The room went still after that, the only sound the faint mechanical hum of Ginny’s device as she typed.
So, you are making decisions based on the worst thing that might happen, not the most likely thing that will.
The words impaled me like a bullet.
That is fear, Braden. Not logic.
I exhaled hard through my nose, but I couldn’t argue with that, either.
Because she wasn’t wrong. I had been dressing fear up as responsibility for so long, I wasn’t sure I remembered the difference anymore.
For the first time since I’d walked away from Emily in that hospital, I let myself consider something I hadn’t wanted to admit.
Maybe I hadn’t ended things because there was no way through.
Maybe I’d ended them because I was terrified of what it would cost to try.
Ginny’s fingers moved again.
Also, let’s be serious. Coach is trying to avoid bad publicity, not launch you into the sun.
Despite myself, a short laugh escaped me.
Her mouth tipped at the corner, pleased she’d gotten it.
Then she typed one more thing.
And even if the worst happened, you would still be okay. It might be messy. It might suck for a while, but you’d be okay. You are not some guy bagging groceries because you kissed a girl behind a stadium.
I barked out a real laugh at that, shaking my head. “But it could still blow up. With the podcast clip still going off, all eyes on us… they could start to dig.” I swallowed. “You and Mom and Dad might be brought into it. I don’t know, people are crazy.”
Ginny nodded once and typed:
Maybe. That’s life, big brother. We’re all scared sometimes. But we can’t live in the maybes and let fear drive. We have to let hope take the wheel.
Her words sank in deep, and I quirked a grin. “Wow. That was actually very nice.”
It was exhausting. I’d like to go back to making fun of you forevermore.
I chuckled, but then scrubbed a hand over my face. “I don’t know what to do.”
Talk to her, you idiot. Make things right. And stop trying to be a martyr. We love you and we are fine. We want you to be happy, too.
“She’s right, son.”
Ginny and I looked to Dad, who’d apparently been listening with Mom at the doorway. I hadn’t even noticed them.
Mom had tears in her eyes.
“Aw, Mom,” I said, standing to pull her into a hug. “I’m sorry. Don’t cry.”
“No,I’msorry,” she said, dabbing at her nose when she pulled back. “Honey, your father and I never wanted you to feel all this pressure. Ginny is right — we are fine. Play football if you love it, or leave it all behind. Whatever makes you happy.”
“Football does make me happy,” I said. “I don’t want to lose it — not just for the comfort it provides us, but for the purpose it gives me.” I paused. “But Emily makes me happy, too. Happier than I’ve ever been.”
“Then don’t lose her,” Dad said, as if it were that easy. “Imagine this with me: Ginny, your mother, and I are all just fine. We go home and get back to life as normal. You tell your coach what’s going on and he says it’ll all be fine. Your job is safe. Emily can still dance for the team. You two can be together.”
He paused then, smiling at my mom and tucking her under his arm before turning to face me again.
