I grew up while I was gone.
Not all the way, though, because I still need Mom and Dad. Now I don’t know what to do. I’d thought I’d found myself on this journey around the country, but it turns out once football was taken away I still don’t know who I am.
So I’m sitting on my couch just past dawn, my cell in hand, ESPN on the TV, muted, trying to make myself call home.
And then my phone rings. It’s Mom.
“Benny!” Her voice is so soothing, so familiar, that lilt from growing up fluent in three languages. “You haven’t called in so long, I was getting worried. I just…felt like I had to call.”
My throat is thick, choked off with heat. “Mom.”
She hears it, of course. “Benny? What’s wrong, sweetie?”
Twenty-two, a grown man, and she still calls me Benny. “I don’t even know—ahem—” I have to pause and clear my throat and start over. “I don’t even know where to start, Mom.”
She’s quiet for a long, long moment. “I think it’s time to come home, Benjamin.”
“I can’t.”
“It’s been almost two years, honey. If you’re not over her by now, no amount of running away will change that.”
Ouch. “It’s not that, Mom.”
She sighs. “Let me get your father. Hold on.”
Shit. Shitshitshit. I can talk around Mom, because she won’t push an issue. She doesn’t have that directness in her. Dad, however, will dive straight into the heart of the matter and won’t give up until I’ve spilled it all out for him.
“Son.” His voice comes on the line after a moment.
“Hey, Dad.”
He must have been working out, as I can hear his breath huffing quickly. “So. Out with it.”
“I got hurt,” I say.
“Explain.”
“Took a hit to the knee. A bad one.”
“How long are you out for? You need surgery?”
I swallow hard. “I already had surgery, and a month of PT. And…I’m out permanently.”
He doesn’t answer right away. “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
“And this happened when?”
“Month, almost a month and a half ago.” My damned voice is small, like I’m a little boy again.
“And you’re just now telling us?” He sounds pissed, but with Dad pissed usually comes from worry. “What the hell, Ben?”
“I—I don’t know. I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want it to be…real, I guess. I don’t know, Dad.” I have to swallow and blink. “I had to handle it on my own.”
“I’ll be there this afternoon.” His voice is gentle but allows for no arguments. “Get your shit together.”
“Dad, I don’t know what I’m—”
“Which is why you’re coming home.”
“You don’t understand—”
“And you can explain on the drive home. This ain’t up for discussion, son.”
I don’t have the energy or the will to fight it. “See you soon.”
“Damn straight. Be ready.”
He shows up at the door of my apartment at one that afternoon. He doesn’t knock, just walks in as I’m stuffing the last of my clothes in a duffel bag. He stands in the door of my bedroom, massive arms crossed over his chest, brows drawn, staring at the cane leaning against the bed.
I ignore him until I have the bag zipped, set it on the floor beside the other suitcase and duffel bag that contain all my clothes and other belongings, of which there aren’t many. I take the cane in hand, turn slowly to face my father. Take a hesitant step toward him. My knee is really messed up again. Once Cheyenne died and I met Echo, I’d stopped exercising it and started overusing it, so now it’s stiff all the time and sore and always throbs with pain. To the point that any progress I’d made with Cheyenne has probably been totally undone. I can barely walk on it, even with the cane. Not that I’d admit that to Dad.
“Jesus, Ben. You need a cane?”
“Not forever. Just…for a while.” I take another step.
His eyes waver, and then he rushes across the space between us, wraps me in a bear hug. “Ben. God, Ben. You went through this alone?”
“I’ll never play again, Dad.” My voice cracks, and I have to breathe hard and deep to keep it all at bay. “I may never even be able to run again.”
“What happened?”
“Just a bad tackle. I had two on me, taking me down. Then this other guy comes at me, and just…drilled my knee. Hit me from the side, all his weight in a flying tackle and my knee just crumpled. Done. Just…done.”
“And you went through the surgery, the therapy, the loss of your career, and you didn’t even fucking tell me? Ben, I don’t get it. I just don’t get it.” He pushes back and paces away.
I balance on my cane. “I didn’t know how to deal with it. My career was over. I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t know…anything. Like I said on the phone, I just needed to deal with it on my own first.”
Dad scrubs at his face with both hands. “I guess I can respect that. I don’t like it, though. I wish you’d called. I’d have been here with you. Mom and I both would have.”
“I know. I just couldn’t.” I shake my head. “I’m ready to go. Just got those three bags.”
Dad grabs all three, hikes one over his shoulder and carries one in each hand, and then leads the way out to my truck. I follow him, hating that he has to carry my shit for me. He tosses the bags in the bed of the truck, bungees them in place and covers them with the rolled-up tarp I keep in the bed for that purpose, and then slides into the driver’s seat. It took me that long just to get into the passenger seat.
After swinging by the manager’s office to settle up, we’re out of San Antonio within half an hour, and I don’t look back. There’s less than nothing there for me.
The first two hours pass in silence, the radio on, tuned to country. I want to change it, because country does nothing but remind me of Cheyenne and Echo. But Dad has a rule: the driver controls the radio. And he likes country. So I’m stuck with the memories.
Finally, as the third hour begins, Dad glances at me, and his eyes are knowing. “There’s a girl, ain’t there?”
“What?”
He shrugs. “That look on your face, it’s the expression of a man with woman troubles. Only one person on earth can put that look on my face, and that’s your momma. So, what’s up?”