Page 94 of Enemies Off Camera
I can’t make out what Micah’s calling, but I can tell he’s changed the play. The ball is snapped.
My eyes find Jaxon immediately. His defender, Antonio Gill, is clinging to him like static, but the play shifts direction and ends with Myles Jones picking up four yards.
Second and six.
The players reset at the line of scrimmage.
“This is it!” my dad yells beside me, his voice strong and clear. You’d never guess he was once so sick he couldn’t lift his head. A bacterial infection nearly took him out, but now he’s shouting with the energy of a teenager.
We’ve had long talks since that day I first visited him in the hospital. That afternoon was nearly as nerve-wracking as this game. Jaxon couldn’t come—he had rehab—but it was better that way. It needed to be just us.
When I walked into that room, my father looked at me like he was seeing a ghost.
“You look so much like her,” he said, before breaking down into tears.
He meant my mother. And to witness a man I’d known my whole life as emotionally unavailable fall apart like that—it changed something in me. I crossed the room and hugged him without hesitation. I surprised even myself.
He asked me to listen—just listen—while he explained everything. No sugarcoating. No trying to make it easier for me to digest.
He told me he and my mother believed raising kids was women’s work. That was their agreement. And when she died, he panicked and rushed to fill the void. That’s how Stacy came into the picture.
He said he ignored the signs because he believed women were inherently kind. He’d let that belief cloud his judgment.
“Then we had three more, and Stacy just wasn’t pulling her weight. I ended up doing everything for them. She liked being out of the house, and… she had a few affairs. By the time I realized you needed me to step in and really pay attention, it was too late. You’d already left.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry I let her treat you the way she did. She was…” He trailed off.
I rubbed his shoulder, offering him a small comfort. “No need to speak ill of the dead, Dad. But that was an astute take,” I said. “Did Trey help you come to that conclusion?”
He laughed, then nodded. “Yeah. He did.”
“He’s been shrinking the hell out of me too,” I said.
We both laughed. That was the moment I told him I understood. That I forgave him. That I wanted to leave behind his guilt—and my own anger—and see what might be possible for us going forward.
We shook on it. Hugged on it.
And a week later, he was out of the hospital.
He moved in with me to make it easier to get to his appointments. And when Jaxon was in town, they went to rehab together at the team’s facility. The staff even treated my dad when Jaxon was away. I don’t think they made a big deal about it. They just did it. Because that’s what families do when they form—when they rebuild.
Now here he is, at full volume, shouting like a coach from the stands, stronger than he’s been in years. He’s living and breathing this game like he’s in it, like we all are.
Micah’s voice calls out the hike.
The ball’s in his hands.
Everything moves quickly—players shifting, defenders scrambling. I zero in on Jaxon, just as the pass arcs through the air. It’s perfect.
He catches it.
And then he runs.
I’m up on my feet, bouncing, hands on my head, eyes wide.
“Go, go, go,” I whisper-shout, almost afraid to be too loud. I want this for him so badly. I want him to finish it.
Antonio Gill is closing in, fast. I’m silently begging him not to take Jaxon down hard—not to twist something, not to cause more injury.
Then, it happens.
