Page 71 of Break Point

I slump back onto the bench and stare at the grates on my locker door until my eyes begin to blur the holes together. I haven’t called my mom in a month. I’ve been avoiding my dad too. Amelia’s filled both of them in on what’s happening, but neither has reached out to me. If it’s not football, it’s not important to Jacob Moss. And my mom probably thinks she’s giving me space. I’m twenty-two. I can handle it. Except, I can’t. I so fucking can’t.

I stretch into my locker for my phone and earbuds, then push the buds into my ears and pull up both of my parents’ contacts. It’s been ages since I’ve talked to them both at once, and despite how little they like each other, I think I kind of need them both right now.

I press my mom’s contact first, then grip the sides of the bench while I watch my screen and await her answer.

“Hey, honey. How are you doing?” Her tone is subdued, like she’s working at a spa. It’s comforting, and I miss the way she used to take my stress away when I was a kid by simply saying nice words and running her hand through my hair.

“I’m sure Amelia filled you in,” I sigh out.

“She did. I’m so sorry, honey. Amelia said Jaden’s incredible. I’m sure this is so hard on you both.” Empathy. I breathe it in, but I know it’s not the only thing I need. I need some tough love too.

“It is. But I was wondering . . . This is going to sound weird, but do you mind if I loop Dad in on our call? I kind of need you both, I think.” I chew at my thumbnail while my mother mulls my proposition over for a few quiet seconds.

“Okay,” she croaks. I hear a door shut on her end. She must have stepped into her office for privacy.

“Hold on,” I say, placing my mom on hold so I can call my dad. Naturally, it takes two attempts for him to answer, and his greeting is abrupt as always.

“Bryson.” I’m sure he’s paying attention to something else right now, but I need his focus for a few minutes.

“Hey, Dad. Hold on, I’m connecting you with Mom.” That should do it.

I hear my father clear his throat as I merge our calls. I definitely caught him off guard.

“Hi, Jacob,” my mom says, the first to offer an olive branch.

“Liv.”

I think maybe that’s my dad’s version of an olive branch. I suppose it’s nice to know that my father greets both of us with the same curtness.

“Thank you both for being on the phone with me, together. I know how little you like it.”

“Of course,” my mom begins. My father overlaps her with a blunt okay.

“This might sound hard to believe, but I actually need advice from both of you.” That comment gets a chuckle from both lines, which sort of eases the mood.

“I know Amelia has filled you guys in on what’s going on with Jaden, but I don’t know that she can really paint the full picture for you.”

I pause for a moment and take a deep breath. It was so much easier when I was a high school hotshot who could just show up with a new girlfriend every other week and know they would all get the same formal greeting from my dad and kindness and cookies from Mom. Even after my parents divorced, I never hesitated to introduce them to someone I was dating. Hell, even if it was a girl I was simply trying to charm.

This time is different, however. Not just because of the circumstances and struggles Jaden is going through, and that I am feeling by extension, but because I love her. I see her in my life beyond right now. Whether or not I can get her on the court again doesn’t matter when it comes to how I feel.

I decide taking a page out of my father’s playbook is best. Direct and to the point.

“I love Jaden. And I don’t mean in like a childish fleeting way—I fucking love her. And it is absolutely killing me to watch her struggle. I know there was a time when you two loved each other that much, or at least you thought you did. I need some advice on how I stand by someone going through something like she is. When do I push? And how do I let them quit?”

This may be the first time in years that my father hasn’t responded to me with a single-word answer in under a second. He’s silent, which means he’s either taking another call at the same time or perhaps, well, thinking. Regardless, I’m not surprised when my mother is the first person to talk.

“Oh, Bryson. This must be killing you.”

“It is,” I say. “But I know this isn’t about me, and it’s killing her more.”

“Has she talked to anyone? Like a therapist?” my mom asks.

My father finally cuts in with a short, breathy laugh.

“What, Jacob?” This is the point when my mom’s tone sours thanks to my father’s quick dismissal of something she suggests. They have their patterns.

“Just you and therapy is all. Because that worked wonders with us,” he says, then scoffs.