His perfect hair is now wet and stringy, and his lips are now gloriously shimmery.
Maybe I’m drunk because I kind of want to kiss him right now. And well, I just might.
“Shit,” Desmond screams before letting me go and effectively shattering my trance. Everyone around us is still cheering, and I can’t even hear myself think let alone hear what Desmond is mouthing to me now.
“What?” I scream over the noise.
“I’m so sorry,” he says again as he swipes at his wet face. “I got too excited.” Then he swivels toward the field, where Coach Reynolds is giving Zach a pat on his back. “Did you see that?” Desmond leans toward me and booms with excitement. “Did you see that pass to Anderson?”
I laugh because no matter what my feelings are toward football or my father or our memories, Desmond’s face right now is priceless. His excitement is contagious, and his hugs are far too good to forget.
“Yes, I saw it,” I finally say.
For the rest of the game, I actually watch without a resentful bone in my body. For the most part, I keep my eyes off my dad, and I focus them on Zach since he’s the one Desmond and Monica are here to see. I can do that. I can focus on something other than my own past and be happy. Maybe I can even start to fall in love with the game again.
Seattle ends up winning thirty-two to fourteen, and Desmond is high on life. I remember that feeling, that joy, that intoxication that flooded my veins with each win. I remember when I would see my dad after a game and he would smile bigger than I thought possible. And somehow, that smile felt like it was aimed at me every single time.
I won’t deny that there’s something magical about the way the game brings so many people together, win or lose. To an extent, it doesn’t matter how much a person understands the sport. All that matters is what color they wear and how loud they scream.
Desmond leads me down the stairs instead of up toward the way we came in, and my steps feel heavier the closer we get to the field. “Where are you going?” I hiss.
He looks at me like he’s confused. “It’s faster to get through the tunnel this way. Why?” Then he sees my face and sighs. “Shit. I mean, you can stay here if you want, but I have to stop by the locker room before we leave. It’s tradition.”
He pulls out two field passes, and I want to smack him. Instead, I fold my arms across my chest and sit. “I’ll stay here.”
Desmond nods. “I’ll hurry. Don’t move from this spot.”
I watch him leave without acknowledging his request. I can’t be mad at him for doing what comes naturally, but what comes natural for him feels so wrong to me. How did our lives become so embedded when we weren’t even trying?
The stadium seating is clearing out fast as I take in the field, the lights, and the glory. I should have never come to this game. Coming here only made me miss something I’ve worked so hard to forget. And I was successful until today.
“Mags?”
The familiar voice is an instant blast to my heart, and my body begins to shake as I turn my head in my father’s direction. He looks the same, with a few extra grays tossed like tinsel throughout his full set of hair. Just the sight of him tightens my throat.
“It’s really you.” He’s smiling, despite the way I must look—shocked, terrified, and teetering on the edge of a waterfall of tears. “You haven’t responded to any of my calls or texts.”
I’m still angry at Monica for just giving him my phone number like it belonged to him.
He searches my expression like he’s waiting for me to say something, but I’m struggling to find the right words. I don’t know how to greet a man who stripped my childhood from me without a second glance.
He takes two steps up the stairs, slowly, like he’s testing the waters. I’m still too surprised to move or speak.
“Did you enjoy the game?”
I swallow over the lump in my throat. He asked a direct question. I can manage an answer to that. “It was great. You’re quite the coach.”
He lets out a chuckle, the tone riddled with nerves rather than actual humor. “Well, I try, but these boys certainly keep me on my toes.”