COHEN

I crash through the door, slamming it shut so hard the wall rattles. I don’t have a lot of self-control right now, which is why I’ve come to the place where it all began. I should’ve gone straight home, but I didn’t. I came to face my father.

I take loud steps toward the living room as the bumble of television chatter filters down the hallway. The channel changes from a sports network—a sports network?—to some stupid late night sitcom as I round the corner.

My dad doesn’t bother to look over from his place on the La-Z-Boy. Raising a beer to his lips, he takes a sip and watches a dumb joke that gets a round of applause from the laugh track. The way he’s focused on the screen sets off alarm bells. Nobody can watch a sitcom with that much interest.

And then, it hits me.

He watched the game—and he doesn’t want me to know it.

“Are you proud?” I move across the room, standing directly in front of the television so he has no choice but to stare at my stomach instead. “You saw everything, didn’t you?”

He takes another long, lazy pull of his Bud Light before giving a disinterested smack of his lips. “Why are you here?”

I pace around the room, his low drawl getting on my nerves. He didn’t ask me to stop over—he never calls, texts, emails. I’m still wondering why the hell I’m here when he begins to speak.

“Cornered you at the end there, didn’t they?” He takes a moment to swallow. “Great interview, son.”

I can’t look at him. If they’d aired that clip and Annie had been watching... it couldn’t have made her feel great. Not marriage material. I shake my head, cringing at the replay in my mind.

A year or two ago, I wouldn’t have shied away from that reputation. I might’ve even flaunted it, been proud of my independence, my desire to stay single and live a life free from those ties.

Then Annie arrived in the picture, and now I don’t know what to think anymore. Tying myself to Annie for a lifetime sounds pretty good, actually, and I’m beginning to wonder if I had my priorities all wrong before.

“I knew you had it in you, kid.” My dad, for once, sounds almost proud. “Women. They always leave. Better if you don’t get attached to some girl.”

“Annie’s not some girl,” I snarl.

“You think she’ll stay with you after you admitted to the world you don’t want to get married?”

“I didn’t say that. Coach put words into my mouth. We were both upset.”

“What does it matter? She’ll misinterpret it, just like women always do.”

I’m silent. Not because I agree with him, but because I can see how Annie might’ve taken the interview to mean something it didn’t. I have to find her, set the record straight before it’s too late.

“Don’t blame your shit on me, Cohen.” My dad stands suddenly, tall, thinner than he used to be, soft around the middle. “I can see what’s going through your mind. This is all your old man’s fault for turning you off marriage. You’d never be in this situation if it weren’t for me—that’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

I remain quiet, fuming, because a part of me is thinking exactly that.

“Don’t let me stop you, Cohen. You want to marry the girl? Marry her. Invite me or don’t. It’s your life.”

It takes a second for me to process, to figure out why the hell I’m still standing here. My dad hasn’t changed in twenty years—why should I expect him to offer me advice now?

“Maybe you’re right,” I tell him, softer now. “Maybe I shouldn’t get married. Because Annie is perfect, and I don’t deserve her.”

“Get out of my house, kid. I’m sick of you dumping your problems on me. I’ve got enough of my own without you coming to whine at me.”

I wait for a long moment, offering up one final chance for him to change his mind, to offer me a snippet of hope, a bit of wisdom from his fifty odd years on this planet. But there’s nothing. I’m drained, emotionally and physically, and he’s pissed. Nothing good will come of me standing around.

“I’m sorry I came here.” I turn, leaving him to return to his armchair in peace.

I make my way to the front door, noticing along the way that Rosa, bless her heart, has sent one of her cleaning ladies to brighten this place up. There are flowers near the door—not that my dad will ever notice—and I make a mental reminder to send her a massive tip.

This time, when I slide into my car, I point the wheel toward home. I need to think, to cool down, to figure out what to do. My dad might be a jerk, but he has one point. I went to his house to yell and moan about my problems, but it didn’t solve anything. I wanted to dump my crap on him, but it didn’t work. The problems that need solving aren’t at my dad’s house.

I couldn’t admit it before, but I can see it now. I’m terrified to face Annie Plymouth. I’m terrified of the fact that I love her more than I love the game, my career, life itself. I’m terrified because I can see myself spending a lifetime with her, and here I was, looking for a way out.

My fingers grip the steering wheel tight at this realization, the yellow lines of the freeway licking the underbelly of my car as I fly toward my condo. The way I see it, I have two choices. I can go home, sulk, and make my dad proud. I can give up on love and turn into a single, bitter old man with only a beer koozie to keep me warm at night.

Or, I can turn my car around, go find Annie, and tell her what I should’ve told her weeks ago.