Page 2 of The Silent Count
I didn’t have to glance around the room to know everyone was sporting the kind of tight-lipped smile that makes your cheeks ache.
“If anyone sees my father, tell him he’s late for our Monday morning meeting.” Grunts of acknowledgment fill the space as I press my back against the exit door. I take one final lingering look at the players, giving everyone a wave as I press my back against the push bar to leave. “Have fun watching film, boys.”
“Have a great day, Lea.” Even from the hallway, their echo still sounds like music to my ears.
* * *
Lucky Charm:Let me guess… he’s twelve minutes late today?
Ladybug:Thirty-seven and counting…
Lucky Charm:You should start charging a late fee.
A small grincurls at the corner of my lips right as three knocks strike against the doorframe of my office. Lifting my eyes from my screen, my dad’s messy red-brown hair catches my attention. That tired half-smile of his always makes my morning a little brighter.
“Morning darlin’.”
I exit out of the browser housing my private messages and set my phone face down on the desk to wave him inside. “Morning, Dad. You coming to steal my coffee pods again?”
“Maybe a couple.” He’ll take three. He always takes three. “I was up late watching Jacksonville’s tape from Sunday since we play them next week. Couldn’t get my damn brain to shut off after that,” he huffs. “Spent a couple hours tossin’ and turnin’ before moving out to the recliner in the living room. Passed out in minutes. Can you believe that?”
Of course, I could. He’s fallen asleep in that same tattered navy-blue recliner every night for as long as I can remember. Once, he jokingly asked our family lawyer if he could get it written in his will that he gets to be buried with the stupid thing. I remember the call clear as day, listening to him argue with Dominic on the phone saying, “What’s so wrong with wanting to sleep peacefully in the afterlife, huh?”
I clamp my lips together to stop the laughter threatening to spill from my lips at the long-forgotten memory. Instead, I fold my arms over my chest and lean back in my chair, silently watching as my dad goes through the motions of his usual routine.
Peruse through the coffee pod flavors with a scrunch nosed squint? Check.
Pick up three hazelnut cups? Check.
Pocket them, then throw a dark roast in the coffee maker so he’d have something to sip on during the film session? You guessed it.
We run through the same song and dance every morning. I’m almost certain if I let the silence linger a couple more seconds, my father will make his usual bitter remark about what he can do to improve his sleep.
Three… Two… One…
A resigned sigh comes from across the room, and I can’t help but let a small smile pull at my cheeks as my dad shakes his head offhandedly. “You know… I should probably think about breaking out that sleep apnea machine from the attic. Doctor says it might help me sleep better.”
He might be observant, but I find his obliviousness to his own routines quite endearing.
In my twenty-seven years of life, I’ve never met anyone who reads people the way Phil Sterling does. I spent countless hours at the Matrix practice facility growing up, watching my dad analyze play after play until he unearthed a team's weakness. It was a key part of what made him such a successful player, and an even better coach.
While he spent his evenings sitting on the edge of the couch in the film room rewinding plays, I sat next to him, shamelessly perusing tabloids to find out the juicy details of the players’ personal lives.
Atlanta Assassins rookie crashed a yacht off the coast of Fort Lauderdale during bye week.
Can Rhett Fuller transition from player to coach after sixteen years in The League, or will he crack under pressure?
Discover what Knight’s players think of their fellow teammate sharing an intimate night with a Socialgram model twelve years his junior.
The pre-teen girl in me lived for the stories, the drama, the press so desperately tried to create out of nothing. As the years went on, I found dissecting team statements and picking apart headlines to be more fun. I thrived on discovering the inconsistencies. The slip ups. The miscalculated timelines. Those Sterling family genes must be powerful, because fifteen years later, I always find a weakness—a different angle to twist the story in the team’s favor. It’s the reason I’m the best public relations manager in The League.
At first, holding press conferences for my stuffed animals started to kill time, but as years passed, I turned my favorite childhood pastime into a career—one I’m damn good at too.
“I’m sending Parker in here during the team meeting so the two of you can discuss his whole… situation.” I perk up in my seat at the mention of Fortune’s name, but quickly slump back in my chair as Dad turns to face me with both hands on his hips.
The coffeemaker hisses, squeezing out the final dribbles of black coffee into the mug, drowning out the thuds pounding in my ears.
“What are your thoughts on it? I can’t imagine…”
