“I thought all that was behind you two.”
The sentence lands so matter-of-factly that I’m thrown for a second. My dad had a front row seat to Decker and I growing up side-by-side and has seen every version of whatever’s been between us. Why would he think everything between us is past tense?
Probably because it should be.
Damn that angel who always sits on my shoulder.
“It is.” I cross my arms and nod.
“Good.” He nods once, as though that’s settled. “Then what’s the problem?”
The elevator doors open, and I step out and realize I never actually made my case. Somehow between floors, I talked myself into accepting this instead of getting out of it. My dad didn’t even have to do anything. Which is the most annoying part.
I stare after my dad already walking toward the conference room. He glances over his shoulder and nods in the direction we need to go.
I know he’s playing a game. But why would he ever want me anywhere near Decker Davis after what happened all those years ago? Then again, my dad isn’t one for love and emotion. Maybe he just believes that years spent geographically apart can sever heartstrings. Right now, I wish I’d inherited that particular gene, even if I spent most of my childhood wishing he didn’t have it.
I fall into step beside him the way I did in hallways like this when I was seven years old. Muscle memory apparently never goes away. My dad moves through the building the way he always has—stopping for a word here, a nod there, never in a hurry but always on time. I stay quiet, smile when he introduces me, and say my polite hellos and nice-to-meet-yous.
Shane Whitaker has been the Colts’ GM for six years. He’s in his mid-fifties, the kind of man who clearly played sports at some point in his life and hasn’t stopped reminding people. He has that particular GM energy—like he’s the most important person in the room even though people loathe him.
Shane stands when we walk in, shakes my dad’s hand, then mine. “Penelope, thanks for coming in.” He gestures to one of the chairs. “Your dad seems convinced you’re the one for the job.”
My gaze lands on my dad across the table. “He’s never been one to highlight my faults.”
Shane laughs, but it doesn’t feel genuine. He lifts his wrist to check his watch. “Davis should be here soon. I just saw him on the field. Still struggling, I see.” His attention shifts to my dad.
Dad’s smile dims, and tension fills the room that wasn’t there until Decker’s name was brought up.
We wait for a few minutes, making small talk that feels more like a method of torture than anything.
Shane sucks on the straw of his Starbucks drink and leans back in his chair. “You like Chicago?”
I’m about to answer when someone knocks on the open door.
Decker.
He’s freshly showered, wearing a pair of shorts that show off how muscular his thighs are and a Colts T-shirt that pulls across his broad shoulders.
Seriously, I wish I had opted for a low-cut blouse and pants that mold to my ass to make him as unnerved as he’s making me right now. So unfair.
“Decker, please take a seat.” Shane waves him into the room.
Decker glances at me—which would be the closest option—but pivots and walks all the way around the table to sit next to my dad. Good. Now I don’t have to spend the next forty minutes pretending I can’t smell his soap or aftershave or whatever it is that makes him smell so damn good.
“Sorry I’m a little late, but none of you wanted to be stuck in here with me if I hadn’t showered.” He slips into the conference room seat with ease, but his shoulders are tense, and his smile isn’t his usual welcoming one.
“No problem. I’d never want to take you away from practice.” Shane tips his chair back and rests his forearms on the desk. “I want to be straight with you two about why this matters to the Colts. The WAG program isn’t just a nice thing we do for the families. It’s a retention tool. Players talk. When a guy is deciding between two offers and his wife or girlfriend has had a good experience with the organization, that matters.” He pauses. “The Trojans just hired a full-time director of family relations, with three staff members under her. They did a rooftop dinner series last season that got written up in two sports lifestyle magazines.”
My dad says nothing, his arms resting on the armrests of his chair, face blank.
Meanwhile, I want to say who the hell cares? Except I’m already doing the math on how a rooftop dinner series gets written up in a magazine and what that kind of visibility means.
“We’re not the Trojans,” Shane continues, “and we don’t need to be. But we need our program to feel intentional. Like this organization takes care of its players and their families and most of all the community.” He looks at me directly. “Your dad says you’re the one to do that. Do you agree?”
What am I supposed to say to that? “Absolutely.”
He nods, seeming satisfied. “And having Decker on the player side is the right call?” He glances at my dad, then back at me.
