”
“Partly.”
“What else?”
He looked at me.
“Because I thought if you played well there, it would prove leaving Northlake was the right choice.”
I frowned.
“That sounds good.”
“No.”
Dad shook his head.
“I needed you to regret leaving.”
That was the real confession.
If I succeeded somewhere else, my father would have to face the possibility that walking away from him had been good for me.
He didn’t want that.
I stood.
“So what do you want?”
“I don’t know.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“What do you want me to do?”
He took a long time.
“Tell the truth about your drive.”
“I will.”
“Tell the truth about me handing you the sheet.”
“I will if I’m asked.”
His face tightened.
Then relaxed.
“And don’t tell anybody I knew where it came from.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
I believed him.
Barely.
“That’s yours to say.”
He looked up.
“What?”
“I’m done making your part cleaner or dirtier than it is.”
He nodded slowly.
I started walking away.
Then Dad called:
“Evan.”
I turned.
“You think Tyler Grant is a bad captain?”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“I think he did something that should cost him the band.”
Dad nodded.
“And after that?”
“I don’t know.”
He smiled sadly.
“Good.”
“What?”
“Maybe Reed finally taught you something useful.”
I almost told him Reed hadn’t taught me that.
Life had.
Then I remembered how often adults steal credit from each other in this story.
I left the sentence alone.
When I reached the tunnel, Tyler was waiting.
Of course.
“What are you doing here?”
“Conduct meeting.”
He looked toward my father.
“That him?”
“Yes.”
“The guy who gave you the signals.”
“Yes.”
Tyler stared.
Then:
“I thought I wanted to hit him.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m learning.”
We almost smiled.
Then Tyler’s face changed.
“Reed told me what he’s doing tomorrow.”
“What?”
“Team vote.”
“For captain?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Tyler stared at the field.
“I’m withdrawing my name.”
That surprised me.
“Why?”
“Because if they vote while everybody’s angry at me, it isn’t a real vote.”
That sounded almost mature.
Then he added:
“And if they vote for me anyway, I’ll spend the whole season wondering whether they did it because they’re scared of me.”
Better.
I nodded.
Tyler looked at me.
“You running?”
“For captain?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been here two days.”
He smiled slightly.
“See? Charity boy’s learning.”
I stared.
His smile disappeared.
“Too soon?”
“Way too soon.”
“Fair.”
“Stop saying that.”
Then a voice came from behind us.
Luke Mercer.
The quarterback I was supposedly replacing.
He had heard enough.
“Neither of you should worry.”
We looked at him.
He held up the captain ballot sheet.
“My name’s on it.”
Tyler laughed.
I did too.
Luke smiled.
Then:
“And Coach Reed just told the whole offense tomorrow’s first-team reps are mine.”
I frowned.
“What?”
Luke’s smile disappeared.
“He said you asked for second team.”
I stared at him.
“I did not.”
Tyler closed his eyes.
“Coach really cannot stop deciding what people mean.”
And we all turned toward the facility.
May you like
Reed had promised to stop controlling the story.
Less than twenty-four hours later, he had already started doing it again.
