Page 46 of The Midseason Fakeout

Dad peeks at the bag in my hands. “Are those on diet?”

I laugh. “With the way I’m working out, I could eat a dozen doughnuts a day and you wouldn’t be able to tell. But these aren’t for me.”

“Oh?”

Well, why don’t I just step in it? Shit.Upstairs, Bailey is probably still sleeping soundly in my bed, unless West woke her. We only have about fifteen minutes before we need to leave for practice.

A cold sweat sprouts over my forehead. “Yeah, you know, West and whoever else wants them at practice. I’m heading back to my room to get ready now.”

“I’ll follow. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

My stomach churns. There’s just something about when a parent says “I want to talk to you about something” that sends a jolt of fear through you.

“Is something up?” I ask as I steer us toward the dorm.

I study his profile, taking in the gray hairs along his temples, and his beard that’s almost gray. I saw an episode of some show once where the kid was looking at his father, worried he was going to turn out like him. I won’t have that. I have no recollection of my birth father whatsoever, so I guess I won’t know if I’m destined to be bald or completely white. Maybe I’ll be lucky and get that salt-and-pepper, George Clooney look girls seem to chase after.

I, however, do remember my mom…and sometimes, I wish I could forget I even had one.

Dad opens the main door to the dorm for me, and we walk through. He runs his hand through his beard. “Your mom and I were hoping to come to your next game, but we wanted to check with you first.”

“Really? That would be great.” My parents don’t get to a lot of games. They work a lot. When I was younger, hearing them argue about money always hurt the most because I thought it was my fault. They wouldn’t have had to worry about it so much if they didn’t have me.

“Yeah, we feel bad we haven’t been able to come up before this. We miss you.” Our footsteps on the stairs echo, almost sealing those words into me. “You don’t call a lot.”

I rub the back of my neck. “Busy, I guess.”

“We know you’re Mr. Hotshot now, but we worry about you.”

I lead him to the right, a nagging feeling pricking at me. I don’t know why I haven’t called. Being at school has brought this weird divide between me and my parents. I can’t even put my finger on it. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, what do we always say about that? No need to be sorry. We just want to be involved.”

My shoulders droop when we make it to my door. “Yeah, that’s on me,” I concede. “I’ll do better.”

My father gives me a small smile. Without thinking, I push the door open. Bailey immediately stands from my bed, dressed in my clothes, and my eyes go wide. My father walks in right behind me, and there’s no stopping the moment that’s about to occur.

“Mr. Michaels,” West says, standing from his own bed. I glance between the two. She runs her hands through her hair and then quickly puts it up in a ponytail while my dad and West make small talk.

She grimaces at me, and I shrug. “Dad, you remember Bailey, right? Darrin’s sister?”

My father peers over. Everything happens in slow motion. At first, he smiles, always happy to meet someone, but then he takes in the shirt and shorts she’s wearing, which are obviously mine. His stare moves to the bed, then back to her. We all stand there and let him come to the only conclusion there could be. There’s nothing I can say to him anyway. Everyone else knows we’re dating. I honestly just didn’t think I would ever have to mention it to my parents.

“Hi, Mr. Michaels,” Bailey says, walking toward him with her hand outstretched. “It’s been a long time, but I remember you.”

“Yes, how are you?” he asks, sending me a strange look. He doesn’t look pissed. He looks amused.

“I’m well, thank you. I was actually just leaving.” She glares at the floor, rushing past me.

“Um, Aidan?” my dad says. He stares at the bag of muffins I have in my hand and then at her.

“Oh, right.” I spin on my heel. “Bails, I got you these.”

She pauses with her back to us, sighing. I can tell she really wanted to make a run for it.

“I remembered you like lemon muffins.”

Turning, she blinks up at me. “Thank you.”

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