Chương 8
Daniel waited.
Richard rubbed the doorframe with his thumb.
“You surprised me.”
“That makes it better?”
“No.”
Another silence.
“Your mother and I got scared about money.”
“So you burned my applications.”
“I didn’t burn them.”
Daniel laughed once.
Richard flinched.
“I stopped you from stopping her.”
“That’s not exactly the same.”
“No.”
Richard stared past Daniel toward the window.
“I thought you’d get over it.”
Daniel’s jaw tightened.
“Get over college?”
“Get over needing a particular version of it.”
Daniel looked at him.
“Do you even know what I wanted?”
Richard did not answer.
That was answer enough.
Daniel leaned back.
“Why Ethan?”
Richard frowned.
“What?”
“Why was his version worth paying for?”
Richard’s first reaction was defensive.
Daniel saw it gather in his shoulders.
Then it seemed to leak away.
“Football felt concrete.”
Daniel said nothing.
“Coaches called.”
Richard continued.
“There were camps, numbers, rankings, people telling us what he might become.”
“And me?”
“You handled yourself.”
The sentence hurt more than Daniel expected.
Richard seemed to hear it after saying it.
“You never needed us the same way.”
Daniel looked down at his desk.
There was a crack in the wood laminate near the edge where he had once dropped a desk lamp.
He ran his thumbnail along it.
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t need you.”
Richard’s face changed.
He stepped into the room, then stopped.
For a few seconds, Daniel thought his father might say something important.
Instead Richard nodded.
“Okay.”
Daniel almost became angry again.
“Okay?”
“I heard you.”
Richard looked toward the hallway.
“I don’t know what to do with it yet.”
It was not enough.
It was also the most honest thing Richard had said in months.
Daniel let him leave.
Three days later, Ethan came home from football practice limping.
The limp was small enough that Richard did not notice until Ethan tried to climb the stairs.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s not nothing.”
“I planted weird.”
Richard was on his feet immediately.
“Which knee?”
“My right.”
“Swelling?”
“Dad.”
“Sit down.”
“It’s fine.”
Richard crouched before Ethan had fully lowered himself onto the couch.
Daniel watched from the kitchen doorway.
Ethan’s jaw was tight.
Richard pushed gently around the knee.
“Does that hurt?”
“No.”
“That?”
“No.”
“That?”
“Jesus, no.”
“Language.”
Ethan stared at him.
Richard almost smiled.
Elaine came in from the laundry room.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” Ethan said again.
Richard answered over him.
“He tweaked his knee.”
“I did not tweak anything.”
Elaine set down the laundry basket.
“Do we need urgent care?”
“No.”
Richard said, “Maybe.”
Ethan threw both hands up.
“I walked into the house.”
Richard ignored him and texted the coach.
By ten that night, the swelling was more obvious.
The next morning Ethan could still bear weight, but stairs made him wince.
Richard scheduled an orthopedic appointment.
Daniel went to school with an uncomfortable feeling he could not name.
Part of it was concern.
Part of it was resentment at how instantly the household mobilized around Ethan’s pain.
Another part was uglier.
A tiny, involuntary voice whispered that if Ethan’s football path narrowed, maybe everyone would finally understand what it felt like.
Daniel despised the thought the moment it appeared.
He carried it anyway.
The diagnosis was a mild sprain.
No ligament tear.
No surgery.
Rest, ice, physical therapy, and a cautious return.
Richard exhaled like someone had commuted a sentence.
Ethan missed one game.
He returned for the last game of the regular season wearing a brace.
Daniel attended because Ethan asked.
The bleachers were cold enough that Elaine passed hand warmers down the row.
Richard shouted at officials.
Elaine pretended she did not know him.
Daniel watched Ethan line up near the sideline.
On the second drive, Ethan caught a short pass and turned upfield.
He took a hit low.
He got up.
Richard exhaled.
Daniel did too.
Nothing happened.
That scared Daniel more than if something had.
He started watching Ethan’s knee every play.
By halftime, the home team was up by ten.
Ethan had four catches.
A scout from a small Division II school stood near the fence.
Richard pointed him out three times.
“I saw him.”
“He’s been watching Ethan.”
“You don’t know that.”
“He was writing after the third catch.”
“He could be doing a crossword.”
Richard looked offended.
“No one does crosswords standing up.”
Daniel almost smiled.
The game ended without injury.
Ethan rode home flushed and happy.
Richard talked about routes.
Elaine complained about the cold.
For twenty minutes, the Mercer family sounded almost normal.
Then Daniel’s phone buzzed.
He glanced down.
The email subject line read SERVICE ACADEMY NOMINATION UPDATE.
His stomach dropped.
He opened it.
The congressional office thanked him for interviewing.
The panel had completed its recommendations.
Daniel had not received the principal nomination.
The words beneath that blurred for a second.
He read them again.
He had been placed on a competitive slate for the Naval Academy.
It was not rejection.
It was also not the certainty he had been imagining.
Ethan noticed first.
“What?”
Daniel locked the phone.
“Nothing.”
“Your face says something.”
Richard looked at him through the rearview mirror.
“What happened?”
Daniel hesitated.
For months he had guarded every piece of the process.
Suddenly he was too tired.
“I didn’t get the principal nomination.”
Elaine turned in the passenger seat.
“Oh.”
Richard’s hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
“What does that mean?”
“I’m on the slate.”
“Is that bad?”
“It means the academy can choose among nominees.”
“So you still have a chance.”
“Yes.”
Nobody spoke for a moment.
Daniel stared through the window at dark houses moving past.
He had expected Richard to say something about backup plans.
Instead his father said, “Then you still have a chance.”
The sentence was almost identical.
The tone was not.
Daniel looked toward the mirror.
Richard kept his eyes on the road.
Ethan nudged Daniel’s shoulder.
“Competitive slate sounds cooler anyway.”
“It is objectively worse.”
“I didn’t say better.”
May you like
Elaine turned forward again.
“When do you find out?”
