Page 48 of Quarterback Crush
“Well, I’ll happily stay home from school all week,” I said.
Mom smiled and rolled her eyes. “I’ll bring up breakfast, shall I?”
“Sure,” I said, reaching for my phone and scrolling through the many texts and posts congratulating the Owls.
Hearing footsteps coming, I wriggled myself to a more upright position in anticipation of breakfast, surprised to see Dad carrying the tray, followed by George with the coffee pot and Mom with a mug. My heart rate increased substantially, knowing there was some sort of discussion about to take place. It didn’t really take three people to bring me breakfast.
“Good morning,” Dad said, arranging the wooden tray stand in front of me.
“Good morning,” I said chirpily, faking calmness. But I had an instinct that the coffee wasn’t the only thing that would be heated. “Thanks.”
“How’s the leg?” Dad asked.
“Not too bad,” I said, even though it was hurting. Dad wouldn’t like weak.
“You can tell me the truth. Is it sore?” I detected this was a leading question and his supposed serenity was ready to explode.
“Yeah, but I just took some meds,” I said, grateful that Mom and George were witnesses. Well, that’s if they survived, too.
“Your brothers were talking last night,” Dad said, his tone merciless and unforgiving, “and seems I’ve been putting too much pressure on you.”
“You’ve been steering his pathway in a direction he doesn’t want to go,” Mom piped up.
“You don’t want to play college football?” He couldn’t have been gruffer if he tried and there was that split second when I wanted to deny it and comply, fulfil his wish.
George answered for me. “That was your dream, Dad. Not Ollie’s.”
His words stunned us all into seconds of silence, frank and to the point, no rambling but said with kindness.
Dad’s throat tightened, his lips pressed into a thin line, and I stared down at my bowl of oatmeal and the chunky banana slices.
“Is that right, Ollie?” Dad asked, his voice wavering, on the verge of losing composure. “Have I been pressuring you?”
I didn’t want to break his heart, destroy his dreams, be unfulfilled potential...but I also wanted to be me, ordinary Oliver Blackwell who liked orange and green M&Ms and experimenting with flavors and learning about food and making cute candy jars for Maya, and finding my own way in the world.
“Yeah,” I said. “I have felt pressured. Like, I love playing football, but...but I don’t want it to be my whole life.”
Dad’s head bobbed in slow successive nods. And then he ran his fingers through his hair. “I wish you’d told me earlier. More than anything I wanted you to love the game.”
“I do love it,” I countered, “but it’s not my dream to play in college.”
“You have such a talent,” Dad said, “you read the ball better than—”
“Jed,” Mom interrupted, “Oliver has a ton of talents. He’s more than just the quarterback. He has such a way with flavors and his peanut butter protein balls are the best.”
“Wait, what?” George said. “You made those balls in the fridge?”
“Who said you could eat them? My name’s on that container!”
“You mean those balls with the seedy things in them?” Dad asked. “I thought your mother bought them from the grocery store. I ate three the other day. I didn’t think anyone noticed.”
“Well, I did,” Mom said, glaring at Dad. “Oliver makes them for his post training snacks. He’s very talented and Penny says he has a real flair for food.”
“Well, maybe he can show that talent around the house a bit more,” Dad said with a wink and a slap to my shoulder.
“Yes, I’m more than happy to have him spend more time in the kitchen,” Mom said. “Now, let’s leave him in peace to eat his breakfast.”
George smirked and in return I pumped my fist as he left. My brothers had come through for me, Mom too.
