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“Drew, the hit you took yesterday did more than just exacerbate your previous injury. You probably unconsciously twisted as you went down, trying to protect your injured side. You've got some damage in your knee joint that needs to be repaired if you're going to continue playing football.” His voice is even, but it’s tinged with concern. The man cares, but he doesn’t mince words, and I respect him for that. “You need surgery, and it will require several months of rehabilitation before you'll be able to play again. I’m sorry.”
My heart sinks into my stomach, but I keep bobbing my head like a good soldier because what else can I do? Deep down inside, though, I’m pissed. I want to scream and pound my fits, throw something across the room because this isn't how I imagined ending my career.
I’m supposed to go out on a high. On my own terms whenI’mready.
I close my eyes and swallow past the lump in my throat.
I'm finished with football.
My head knows it.
My heart, though, still has to catch up.
Chapter9
Roni
Iarrive at the coffee shop early and the crisp autumn air hits me as I step out of my car, reminding me that fall has officially arrived in Minnesota. The trees are ablaze with color, ranging from deep shades of red and orange to golden hues that glint in the morning sunlight. Leaves scattered across the pavement crunch under my feet on the path to the coffee shop and the smell of cinnamon and pumpkin spice fills my nose as I enter. This is my normal hang out outside of my apartment, so with a quick nod to my favorite barista—the signal for my usual—I work my way through the lineup, scrutinizing customer faces while searching out a table near the back. I’m certain the person I’m meeting hasn’t yet arrived.
It’s been a couple of days since I’ve spoken with Drew after he left the field looking so glum. He answered only one of my texts last night, and it was brief. I'm worried about him. He's meeting with the team doctor this morning, and I just wish I could be there with him. It doesn't matter how old you are; when you know in your gut you'll receive bad news, it always helps to hold somebody's hand. But he didn’t ask me.
And now, after everything he told me, guilt weighs heavily in my own stomach because I’m here to meet a man claiming to be his father. I'm apprehensive about him, the man who reached out to me, especially since his initial contact was through a mysterious letter.
Last night, when I arrived home, I found an envelope in my mail slot. There was no return address, not even a stamp. It lacked the usual details I expect from a potential client, only stating that he wanted to buy the photos I had taken of Drew on the date of his injury, with no explanation of where he got my information or how he even knew I had pictures.
If Drew hadn't told me about his father, I'd be walking into this appointment unprepared. He mentioned gambling. Jail. He never gave me all the details, but he hinted at blackmail.
I refuse to allow him to hurt Drew.
But I want to know what he's up to so I can warn the man I’ve come to care a great deal for.
My order is delivered, and I take a sip of my chai latte, desperately searching the coffee shop for any glimpse of the man. He apparently knows me, but I have no idea what he looks like. All the same, I assume I’ll recognize him when I see him.
When thirty minutes have passed and my latte is nothing more than some leftover foam in the bottom of the paper cup, a false sense of security settles in. Maybe he changed his mind?
Suddenly the door swings open. Cold tendrils of wind wrap around my legs, and a chill runs through me. I slowly turn my head to see who it is.
A tall man wearing dark paint-stained jeans, a dirty leather jacket, and heavy combat-style boots is standing in the doorway, scanning the room, coming to a dead stop when his eyes land on me.
There's no doubt it's him. This could be Drew in about twenty years, but he's aged less gracefully than Drew ever will. This man looks haggard. Rough. Mean. He tries to exude an air of authority and confidence, similar to his son, but I see something entirely different.
A skilled photographer has a unique perspective on the world. We notice the intricate details and nuances that others may overlook. When looking at a subject, we don't just see its physical appearance. We also pick up on the emotions and thoughts conveyed through subtle expressions or body language.
For example, a good photographer may notice how the sunlight casts shadows on a subject, creating a unique interplay of light and dark. They may also see how the subject's eyes glint with a specific emotion or how their posture subtly changes depending on their mood.
This man is hiding something. I can tell his confidence is a façade. The way he jerks as he moves, there's no fluidity to his actions. The way his eyes dart all over the place hint at his insecurity. I'd bet he's sweating under that jacket.
My heart pounds as he approaches me and extends his hand.
“Veronica Galloway?” he asks in a deep voice, like his son's, but less rich. Less smooth.
I nod, but I don't stand to greet him. I don't smile.I don’t take his offered hand.
He drops his arm. “I'm Drew's Wylder’s father. He plays for the Minnesota Mayhems.”
“Yes, I know who he is.”
He makes his attempt at chit-chat, but I tune out most of what he's saying. I can't help but feel he's trying too hard to impress me.
