FIVE YEARS EARLIER
Dad and me are wearing matching personalized 49ers’ jerseys that say Grayson on the back. He got them for us as a surprise, presenting me with them right before the game, and now we are sporting them proudly at the stadium. The game is well underway, and the 49ers have the lead, with the Chargers trailing behind. It’s my first ever football game and the atmosphere is amazing. The crowd is chanting, the stadium is rumbling. There are thousands upon thousands of people here, all packed in and cheering, and I’m on my feet with Dean by my side, both of us peering down at the field. Hugh takes him to games all the time. I wish my dad did the same.
“Did you see that?” I ask Dean, nudging him eagerly with my elbow. The players down on the field look tiny, so we are mostly watching the game on the screens, running our own personal live commentary. Dean understands football a little better than I do—Hugh lets him play, after all, and he wants to play football in high school—so he keeps explaining different plays to me.
“Yeah! That throw was insane!” Dean replies, his mouth wide open as his eyes flit around the field, never leaving the game. “Those are the type of throws I want to be able to catch.”
I lean forward a little and look past him, over to Dad and Hugh, who are sitting talking to one another, laughing and chugging beer out of cheap plastic cups. I’m not even sure if they’re watching the game. I think they’re just enjoying hanging out.
Dad catches my eye, and he smiles wide at me and asks, “Enjoying the game?”
“Uh-huh. Where’s the . . . the restrooms?”
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Dad tells Hugh, and he presses his cup of beer to his lips and chugs the remainder of it before getting to his feet. He squeezes past Dean, places his hand on my back, and guides me along the row. There’s so many people, so I’m glad he is coming with me, because there is no way I’d ever find my way back to my seat without him. It is way more hectic than a baseball game.
“Can we do this again?” I ask Dad as we swiftly navigate our way through the flow of people. I got my cast off at the beginning of the week, so it feels great not to be lugging around the extra weight on my arm anymore. My wrist is still stiff and it’s still weak, but at least it’s getting closer to recovery.
“It’s fun, huh?” Dad says, grinning down at me as we walk. “We never hang out just the two of us, not without your brothers trying to get involved, so let’s do this more often. How does that sound?” When I glance up at him, he is holding out his hand to me, so I high-five him with my strong hand. I like hanging out with Dad when it’s just the two of us.
We get to the restrooms, and when we meet again by the sinks, I am studying Dad curiously as I’m running the water over my hands. It’s been a month now. We’re happy. Things are different now, and I don’t think they are ever going to go back to the way they were. I think Dad has really changed. He is smiling a lot, and when he does get stressed, he keeps his distance from me. That’s why I figure it’s safe to ask him a question that I’ve been dying to ask for a while now, because if his behavior is different, then maybe his mindset is too.
“Dad?”
He glances sideways at me. “Yeah?”
I don’t know why I feel anxious to ask, but I stare down at my hands anyway, watching the water cascade over my skin. “Do you think . . . Do you think that maybe I could play football sometimes?” I slowly mumble, forcing my words out. I know Dad doesn’t like the idea of me playing football. He says it’s too dangerous and that I could get hurt. “With Dean and Jake? We want to join the team in high school.”
Dad immediately turns off the water and spins around to face me. “What did you just say?” he asks, but his tone is abrupt. I think he already knows what I said.
“Football . . .” I say again anyway, slowly. There is a sinking feeling in my stomach that I can’t quite explain. My nerves begin to heighten. “Can I play it?”
“Drop it, Tyler. I swear. You’re not playing football,” he says with a certain degree of finality to his words. He looks away, drying his hands on his jeans. There are a couple more guys in here, but they are leaving.
“But, Dad! Dean gets to!” I whine, folding my arms across my chest. Why can’t he just let me play? It’s only football. It’s not going to take over my entire life.
Dad’s green eyes flash up to me, and the smile he was wearing five minutes ago definitely isn’t returning anytime soon. He narrows his eyes, his jaw clenching as he points his finger at me. “Dean isn’t my son; you are. And you’re not playing, so don’t bring it up again.”
I turn back to the sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror, grinding my teeth together. “You can’t stop me,” I mutter under my breath. I love Dad, I do, and I forgive him, I think, but I wish he would just let me do this one thing. I do everything else he asks of me. Why can’t he give me a break?
Suddenly, Dad grabs a fistful of my jersey and yanks me toward him. It’s so quick that my breath catches in my throat. He lowers his forehead to mine until our eyes are level, and he is glowering at me in such a way that brings back so many memories of all of those bad nights from before, all of those nights that I thought were over for good. “You don’t have time for football,” he hisses, and he is so close that I can smell the beer on his breath. “Not now, and especially not in high school. Mention it to me one more time . . . One more fucking time, Tyler!”
“Dad . . .” I swallow hard as I glance down at his fist. His knuckles are paling as his grip on my jersey tightens. Does he realize what he’s doing? Does he realize that he’s breaking his promise? My eyes flick around the restroom, but the only person here is a guy at the opposite corner, pacing back and forth while talking on his cell phone. He doesn’t even notice. It’s up to me to say, “Stop.” My voice sounds just as weak as it used to.
With his fist still wrapped up in my jersey, Dad shoves me back against the sinks, hard. He shakes his head at me, and for the first time in a month, he is looking at me with disappointment and aggravation. It is the most terrifying thing in the world. He runs his hands through his hair, the veins in his arms emboldened, and he turns and storms straight out of the restroom without me.
He promised . . . He promised he wouldn’t lay a hand on me ever again. And he just did.
He’s a liar.
And I’m an idiot for believing him.
* * *
I don’t enjoy the rest of the game. I can’t focus. I sit numbly on my seat, staring off into nowhere, my mind awhirl. There is sickness in my stomach that I am fighting hard to keep down. At one point, Dean even asks if I’m okay. And I tell him that, yeah, I’m fine, just tired. I don’t meet Dad’s eyes again. I hear him laughing with Hugh, though. I see him get up for more beers.
Does he realize that the small amount of trust I had in him that has taken weeks to build is now completely shattered again? How can I ever trust him again now? I really, really believed him. I really thought things were different, that things had changed. But they haven’t. Not at all, and now I don’t know how safe I am with him. We’re staying in San Francisco tonight, but I want to go home. I want to see Mom. I miss her. When I’m with her, I’m safe.
As we are leaving the stadium, the crowd is electric, the energy explosive. The 49ers won the game, but I couldn’t care less now. Dean is talking my ear off about his favorite plays as we follow Dad and Hugh outside, speed-walking to keep up so as not to lose them among the crowd, and I don’t think he realizes that I’m not listening.
“Wait,” I hear Hugh say, and he abruptly stops walking, grabbing Dad’s shoulder. He glances back at Dean and me, and then at the stadium behind us. “We should get a picture, or else the wife won’t be happy. She does love her photographs! Isn’t that right, Dean?”
“Yep!” Dean grabs my elbow and tugs me over to our dads. Dean and Hugh get photos at games all the time—they have the photographs displayed all over their garage as mementos, so I figure it’s a tradition.
Hugh flags down the first guy who passes by and hands him his phone, and then the four of us awkwardly huddle in close together with the stadium behind us. I steal a sideways glance at Dean. He is grinning wide for the photo, his arm over my shoulder, and next to him, Hugh’s smile is identical. On the other side of Hugh, Dad has his back to the camera, pointing his thumbs to the back of his jersey, to Grayson.
“Tyler!” he calls over to me, his voice light and cheerful. “Turn around!”
I ignore the sound of his voice. I refuse to turn around and show our name. I refuse to smile.
Inside, I am breaking.