Page 52 of The Comeback Pact

The sharp tone snaps my head up. My legs falter. The last figure standing, waiting to see me…

It can’t be…

I squint, my insides squeezing. The sweat tracks over my eyes, and I have to wipe at them to peer up again while I slow my stride.

To my right, a little kid yells, “Hulk! Great game!”

I don’t even know if I acknowledge him because I can barely breathe.

His hair is longer than before, at least around his ears. Last time I saw him, he was balding at the top, but he’s wearing a cap now. He tugs the bill up, settling it back over his head, and I have to grab the fence as my father returns my stare. The whites of his eyes are cream-colored. Just a little off. Even his skin tone is ashen. The corner of his mouth wrenches up, his “smile” more fearsome than any other smile I’ve witnessed.

It’s by sheer nature that I still step forward. One leg in front of the other. It’s not that hard, but when the rest of me is shutting down, I’m surprised I’m still moving at all.

“Hey, son.”

I’m nearly to him now. My breaths have shallowed. There’s a twist in my gut, and those eyes, those fucking eyes, make me feel small again.

I slow, stopping in front of him. My body is at war. Part of me wants to walk away, the other part of me is scared of the repercussions, like that day I accidentally got Play-Doh stuck in the rug. I knew if I didn’t sit there and listen to his lecture, I’d get it worse.

“Stupid kid. Stupid. Is this how you act? Is this what you do to the nice things we buy you?”

I look around and spot the beer cans strewn over the counter and the fake-wood cabinets that were coming off their hinges in the kitchen. I didn’t see any nice things, but I certainly didn’t mean to get the Play-Doh in the carpet either.

I knew I needed to answer him. Tuning him out never worked. His voice would just get sharper. His words more cutting. He’d force me to talk until I hated the sound of my own voice. So meek. So small.

“No, Dad.”

The answer I gave didn’t matter. It took me years to figure that out because even saying what he wanted me to say wouldn’t stop his anger-fueled words.

“You’re not going to say hi to your old man?”

A diamond stud—most likely fake—glints in his ear. The yellowing of his teeth near the gum borders on brown decay. Remorse hits me in the gut at the sight of his clear deterioration. He’s had a hard life.

I shake the pity off though. Those are just the thoughts of a child who was trying to find any excuse as to why his father was a dick.

He’s a dick because he is one. Period. Life didn’t make him that way. Everyone has choices they can make every day to better themselves and their surroundings. People like him who don’t veer off their center and make excuses for their actions sicken me.

I lick my lips, my mouth going dry. A rattling breath escapes my lungs, and then I remember I’m in my football jersey. My suit of armor. I puff out my chest, but it doesn’t last long. All the bravado dies on my tongue when I attempt to talk.

“Coach is waiting for me.”

My jaw snaps shut.I don’t owe this fucker any explanation.

“I’ve been calling you for a month.”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy for your father? That’s a fucking joke.”

That pitch. That sharp edge of a razor that cuts right through me and has for so many years.

Panic starts to set in.

I never dreamed he would show up here. I thought he’d get bored with trying to get a hold of me and then he’d give up because I’m not that important to him, anyway.

Standing there, not speaking, is making it worse. My father sighs, and it’s the sound that brings a lot of worries back. The precursor to the vile words he’d sling at me.

I press my lips together. I’m frozen. I’m so, so small. I can’t even remember what the feeling was like to see Kenna in my jersey or to know that someone had actually come to my game to watch me.

---