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“Thanks for stopping by to let me brag about you,” he teased. “I know you want to get on out of here and celebrate with your friends. But meet us at church tomorrow, and we’ll go to the club to celebrate your mom’s birthday after, okay?”

He even pulled me aside on the way out to give me a hug, which shocked the hell out of me. “Proud of you, son. After lunch tomorrow, come back to the house so we can talk. I may have been too hard on you with this punishment business. I’ll make it right, okay?”

I stared at him. It was the closest to an apology I’d ever heard from him. “Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

It wasn’t until the walk back to the dorm later that I realized he’d never mentioned any actual details of that game in ninth grade.

To be fair, he hadn’t known some of the things I remembered most clearly. Like the way I’d thrown up with nerves before every away game that season. The way the quarterback had resented my soccer history and had made a point of not including me in team social events. The way my coach had asked me to “tough it out” despite a muscle strain.

But he hadn’t even mentioned things anyone might’ve known. Like the fact that I’d nailed every kick during the Powell game despite playing in a rare snow flurry. Or how the sound system had squawked right before my foot had made contact with the ball, but I’d still managed to nail it.

Did he remember those details? Had he ever noticed them in the first place? What had made him change his tune and act like he wanted to reconcile?

My hands started to shake with the feeling I’d been conned. My father wanted something.

When would I learn this lesson once and for all?

Election Day was coming closer, his polling was probably underwater, and he was concocting some scheme in which he needed me to play a bigger role.

I was fifteen during his last election and nine when he won his first Senate race. This wasn’t my first fucking rodeo, so why was I such a goddamned sucker?

My phone vibrated, so I pulled it out, hoping it was Vaughn, though he rarely texted me. It was Arden.

Arden

I really need to talk to you. It’s important.

How many times was I going to have to tell her no before she left me alone? I couldn’t handle another tear-fest with her. Not after dealing with my father.

Instead of responding to her, I texted Vaughn.

When will you be home?

He responded right away.

Vaughn

Good job today. Nailed it!

I stopped in my tracks and let the words wash over me. Fuck, that felt good. I couldn’t remember the last time someone in my life had sent me a text like that. Louella, my parents’ housekeeper, had shot me a text when I’d scored the winning field goal during my high school state championship game. Congratulations, Bett! What a kick!

My father had been out of town, and my mother had said her usual “Good game, honey.” My friends and teammates had been stoked, of course, but for some reason, this hit different.

And it felt so fucking good.

Vaughn

Leaving here in about thirty more minutes. Was thinking I’d pick up poke bowls from that place on South Street. You going out or do you want me to bring some for you?

I’m broke, remember?

Vaughn

Poke on me if I can poke you later. ;-)

I let out an embarrassing laugh and started walking again.

That was bad.