Page 88 of Blindsided
I nod, my chin jutting out defensively. “You can’t see the hypocrisy here, Mac? You’re judging me for not admitting what I want when you’re the one in Scotland because you care more about your grandfather’s wishes than your own. And the worst part about it all is that you’re miserable here and it’s showing in your game. Not only your game but in everything you’re doing right now. Whoever you have become while being here isn’t the man who watched Netflix with me and made love to me. Just admit it.”
“It doesn’t matter if I’m miserable!” he cries out, his voice low and in pain. “He’s fucking dying, Freya!”
“And so are you,” I scream, my body nearly lurching across the dash to get into his face. “You’re a shell of the man you used to be, and you’re a fool if you actually think that’s what Fergus wants to see in his grandson before he dies.”
“Don’t you dare presume to know my grandad better than me. The look on his face today made everything I’ve done worth it.”
I huff out a disbelieving laugh. “Mac, he’d look like that if you quit football tomorrow and told him you wanted to join the circus.”
Mac scoffs and turns to look out the window. “You don’t know my family, Freya.”
I nod knowingly. “You’re right, Mac. And I don’t think I know you anymore either. Because the Mac I fell in love with would have never said half the things you said to me in this car today.” And with that, I slide out of the car and walk out into the pouring rain and away from my ex-best friend for good.
Six Weeks Later
“You liked playing football all these years, didn’t you, lad?” Grandad asks, his voice hoarse as his sunken green eyes stare up at me beneath the fluorescent lighting.
A knot forms in my throat at the sight of him lying in the hospice bed. He’s been here for the past week, and every day I come to sit in the chair beside him, he seems to look smaller and smaller. Tonight, his skin is as white as the dressing gown they put him in and his salt and pepper mustache is far more salt than pepper.
This is the end. I can feel it.
We were supposed to have more time.
It’s been nearly three months since I moved to Scotland and his health only allowed him to attend that one game, which was nearly two months ago. The one that Freya came to.
The thought of Freya sends a pang of regret through my body that I haven’t been able to shake since the moment I left London. What started as an ache back then has now blossomed into a deep, soul-crushing throb that I feel whenever I think back to the moment I let her get out of my car and chose not go after her.
I wanted to go after her.
I wanted to grab her and kiss her and take all the awful, horrid words I said back. I wanted to drop to my knees and beg her to forgive me and plead for her friendship again.
I wanted to feel her soft lips against mine, her body lying next to me. I wanted to hear her laugh again, hear her yell at me, hit me. More than anything, I wanted her to stay with me and hold me as I mourn the impending loss of the man that I have lived my entire life to please. To make proud. I wanted her to look at me like I was the only bloody person that mattered in the world to her.
Anything to erase the memory of the tears streaming down her face when I broke her fucking heart.
Every time that memory floods my thoughts, I find it hard to take a full breath. It’s like a two hundred pound weight is sitting on my chest, punishing me for what I’ve done.
What I said to Freya was unforgivable. I pushed away my best mate because she said she was in love with me, and I hate myself for it. She’s important to me, of course, she is. But love? I’m not ready for that. I can’t take that kind of admission right now. So I was horrible to her which means, I’ve lost her for good and must suffer the consequences.
I register Grandad asking me again if I liked playing football, so I clear my throat and do my best to ignore my racing thoughts and the sound of the medical devices beeping softly in the background. “Aye, of course, I loved playing football, Grandad.” I sniff and turn to look away. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
He closes his eyes, the wrinkles stacking on top of themselves as he winces at a pain deep inside his body. He opens them to look at me. “I fear I pushed you to do something you didn’t want to do. I fear I pushed you to follow my dreams instead of your own.”
“Not at all.” I reach out and hold his feeble hand, careful not to squeeze too hard. The contrast of his aged, weathered hand over mine is an image I’ll remember for the rest of my life. “All I’ve ever wanted is to play football. You gave me that gift.”
“Not this season,” he replies sadly, shaking his head. “You’ve changed this season, Macky.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, my heart sinking at the tone of his words. Words that I don’t want him to have on his mind during his last days here on earth. Doesn’t he know that I’ve done my best to make him proud? To live up to everything he taught me since I was a wee lad? He must know.
“You don’t love playing here in Glasgow. Ever since you transferred, you haven’t been yourself. It pains me to see you like this.”
My head jerks back. “I’m happy to be here. I mean, aye, I’ve had a rough go of it this season with the team, but I’ll turn things around. You know I will.” My words are a half-truth because what I’m not telling him is how this has been the hardest transition I’ve ever experienced in all my years of playing football, and I’m killing myself to get my focus back.
He swallows slowly, wincing as he attempts to sit up. “I just hate how unhappy you are here when I know you wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t for me.”
“Grandad,” I state, releasing his hand so he can sit more comfortably. “I’m here because I want to be. You’re important to me. You have to know that,” my voice cracks and my eyes begin to burn with unshed tears as I force out the next words. “I would do anything for you. You’re my hero.”
Grandad’s eyes go red around the edges as moisture pools in his eyes. He reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose before placing his hand on top of mine. “But I’m not what’s most important in your life anymore. And neither is football, for that matter. I know I said I had no regrets in my life, Macky, but that was a lie.”
