She rolls her eyes at me in such a way that I’m oddly impressed they didn’t pop out of their sockets. My mother might be in her mid-fifties, but she can give an eye roll that would rival any teenage girl. Setting down the jar of baby food, she turns and gives me her undivided attention, all because of my lip. I slump in my chair, knowing I’m not going to get off so easily.
Way to play it cool, Finn. You moron.
“Boy, you might be twice my size, but don’t think for a minute I won’t jump across this table just so I can give you an ear pulling,” she threatens. “Now tell your momma what she wants to hear. How was your date last night?”
“It was okay.”
“Just okay?”
“Yes, Momma. We went to dinner and had a nice time. Then I drove her back to her dorm. Like I said, it was okay.”
“If it was okay, then why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”
“Puppy!” Noah yells ecstatically, looking at the floor in search of one. “Puppy! Puppy!”
“Jesus, Charlene! Quiet that baby down. Can’t a man have one peaceful morning in his own house?” my father blurts out, snapping his precious newspaper closed and slamming it on the table. “And if the boy doesn’t want to give all the sordid details of his date to his momma, respect his privacy and leave it be. Finn has more important things to worry about than girls anyway. Football season has begun, and he has to keep his head in the game. The only thing he should be concerned about chasing is a championship, not girls.”
“Not everything should revolve around football, Hank. Finn deserves a life, too.”
“He’ll get a life once he’s drafted, not before,” my father deadpans, looking directly at me, making sure I have my head on straight.
I look over at my mother, her head bowed down into a coffee mug, unable to look me in the eye. Even baby Noah has his little chubby fist in his mouth, somehow sensing the tense mood. Breakfast continues on in this awkward and strained atmosphere, until my father finally excuses himself, leaving the room to go about his business elsewhere.
The minute he leaves, I place my elbows on the table and shove my hands into the sides of my head, feeling a migraine coming on.
“Don’t pay any mind to your father, Finn,” my mother tries to console, ensuring that he can’t hear the disobedient remark.
“Pretty hard to do when his voice is permanently ringing in my ears,” I confess, shaking my head, wishing his words would somehow slip out of it and stop tormenting me so.
“I know. He’s a difficult man, your father, but he loves you, Finn. All he wants is for you to be happy.”
“No, Momma. All he wants is bragging rights for his friends. My needs don’t factor into the equation.”
Her lips thin as she takes stock of my every sunken and defeated feature, but she doesn’t deny my statement either. She knows, as well as I do, that all Hank Walker really wants is for his sons to be football gods like he was in his heyday. He wants to bask in their glory, hoping it will satisfy his nostalgia of the times he used to run onto the field while everyone cheered the Walker name.
Beau was an utter disappointment to him when he ditched football to become a high school gym teacher. We all saw how that shitshow went down. Calvin got off a little bit easier when he wrecked his knee in his freshman year of college, destroying any chance he had of going Pro. Unlike Beau, Momma didn’t have to come up with an alternative that would please my father because Calvin switched his major to broadcast journalism that same year. Now he’s the face that every home in North Carolina waits to see on the evening news, for player interviews and daily sports highlights. Being a sports newscaster is enough to appease my father, so Calvin doesn’t get any flak from him, but it also means that all his eggs were put in one basket—mine.
I have to go Pro, so deviating from that plan is not an option. If I told my father that I would rather become an astronomer, then I’d have to kiss my family goodbye and never see any of them again. They can be pains in the asses at times, meddling where they shouldn’t, but they are still my family.
I look at baby Noah as my mother starts to clean him up and think of all my nieces and nephews. I begin to imagine what it would be like not seeing them grow up, not being a part of their lives, and something inside me just cracks. I would give nearly anything to follow my dreams, but I can’t see my life without my family in it. It’s inconceivable to me.
So I have no other choice but to go Pro. I’ll throw a ball for a few years and make the old man proud. Once I’ve outgrown the league, which will probably be in my early thirties if I’m lucky, then I can do what I’ve always wanted to, and no one will give me a hard time about it. I’m looking at ten years max. I’ve already given him my last twenty-two, so what’s ten more?
“This girl you’ve been seeing, what’s her name again?” my mother asks, trying hard to move the conversation along to a more favorable topic.
Little does she know that talking about Stone is just as sore of a subject for me as it is following my father’s demands of playing ball.
“Her name is Stone, Momma. I told you that already.”
“So you did. Odd name for a girl, don’t you think?”
“Not for her,” I huff out. “When you meet her, you’ll see just how perfect the name suits her.”
“And when will that be?” she questions further with an excited sparkle in her blue eyes, one that I really wish wasn’t there.
“Huh?”
“I asked, when will I get to meet this girl? And don’t you dare play dumb with me, young man. I know she’s important to you. If she weren’t, you wouldn’t have made a fuss at getting me to book you a table at Alphonso’s. Did she like it? She must have been ecstatic when she learned you were taking her to the fanciest restaurant in town.”
I just nod repeatedly because no way can I tell my mom that Stone preferred a food truck to the fancy dinner my mother set up for us. The last-minute change was actually nice, though. I hate those uptight places. They have so much cutlery that you don’t know which one you’re supposed to use. Six forks, WTF? They all do the same shit. Give me a meaty hamburger out of a greasy kitchen on the side of the road any day. Even though the night ended the way it did, I really had a good time. But then again, I always do when I’m with her.
“I think you should bring Stone to your father’s sixtieth birthday Saturday night. I’d love to meet the girl who is able to put such a goofy look on my boy’s face.” My mother giggles cheerfully.
I can’t help it, but the minute those words fly from my mom’s lips, I begin to choke on my own saliva. My mom immediately places the baby back in the high chair, walking her way over to me to slap my back just so I don’t suffocate on my own stupidity.
“Martha, be a dear and get us more orange juice, please?” my mom asks our cook, who is elbows deep in preparations for today’s meals, trying hard not to laugh at my mishap.
“Yes, Ma’am,” she singsongs with a pep in her step.