Trust in Me(52)

            “What about afterwards?” he asked, not ready to let it go.

            My gaze settled over his shoulder, landing on the fridge. Photos of me scoring goals and Teresa dancing covered almost the entire door. “I don’t know, Dad.”

            “Can’t fail unless you try,” he said, drinking deep.

            My brows knitted. “Isn’t that you can’t succeed if you don’t try?”

            “Does it matter?” He flashed a grin. “Cam, you’re a damn good player. Soccer is, or at least, was a passion. We have videos to send to coaches. And you know the coach at Shepherd would help you take new ones.”

            “I know.” I sighed, shaking my head slowly. “And I keep up my workouts and practice with the guys when I can, but . . . I don’t know. Maybe next year, when I’m about to graduate . . .”

            “Uh-huh.” His gaze was shrewd. “Cameron . . . Cameron . . .”

            Yakking on about soccer was hard for me. Wasn’t like a future playing was completely out of the question. That was why I kept up the training, but there was nothing I could do about right now.

            “Is there a young lady in your life now?” he asked.

            Perhaps I should’ve let him ask about soccer. “Dad . . .”

            “What?” He smiled again and then finished off the beer. “I like to have the four-one-one on my son’s life.”

            My head dropped back. “Four-one-one? Are you drunk?”

            “I’m buzzing.”

            I laughed out loud. “Nice.”

            “You didn’t answer my question.”

            Reaching for the bottle, I eyed my father and then laughed at myself, because I knew what the words that were forming on my tongue were before I spoke them. “There’s . . . there’s someone.”

            “Do tell.” Interest sparked in his eyes.

            I smiled as I took the last gulp from the bottle. “We’re friends.”

            “Friends as in . . .”

            “Oh, come on, Dad.” I groaned, shaking my head.

            “What?” He cocked his head to the side. “Like I don’t know what you kids are doing. Like I didn’t do the same thing when I was your age.”

            I might vomit. “We’re not like that. Avery isn’t like that.”

            “She has a name? Avery?”

            Shit. I couldn’t believe I even said her name. Was I buzzing? “We’re friends, Dad. And she’s a . . . she’s . . .”

            Dad’s dark brows rose. “She’s . . . ?”

            Perfect. Beautiful. Smart. Funny. Prideful. Infuriating. The list could go on and on. “I’ve asked her out a couple of times.” A “couple of times” was literally the understatement of the year. “She’s turned me down each time.”

            “And you keep asking?”

            I nodded.

            “And you think she’s going to say yes eventually?”

            Smiling a little, I nodded again.

            Dad leaned forward, crossing his arms on the round, oak table. “Did I ever tell you how many times your mother turned me down before she agreed to go out me? No? A lot of times.”