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“Two more years, Dad. We made a deal. I’m not planning on backing out of it.” I take a large bite of the fluffy cakes. “So, what’s your feeling on tonight?”
“Not sure. The defense has stepped up big time. Prescott is a beast. We’re going to use him a little on special teams. Got a couple on offense stepping their game up.”
“Prescott is good,” I nod without looking up. “You think he’ll get called up?”
“It’s not looking good for him, no,” he says easily. “I think his hesitation to enter last year may have cost him. But if he keeps it up and gets an invite to camp this year, he might have a shot.”
Dread fills me. I know how much he needs this, but I can’t linger on him.
“What about Troy Jenner?”
“Hard to tell. He’s gotten some interest. They’re talking about him. I think he’s a shoo-in and will get an invite to camp. But he seems a bit distracted this year. He’s going to have to get it together if he really wants it. We need this season.”
“I know, Daddy.”
I thank God I haven’t raised suspicions with my questions, but Dad is too focused on tonight’s game at the moment. The Rangers barely snagged a bowl game last year, and in the last five years, the team has declined in the rankings.
We spend the next thirty minutes mulling over the team and the possible outcome of the season, his strategy, along with his other favorite subject, my mother and sister. He’s a family man through and through. Most coaches wouldn’t wake up at five a.m. to have game-day breakfast and indulge their daughter in ball talk, but most coaches aren’t Ryan Elliot. Though his concern for my personal life is now mostly misplaced, I understand his protection of me. And that fierce protection in my eyes equates to nothing but love. My dad’s demeanor might be hard to penetrate, his moods sometimes impossible to navigate safely around, but his priorities never change, his family, his team, all of it comes down to his love and his respect.
But as we leave the diner and I kiss my father’s cheek, I can’t help but think back on the beginning of our conversation.
If Lance doesn’t get drafted, what will he do? How will he survive? How will his family fare if they lose the ranch? Clearing my head, I focus on faith; the faith I have in Lance, in what he’s done on the field so far this season, faith in his capabilities. It’s then I get an idea of just how much pressure he’s under and vow then and there to do anything in my power to help him.
He’s become far more than my experiment. For the first time in my life, my father isn’t the only man who’s taken up residence in my heart. Driving away from the restaurant, it sinks in, I’m falling.
Lance
“Everyone, this is Harper,” I grip her hand in mine and squeeze. I can feel the slight tremor in her stance. She’s nervous. And I have to admit, I am a little too. I used fall break as a chance to bring her home for two reasons, one to possibly help us with the books, and two to introduce her to my family. The shitty part is I only have her for one night and have to get her back to her family for Thanksgiving tomorrow. I caught my dad’s gaze when we walked in, and it was one that told me, ‘we needed to talk.’ Ignoring it, I made quick introductions. “This is my Mom, Jeannie, my Dad, Jack, my Aunt Dotty, and Uncle Pete, and this little shit here is my little brother, Trevor.”
“Nice to meet you all,” she says cordially. “You have a beautiful home.”
This earns points all around, and I’m quick with my weaponry when my dad scrutinizes her further. “She’s all about ball talk, Dad, so I hope you’ve got more beer than usual.”
“Fan?”
“You have no idea,” I spout proudly, wrapping protective arms around her briefly before letting go. I don’t miss the shock in Mom’s voice when she speaks.
“Just about time to eat,” she says, clearing the emotion from her throat.
“Can I help with anything?” Harper offers.
“No, hon, all set. Everyone grab a seat at the table.”
Harper sits to the left of me as everyone joins hands. After short grace, the ball busting begins, and Harper is quick with every quip, even joining in on the cracks on me. She fits in, just like I thought she would, but I can clearly see the change in her expression when she watches my dad’s hand tremor while he attempts to get a bite on with his fork. He’s concentrating on his task, too fucking stubborn to ask for help and I can’t say I blame him. Harper’s eyes begin to shimmer before meeting mine, and I see the instant realization sets in.
“You know for all the driving we did, I forgot to wash up. Would you all,” she drops her eyes just as Dad drops a heaping glob of mashed potatoes in his lap, “excuse me.”
Trevor, Dad, Uncle Pete, and I stand, and she holds up a hand. “No need to get up. So sorry. I’ll be right back.” She calmly makes her way from the table.
“You know, I didn’t wash up, either. I’ll be right back.” I toss my napkin down and stand before I make headway down the hall and catch Harper just before she s
huts the door. I lock us both in the bathroom, my hands behind me on the knob.
She stands in the middle of the small room, her back to me. “I have to go.”
“What?”
“To the restroom.” Her voice is filled to the brim with emotion, “give me some privacy.”
