Page 117 of Keep Me Never
In all my panic about how the game ended and my need to see him, to hug him and make sure he wasn’t beating himself up too bad about it, I completely forgot to remember the other issue of the night—his mother showing up with another man.
God, the look in his dad’s eyes when he saw her caused a physical reaction inside me.
I slide in beside Cameron, and Mason closes the door behind me.
As we pull out of the parking lot, I press my forehead against the window, scanning the grounds as we roll past, hoping I might catch sight of him.
It only takes us five minutes to pull up in front of Ari and Cam’s dorm, since there was no traffic getting out of the stadium.
I drop onto the couch as she goes into the kitchen to get some drinks, and Brady disappears into the bathroom, the shower turning on a moment later.
It will take Ari and Noah at least another ten minutes to get here, having walked back, and I think Mason was dropping Chase’s dad off at his hotel before joining us.
Unable to help myself, I pull out my phone and send Chase a text. His phone might be off, but at least he’ll see it when he’s ready to turn it on.
Me: I’m so proud of you.
I stare at the screen long after it’s sent, but it never does show delivered.
Chase
A quiet shuffle of footsteps stops a few feet away, but I don’t look up from the spot I’ve taken up on the cold concrete floor. But then familiar boots move into my peripheral, and he slides down beside me, resting his arms on his bent knees. His head falls back to mimic mine, and I close my eyes tight.
My dad doesn’t say a word, just rests quietly at my side against his hotel room door.
We sit in silence for a long time, and I find a sense of gratitude rolling through me as the time ticks on. He’s always known what I needed, even when I didn’t. Even now.
It hits me suddenly how often he’s shown up just like this—quiet, steady, and always present. And how little I ever noticed thecontrast until this very second. How loud the absence of it was in the woman who raised me.
The memories start to become clearer.
My ninth birthday, when she forgot the cake but blamed the bakery. The few practices she was supposed to pick me up after when my dad had to cover someone at work, only to forget until I called to see if she was on her way a half hour after everyone else was already gone.
The college fund she said was “locked up” until it wasn’t there at all.
“She’s always been a little unhappy, hasn’t she?” I murmur, breaking the silence for the first time.
My dad exhales slowly. “She was, is, a complicated woman. Maybe a little more than I realized back then,” he admits. “There were times she was glowing, lighting up every room, projecting the kind of energy people gravitate toward.” He looks off at the dark parking lot. “But light like that…it flickers sometimes, and when it does, it can leave shadows behind.”
I don’t say anything.
“She loves you, Chase.”
“No,” I say quietly, shaking my head. “Don’t do that. Don’t defend her.”
He glances at me, soft sadness in his smile. “That’s what you do when you love someone.”
My chest feels tight. “How can you still love her after all of this? After tonight, seeing her with—” I cut off, swallowing.
“How could I not?” His gaze drops, and when it rises, it’s filled with the wisdom that only a man who has lived a full life could carry. “Just because someone breaks your heart, Son, that doesn’t mean it’s not still theirs.”
I hold his eyes a moment before pressing the heels of my palms into my own. I hiss, yanking my hand back and looking down at my taped-up hand.
“I fucked up tonight, Dad.” My voice cracks. “I let her getin my head. I lost focus, like a damn rookie. The scouts saw it, and—” I cut myself off, not wanting to worry him by letting him know I didn’t even get to make the call in the end. My head falls back again, and I close my eyes. “It’s done. I think I’m done.”
He doesn’t try to convince me otherwise; he just pushes to his feet and holds out his hand.
I stare at it for a second before slapping my palm into his and allowing him to tug me to my feet.
