I give her the space to work through whatever it is she’s turning over in her mind. Finally, she speaks, “My dad,” her voice issofter now, “played professional basketball. He was genuinely great at it.”
I glance at her, watching the way her expression shifts—nostalgic, but with her brow pinched together like she’s trying to make sense of something she’s wrestled with for years.
“I heard he played in the league.”
She nods. “Yes. He and my mom crossed paths when he was playing for a B team in Milwaukee. She didn’t know who he was at first. She wasn’t a big sports fan. But they met, dated, and basically fell in love with each other immediately. And then she got pregnant with me on accident.”
My chest tightens. I already know where this is going. The NBA and NHL seasons are practically identical in length and demand. Which means having a baby right when you’re starting off in your career is almost impossible. Ask me how I know.
“Shortly after he found out she was pregnant he got drafted to a top NBA team. He was gone for her entire pregnancy,” she says, her voice dropping. “Nine months and he was just… gone, and when he came back, and I was born, he told my mom he couldn’t commit to being a dad. He didn’t want to be in and out of my life, so instead of trying to be there for some of it…” She trails off, her jaw clenching. I already know what she’s going to say but it doesn’t make me any more pissed. The man didn’t even try to be a father. He just gave up instead of giving her as much as he could.
"He left." She lets out a slow breath. "So, my only memories of him came from pictures and accidentally seeing him in commercials on TV."
Fuck. A sharp, ugly anger settles in my chest. The next time I see Caleb, it's going to take every ounce of self-control I have not to knock his fucking teeth down his throat.
The silence that follows feels different. I glance over and catch the way Bri's mouth presses into a thin line. Her green eyes stay fixed on the road ahead, her grip tightening on the steering wheel. Bri doesn’t get bothered by much, but I can tell her relationship with her father hurts her.
"I'm sorry." My voice comes out rough. "Sounds like he was a pretty shitty excuse of a guy and doesn’t deserve the title of being your father."
Her fingers tighten another fraction around the wheel. Then she nods.
“Don’t be sorry,” she whispers. “I never knew any different. I have no idea what having a dad even feels like.”
Fuck. He just left. Chose a sport over his only child. And even after all these years, I can still hear the hurt in Brianna’s voice when she talks about it. It’s the kind of wound that never fully heals and it pisses me off.
I know firsthand that becoming a parent while trying to build a professional sports career isn’t easy. Sawyer wasn’t planned, and having a baby while I was just entering the league put a strain on every part of my life. It took a toll on my relationship. It stretched my late wife and me in ways we probably never would have been stretched otherwise.
There were seasons when I spent more nights in hotel rooms than in my own bed. Times when I missed milestones I would give anything to have back. But I still showed up every chance I got. During Sawyer’s first year of life, I flew her and her mom out to as many games as I could, even when it made absolutely no financial sense. Even when I could barely afford it mentally or financially.
I made it work because she wasmy daughter.Because being present mattered and I knew that.
Brianna’s father could have done the same. Maybe not perfectly. Maybe not every time. But he could have tried to show up. He could have found a way to be part of her life even if it was in stolen moments, birthdays and the off season. Being a professional athlete and a father is hard. No one knows that better than I do. But it’s not impossible. And it’s not like he was the first athlete in history to have a kid while chasing a career.
The more I think about it, the angrier I get. Because from where I’m standing, Brianna deserved better. She’s always deserved better.
I shift in my seat again, the dull ache in my leg flaring up as I try to get comfortable. Nothing about this is comfortable. Not the seat, not the conversation, not the way my chest tightens every time I look at her and see that sadness in her gaze lingering just beneath the surface. I want to erase it from her face. Kiss her lips until she’s not thinking about her shit dad.
“So, you mentioned you haven’t spoken to him since taking a job with the Mayhem?”
She looks at me slowly then back at the road. “You remembered that?”
“Of course.”
Her laugh is dry, almost bitter. “We haven’t talked since I took the job, but we did talk about a year ago.” She takes a deep breath. “When my mom died, he showed up at the funeral.”
“Really?”
She nods. “I only recognized him because I’d looked him up online. You know, like any kid would. I just… I wanted to see what his life was like. What I’d missed out on. What he chose over me.”
That guts me.
“I watched a few of his games and I hate to admit it, but he was really good. The only reason I never tried out for the basketball team as a kid was because it washissport. It’s the reason I got into volleyball and then played in college. Volleyball felt like the antithesis of basketball.” Her laugh is hollow and bitter. “I knew he’d bought a hockey team after he retired, but I didn’t know anything more until the day of her funeral.”
“What happened there?” I ask gently.
Her knuckles whiten on the wheel. “He asked if I needed anything,” she whispers, her voice thick with barely contained emotion. “And I wanted to scream.”
Fuck.
