to make things work long-distance,” Whitney says. “I respect you kids. You guys have so much respect and trust in each other.”
Dad flinches a little like he does anytime Matt’s name is brought up.
Rose rolls her eyes.
Arlo shifts uncomfortably.
And I cringe because if Whitney knew the truth—that we’re not managing and that Matt respects me enough to kiss other girls—she would have steered clear of that comment.
Ross unintentionally ends the awkward moment when he takes a drink and proceeds to gag and cough, setting the glass on the island as he backs away, his face turning red. “Don’t drink it,” he warns Rose. “It’s gone bad.” He moves to the sink and starts spitting.
Rose looks amused. “It’s supposed to taste like that,” she says as Ross begins gargling water.
“Where’s your brother?” Whitney asks Ross.
“Playing videogames.”
“Has he finished his homework?” she asks.
“How should I know?” Ross fires back.
“Go find out,” Dad says.
“Make Olivia do it. She never has to do anything. She comes over and eats and then leaves.”
“Go find your brother,” Dad says.
Ross rolls his eyes.
“And put your trumpet away.”
Ross swipes the trumpet from the counter and stalks off, mumbling something as he goes.
“Rose, how have you been?” Whitney asks. “I haven’t seen you around in months.”
“I’ve been well. Keeping busy with classes and corrupting Olivia.”
Whitney laughs, but Dad grimaces slightly, the wrinkles on his brow revealing his age. “While you’re at it, can you teach her how to be on time?”
“We were on time today,” I remind him.
He nods dismissively. It’s a trait of his I can remember since childhood, one that has always irked me because it basically says, ‘yeah, whatever.’
“I need to call Barry about some defensive sets. Have you heard about Utah?” he looks at Arlo, who nods.
“Yeah, I saw they recruited Omar as their new quarterback.”
Dad chews his gum, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s right. Have you seen him play?”
“He’s a beast.”
“I have a feeling we’ll play them early next year. I want to make sure we’re ready for them.”
“I was watching some tape on Omar and noticed he gets rattled if he’s sacked—not only for the running play but for the rest of the game. It takes him out mentally. He doesn’t like contact. You remember this season when Paxton kept getting sacked again and again by Eastern Washington—I think if we do that, he won’t be able to focus and keep his head in the game. Hoyt could be his worst enemy with his speed and how he likes to chip with his shoulder.”
Dad chews a few more times. “You think Hoyt’s big enough?”
Arlo nods. “Hoyt is underrated, in my opinion. His center of gravity extends beyond any player I’ve ever seen. He can throw his weight around like he weighs an extra two-hundred pounds. He’s a force.”
“What do you think about Banks?”
“He’s going to make your job difficult next year,” Arlo says. “He’s a strong running back, both as a halfback and a fullback. He’s fast and agile, but he doesn’t stray from hits. He’ll need to work a bit more with making sure he doesn’t veer right every time. The defense will spot that and start anticipating him going right, but he protects the ball better than almost any halfback in our league.”
“Except for you,” I blurt out, though I have literally zero knowledge of Arlo’s stats or anything else. But I can’t have him giving the guy who’s replacing him a glowing review, not after what my dad has told me. Arlo glances at me with that same unreadable expression that makes me focus for too long on him.
Dad looks at me as well. “Of course, Arlo’s easily the best running back in the league. He practically dances across the field.” He grabs Ross’s abandoned drink. “You want to review some tape while they wrap up dinner? I want to see what you’re talking about with Omar.”
“Not too long,” Whitney warns. “Dinner is going to be ready in fifteen minutes. And if you see the boys, tell them they need to set the table.” Arlo doesn’t look reluctant or even surprised by the invitation, though I’m feeling both as they walk down the hall and disappear out of sight toward my dad’s office.
“I’ll set the table,” I say in an attempt to convince myself not to follow them.
“You don’t have to,” Whitney says, pouring Marsala wine into the pan, making it steam and sizzle.
“It’s okay. I don’t mind. Do you want to eat in the dining room tonight