Straddling the Line(67)
“And has it worked out the way you thought it would?”
He looked at Haven. “Better in a lot of ways. I’m fortunate to be living my dream, playing in two sports. And I have your father—Bill Briscoe—to thank for much of that.”
Haven paused for a second, giving him an unguarded glimpse of both her pain and her gratitude at his statement. “And why is that?”
“Bill and Ginger Briscoe were the dorm parents for the sports dorm. But they were a lot more than that to all of us. To me. I struggled academically and emotionally. Bill was tough when I needed someone to be tough on me, and listened when I needed an adult to talk to. I wasn’t the easiest kid back then, but he really understood me. He gave me space when I needed it, and he sure as hell knew when to rein me in. I’m not lying when I say I wouldn’t be who I am today without him.”
“Okay, let’s cut here,” Haven said, then turned to Trevor. “Thank you.”
“Just stating the truth.”
After thanking Ralph for the lunch and saying good-bye, they headed over to one of the bars. It wasn’t open yet, so they did an interview outside, where Trevor told some tales about some outlandish antics he and the guys had gotten into on some wild weekend nights after games. He had Haven and Andy laughing when he told them the story about sneaking a very drunken but just-a-month-from-age-twenty-one underage Drew out of the bar one night when the cops came in because the bar was over capacity. It had been a big win for the football team, so it seemed like everyone on campus had crowded into the bar that night to celebrate.
“We threw him out the bathroom window.”
Haven’s eyes had widened. “Did he get hurt?”
“Nah. He landed on top of the Dumpster, then rolled off that and onto the ground in the alley. Then we hurried out the back and dragged him back to the car.”
He could tell Haven fought to keep a straight face. “Poor Drew.”
“He was fine. Drunks are very resilient.”
They wrapped up and Andy left them back at the house. It was hard saying good-bye to Ginger, but Trevor had to get on a plane and head to Tampa. He had deadlines to make and he needed to get ready to play.
He and Haven got in the car and made the drive back to St. Louis.
“How do you think it went?” she asked as they drove along the turnpike.
He turned to her. “How do I think what—oh, the interview stuff? Fine, I guess. How do you think it went?”
“It’s good. Really good, Trevor.”
He liked hearing the confidence in her voice, was happy to see her focused on work.
“Trevor, this piece would be so rich if we could touch on your early family life, if we could talk to your parents.”
He gripped the steering wheel. There was so much she didn’t know, so much about him—about his past and, hell, even his current life—that she was unaware of. Dipping into the past would only open old wounds and possibly expose his secret. That he would never do. It was too much of a risk. “No.”
“I don’t understand. Is there something you’re ashamed of? A lot of players have ugly childhoods, you know. You’ve risen above it, become a success. We could—”
“I don’t want to talk about this, Haven.”
“You don’t trust me.”
He shook his head, trying to keep his focus on the road. “Let’s not talk about this while I’m trying to drive. I need to focus.”
“Okay.”
He’d put her off, for now.
But he knew she was going to bring it up again.
And he was going to shut her down again.
And he’d keep doing it.
For his own preservation, and for the safety of the secret he’d held all these years.
TWENTY-FOUR
THE BALL SAILED THROUGH THE AIR IN A PERFECT arc. Trevor never once took his eyes off it, though part of him recognized the safety on a path to his position. He dug in and pushed, racing to beat the corner to the first down line.
He reached for the ball and it landed right at his chest. The safety slammed into him and pushed him out of bounds. Holding tight to the ball, Trevor rolled to the ground.
The whistle blew, and Barrett Cassidy held out his hand. Trevor grabbed it and Barrett hauled him up.
“A few more steps, I would’ve had ya,” Barrett said.
Trevor laughed. “You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you?” Trevor slapped Barrett’s helmet and the two of them trotted back to the line of scrimmage.
“Good catch,” his coach said as the offense regrouped.
It was a grueling practice. It might be early October, but in Tampa, it was still hot. Sweat dripped down Trevor’s neck, but he had to focus. He was playing catch-up with the team that already had played three games. They’d won two, lost the last one. He had to meet rookies and reinsert himself with his teammates again.