Page 47 of Catching Kyle
“Is there a certain way this all goes?” I ask. “Do I need to do anything?”
She looks up at me and smiles, setting down her clipboard. “Sorry about that, just needed a quick note to myself. No, there’s nothing youneedto do. In the first session, I just like to talk and get to know my client. So, tell me about yourself.”
I shrug. “Well, I play football for the Tigers, but you probably know that.”
She tilts her head. “Tigers?”
“Yes,” I say. “Portland Tigers. The football team? We played in the Championship Game last year.”And lost because of me, I’m tempted to say.
“Forgive me,” she says, giggling. “I’m not very knowledgeable about sports. My husband plays cricket, but that’s the extent of my knowledge. So you play professional football, very cool.”
“I guess,” I say. I don’t see how this woman can help me if she doesn’t understand football.
“So what brings you in today, Kyle?”
I sigh and rub the bridge of my nose. Coming here was a mistake. I don’t even know where to begin.
“I’m hoping to get my contract re-signed with the Tigers,” I say. “My contract ended with them a couple months ago, but I want to play at least one more year. You know how contracts work?”
“I get this gist,” she says, nodding. “You say ‘at least one more year’. Why?”
“Why not?” I ask back.
“Well,” she says, looking up at the ceiling. “American football is hands-on, and you are…” she glances at her clipboard. “Thirty-four years old. That’s pretty old to play professional sports, no? Especially one so aggressive.”
I shrug. “It’s fun,” I say. “And it’s important to me.”
Her eyes thin. “Important in what way?”
I shift in my seat, feeling that heartburn—anxiety, still not used to calling it that—in my chest again.
“Well, you know, I grew up playing it. It’s my career and all. It’s part of who I am.”
She nods, then looks out her window, her hands clasped in her lap. She sits back and adjusts her scarf.
I breathe in the scent of jasmine, and suddenly memories of sitting next to my dad in that hospital bed hit me hard. His breathing was shallow, and his pale, skinny frame still haunts me.
I grabbed his hand. ‘Dad, you’re a strong man. You can hang on a little longer.’
He put his other frail hand on mine. He was cold, and his touch sent chills all the way down to my toes.
‘Son,’ he said, raspy. ‘Promise me something.’
I leaned in. I was all ugly crying at that point, trying not to squeeze his hand too hard. I couldn’t admit it, but I knew it was over.
‘Carry on my legacy,’ he said. ‘Our family name.’
I felt like I got punched in the gut.Legacy? I wanted to ask. But I knew exactly what he meant.
I nodded. ‘Absolutely,’ I said.
He died four hours later, peacefully in his sleep. The next days, all through the funerals and the mourning, guilt weighed down my conscience like an anchor.
Legacy, he said.Family name.
Grandchildren. He wanted grandchildren. Posterity.
And here I was, his only son, fucking around with other players at Miss U. Doing exactly the last thing he wanted his son to be doing.
