Page 21 of Lessons in Forgiving
“Good.”
A second ticked by.
“I just think it’s funny how…” He hesitated, which was a first. The one thing Henry Parker Pressley didn’t do, on or off the field, was hesitate.
And it piqued my interest. “How what?”
His eyes flicked to my phone resting between us, seconds of the recording running by.00:55, 00:56, 00:57.He shook his head. “Forget about it.”
But I couldn’t, wouldn’t, and really, didn’twantto. My job was to pry, wasn’t it?
“Oh no,” I said. “Don’t hold back on my account. What’s so funny?”
In the seconds of silence that lingered, when his gaze swept across my face, he was trying to figure out my game plan. So was I.
The analytical expression washed off his face a moment later, like he’d figured me out before I’d done so myself. He shrugged, and it felt as if he knew he had won before he’d said a word.
“I just think it’s funny,” he repeated. “How you’re pretending you don’t know my name when it was loud and clear that you did most nights.”
And there it was.
His winning hand revealed. He could tell by the violent blush across my cheeks. I could tell by the simmering flame ignited low in my belly. “Way back when, of course.” Now, the challenging tone was back. He was dangling it like a carrot from a stick, like he knew it would make me want to bite back, throw professionalism out the window. I swallowed the urge.
Instead, I plastered on that same smile and vowed to make use of Riley’show-to-fake-facial-expressions-101when I got home today.
“Just for the sake of it, why don’t you?” I halfheartedly gestured toward the recording, then settled into my chair, notebook and pen in hand. “Maybe I’ve been mispronouncing it.”
Henry nodded, eyes drifting to my phone before settling back on me. He got closer to it, leaned halfway across the desk. “Let the record show,” he said, gaze fixed on me, mouth by my phone. “My name is Henry Parker Pressley. Twenty-two years old. Defender for the Hall Beck soccer team.” He raised his eyebrows, then asked, mockingly, “Like that?”
Solidifying my fake smile, I nodded curtly, eyes twitching into a glare. “Perfect. Thank you so much.” Irony dripped from my voice, laced every single sound I made.
He was playing me like a fiddle, and I couldn’t have that. “Tell me,Henry.” I emphasized his name, and something in his smug expression twitched. If only for the fraction of a second, as he leaned back into his chair, I took it as a small win. “What made you get into soccer?”
It was the easiest question I could think of. Safe terrain. A way to get the ball rolling and our solely professional relationship off the ground.
And it worked beautifully.
Our previous tension seemed to be forgotten. “Most people think it was Felix.” His dad, whom he rarely referred to as such. “Makes sense, right? Pro player without a life outside the game. People thought it kind of just rubbed off on me. I did too, for a while.” In the silence that lingered, he gathered his thoughts, rearranged them in his head to craft the narrative he wanted out in the world. I knew that look on his face: calculating, assessing risks.
“I think it was actually my sister. Athalia.” His eyes darted toward mine at the mention of her, his smile growing. “Big pain in the ass when we were growing up. More of one now, probably.” Henry huffed at the memories. “She used to hate soccer so much; I think I started training just to get under her skin. To force her to my games. We were eight.”
His attention was on something behind me again, an inward smile on his lips. That distracted look on his face, eyes glazed over with a mixture of glee, and joy, and pride—it was his soccer-face. He’d always looked like an excited little schoolboy when he talked about it.
Although he’d had a jumpstart with Felix Pressley’s legacy, not everyone who dreamed of going pro would end up making it. Actually, only about 1.4% did. Henry had every right to be proud of himself, even with the advantages that came with his last name.
Knowing that he’d made it, that he’d been drafted by a Major League Soccer team, and that I was to write a profile about him that bigger press had already expressed interest in… made me feel that way, too.
Proud.
I was right, by the way. That single question did get the ball rolling and held him over for the majority of our time. Apart from obvious follow-up questions to his answers, I hadn’t said a word.
“After that, I had a few college choices, but HBU was my best, and I met Coach Hepburn way before once or twice. It felt good to know I’d join his team. Like I was meant to be there.” No mention of his parents, or the fact that they’d both studied here; thatthatmight have made his decision easier.
“We’ll see if he has as high an opinion of you,” I challenged lightheartedly, watching my voice rip him out of whateversoccer-trance he’d previously been in. Blinking rapidly, his gaze found mine.
“Most definitely not,” he said. My lips almost twitched at the humor in his tone.
A buzz on the table kept me from answering, and we broke our eye contact simultaneously to look. Minutes still ticked by on the screen, though it wasn’t the50:27, 50:28, 50:29, that caught my attention.
