Touching Down(25)

That was all I needed to know to get me through the rest of mine.





“HOW’S OUR DESSERT guest doing in there?” I called from the kitchen as I started the process of cleaning up after Charlie’s sundae-making efforts. Puddles of ice cream and crumbles of toppings were scattered all around the kitchen, from the floor to the fridge handle.

“I think he’s going to want seconds!” Charlie hollered over the sounds of spoons clinking against one bowl.

“Yeah, definitely going to want seconds,” Grant announced above the familiar sound playing on the television. The sound of a football game.

Back in Oregon, I used to record Grant’s late games if Charlie was in bed. She’d watched them again and again, until I swore the kid had every last play memorized. Where most kids her age grew up watching SpongeBob, Charlie grew up watching football.

“Why didn’t you become a QB?” Charlie asked Grant as she crunched on something, probably the half bag of chocolate chips she’d dumped on top of the sundae mountain.

Grant huffed. “Guys who grow up privileged and have daddies who take ‘em out back and throw the ball around with them every night become quarterbacks,” he answered, right before they both made a sound that suggested some player on the screen had just taken a massive hit. “They’re the opposite of me. It’s the boys who had to get fast and strong to survive who become tight ends.”

“Kind of like Darwin’s survival of the fittest theory?” Charlie asked.

Grant was quiet for a minute, probably amazed by the brain Charlie had. Moments like those hit me on a daily basis.

“Yeah, kind of like that,” he said. “You get big, you get tough, you get fast to survive where I come from.”

“That’s where Mommy’s from too. She told me that’s how you met.”

Grant was silent, likely reliving the same memory of our first meeting as I was. It wasn’t a meet-cute fraught with warm feelings and nostalgia. It was marred by terror and screams and blood. Our first meeting wasn’t a good memory, but Grant had saved me from a million more bad memories by shoving into that room the way he did, when he had.

“That’s right. That’s where your mom and me met.” His voice gave him away. He was in that dark, filthy room again as much as I was.

“Yeah, but Mommy’s small. Like, I’ll probably be taller than her by my next birthday.”

I gave up on my cleaning efforts to lean against the doorway and be that fly on the wall as my daughter and her father got to know each other. The mess would be waiting for me tomorrow, but this moment was fleeting.

“What day is your birthday?” Grant asked slowly, unsurely.

My traitor eyes got watery again as I realized how many of these questions there’d be. The simple ones any parent who’d watched their child grow up would know.

“August 21st, silly. Didn’t you know that?” Charlie giggled.

“That’s right. August 21st, the best day of the year. How could I have forgotten that?”

That made her giggle again, before they both got back to the game.

“Mommy and me watch your games all the time. You’re my favorite player, you know.”

I slid a little around the corner so I could peek my head out at the two of them stretched out on the couch. Grant’s feet were kicked up on the coffee table, and Charlie was curled beside him, both of them spooning sundae out of the salad bowl Charlie had elected to make it in. From the moment Charlie had laid eyes on him, she hadn’t let him out of arm’s reach. It was almost ten and way past her bedtime, but tonight was special. Getting acquainted with one’s father warranted a ruined bedtime.

“Well, that’s a relief. Because Lipinski and I would have to have words if I found out he was your favorite player.”

“Quarterbacks are just a bunch of whiny attention-seekers,” Charlie announced without blinking, digging her spoon back into the bowl as she kept her eyes glued to the game she’d watched at least fifty times. It was one of her favorites—Grant’s rookie year playing for the Boston Americans, he’d managed to bring in a touchdown with two guys practically hanging off of him. I’d recorded a bunch of his games onto DVD for her, thinking she’d watch them once and move on. I should have known better.

“Well, not all of them.” When Charlie’s head swiveled toward Grant, he lifted his hand. “Just most of them.”

I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

“I’m glad you got traded to the Storm a few years ago. I didn’t really like the Americans, but since my dad was on the team, I kind of had to.”