Page 67 of Offside Secrets
“I’m fine, Cam.” He nods in the direction of where I usually sit at our table. “Sit down.”
The stern tone in his voice gets my attention. I pour his coffee, add the cream he likes, and take the chair across from him.
“You’ve been moping around here for three days,” Dad says without preamble. “Ever since you came home from that woman’s house after your big game. So either you’re having the world’s longest celebration hangover, or something’s eating at you.”
I stare into my coffee mug. “I’ll be fine.”
He narrows his eyes. “And what, may I ask, does Sutton think?”
Funny enough, hearing him, of all people, say her name does something painful to my chest.
“We’re in a gray area, I don’t know.” I throw my hands in the air. “We could be on a break. To be honest, I saw her that night for a minute. We were in the middle of talking about us or lack thereof, when the nurse aide called, and...”
He nods his head in understanding. “And you had to get back to me.”
“You were having an episode,” I murmur. “Like, I shouldn’t be there talking to her when you were here and?—”
“Oh, the guilt. I get it.” Dad holds up a hand to stop me. “But, using me as an excuse is not good enough. Start from the top and tell me what happened.”
The whole story spills out—the conversation at her house,her conviction that she’s bad for my career, the way she looked at me like I was some fragile thing that needed protecting from the big bad world.
“She thinks I can’t handle the pressure,” I finish. “Like I’m some kid who’ll crumble the second people start asking questions about our relationship.”
Dad nods slowly, processing. “And you’re angry about that.”
“Frustrated. She’s making decisions for both of us, deciding what’s best for me without asking what I want.”
“What do you want?”
The question hangs in the air between us. What do I want? I want it all, that’s what.
“Her,” I say finally. “I want to try. I want to see if we can make it work despite the way things are stacking up. I want to stop being so scared of everything.”
Dad takes a careful sip of coffee, his eyes never leaving my face. “You know what I think your real problem is?”
“What?”
“You’ve been hiding behind me.”
The words hit like a slap. “What does that mean?”
“Tone,” Dad says mildly when my words come out more bark than a calm question. “And you know exactly what it means. Ever since I got diagnosed, you’ve used taking care of me as an excuse to avoid taking some risks. To avoid going after what you really want.”
“That’s not?—”
“I’m not saying you’re avoiding all of them, but you are being selective.” He leans forward, his voice gentle but relentless. “When was the last time you did something just for you? When was the last time you made a decision based on what Campbell wanted, not what Campbell thought everyone else around him needed or expected?”
I open my mouth to argue, then close it. Because he’s right, and we both know it.
“Son, I love you for wanting to take care of me. But I won’t be the reason you waste your life being afraid.”
“I’m not afraid?—”
“You’re terrified.”
Dad’s smile is soft and sad, the kind that comes from knowing too much. “You’re terrified of leaving me. Of failing. Of wanting something so badly it might actually break you if you lose it.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he slices a hand through the air. The movement is swift, sharp, and certain. “I saidif,notwhen.”
