I cross the Golden Gate Bridge and round the curve on the hill that leads into downtown Sausalito, singing along to Foreigner. How can I not? It’s against the laws of the universe to listen to this song and not sing. As the sun dips in the sky, I croon about climbing any mountain and sailing across a stormy sea. The car practically vibrates from the music and the sheer awesomeness of “Feels Like the First Time.”

This tune has the added benefit of keeping my brain occupied. The more I think about what to say to Violet, the more it’s going to drive me nuts. Executing a play on the field is one thing. Those need to be practiced, memorized, and turned into a habit. But this is a delicate situation—a request—and it needs to come from the heart.

The problem is there’s nothing in it for her. I need her to say yes, but she gets zilch out of this deal. That’s why I need to appeal to our friendship. My request for her to play along needs to feel natural, not as if I’ve been plotting the words to say as I drive.

I focus on the breathtaking view of the navy-blue water in Richardson Bay, on the choppy waves that crash against the rocks and the sand, and on the chorus to the second-best karaoke song ever written. Hell, if I weren’t any good at football, I’d try to find a way to be a professional karaoke singer. Every man needs at least one great party trick. Mine is killing it at the karaoke machine, and I aced every competition we had in college in my dorm. I still try to go to Gomez Hawks, a chill karaoke bar in the city, with some of my college buds — a cool chick named McKenna, along with her husband Chris, and some of my other friends from the non-football side of my life.

The way I see it, I had no choice but to love rock music. I grew up with music blasting from every speaker in the house. My mom worked in customer service for an Internet shopping giant, and when she came home from hours dealing with phone complaints, she needed loud music as the antidote to a day full of “I’m sorry to hear your shipment of Nicholas Cage pillowcases arrived late” and “Of course we’ll replace the fifty-five-gallon drum of lube with the seventy-five-gallon one you meant to purchase.”

As my mom tells it, I was conceived at a Pearl Jam concert with a guy she met in the audience. Apparently, Jeremy did the trick, a detail my mom shared when I was eleven and that song was blasting as I cleared the dinner table. “As soon as Eddie Vedder finished singing this song, that’s when the man in the audience and I sneaked off.”

Honestly, I’m still a little pissed at her for ruining Pearl Jam for me.

When my mom found out she was pregnant, she tracked the dude down and told him the news. He said to her, “Don’t look at me. That’s your problem.”

That was the last she ever saw of him.

As a kid, I was angry that he never cared about me. Now, as a man, I’m grateful that the fucker never came looking for her or me with opportunity in his eyes. But we got the last laugh. We didn’t need him, and the fact that he doesn’t even know my name—because he never knew her last name—means he can’t get anything from me.

Ever.

But my mom? She gets whatever she wants, and that’s been one of my greatest joys in life.

She lives on the way to Violet’s salon, and I picked something up in the city for her. As I reach the bottom of the hill and pull into her driveway, a familiar sense of pride surges in my chest. She loves her house—it’s a three-bedroom, two-story home on stilts on a small patch of beach in Sausalito, a beautiful seaside town just across the bay from the city. I cut the engine and grab the bag of takeout I picked up from her favorite Chinese restaurant on Chestnut Street. I head around the side of her house, take the steps two at a time to the wraparound deck, and knock on the glass door. But she’s not inside. She calls out from the sand.

“Is that my favorite Chinese deliveryman?” She cups her hands over her eyes.

“Yes, ma’am. One order of spicy eggplant, one order of pepper steak, and one order of scallion pancakes.”

I head to the sand. The breeze blows Mom’s blond hair across her cheek, and she gathers it back. Dyed blond, courtesy of Violet. My mom says she refuses to become a silver fox, especially since she’s not even fifty, so she’s a religiously regular customer at Heroes and Hairoines, with an appointment every three weeks.

Her dog, Miss Moneypenny, a Golden Retriever mix, bounds over to me and plops herself down, asking nicely for food. “Hey, girl,” I say, scratching her silky chin as my mom walks over in a billowy green sweatshirt, a tennis ball in one hand and two Chihuahua mixes, James and Bond, by her side.

The spy franchise, rock music, and football—that’s what my home was filled with growing up.

“I got your favorite and Dan’s,” I say, holding up the bag.

“Always so thoughtful, even though I know I’m just a pit stop on your way to see your girlfriend.”

“Just as I know you’ll be happy to watch The Spy Who Loved Me with Dan, the dogs, and the Chinese food,” I point out.

“Touché.” She leans in to give me a kiss on the cheek and ruffles my hair as she takes the food. “Now.” Shifting her tone, she parks one hand on her hip and stares sharply at me. “Were you ever going to tell your dear old mom?”

“Mom, there’s hardly anything to tell.”

“Seems there’s something. Ready to confess?”

I laugh. “It’s complicated, but in a nutshell, I had to say all that stuff about us being together to prevent some trouble I was having with the owner’s sister.”

She arches a brow. “What sort of trouble?”

“Nothing you need to worry about. Just know I kind of need to pretend Violet and I are a thing for a little while.”

“That seems a bit dicey.”

“It’ll be fine, Mom.”

Mom has never stopped worrying about me in the dog-eat-dog world of pro sports. “Be careful, Cooper.”

“I’m always careful. You’ll keep my secret?”

She ruffles my hair. “Cooper, I’m your mother. Of course I’ll keep my mouth shut, even if I don’t understand why you need to do this.”

“It’ll all be worth it, I promise,” I say, then hand her the bag.

“Wait. Let me amend that. Keep bribing me with Chinese food, and I won’t blab.”

“We’ve got a deal.”

She opens the bag and inhales. “My mouth is watering.”

“Make sure Miss Moneypenny doesn’t eat it all,” I tell her, but her big dog is far more interested in the tennis ball.

“She would never steal food. She’s too well-trained,” Mom says proudly. She flashes me the happiest grin in the world. “Such a shame that training them is all I have to do all day long.”

I smile, too. “And that’s the way it should be.”

She’s the classic football mom. She worked hard when I was a kid, picking up extra money for uniforms and equipment with babysitting gigs in the evenings. She drove me to every practice, attended every game, and cheered the loudest. Mom had rented her whole life, and what she wanted most was to own a home here in Sausalito and to spend her days with her dogs. I made it happen for her, and I’m glad she lives nearby.

I drop a kiss to her forehead. “Enjoy dinner. I have to go see Violet.”

“Good luck getting in. There’s a line out the door.”