“You’ve been joking around more lately.” I give him a look. “It’s weird.”
He laughs. “I’m trying to relax more. That health scare a while back put things in perspective. I love football, but it can’t be my entire life.”
I nod. I get it. Kinda. I do what I do for Hazel, but I have to be obsessed with football if I want to make it to the pros.
Coach Santos steeples his fingers. “Son, you have a lot on your plate. Keep your eyes on the prize. Hang out with the guys when you can outside of practice. Build that camaraderie. Spend quality time with your daughter, and forget the draft for now. To be clear, you absolutely have the potential to get drafted, but thinking about it now, at the beginning of the season, is just added pressure. What’s that saying? ‘How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time.’ So keep your focus on the game ahead of you. The good news is you’re my main QB this fall. You don’t have to share it with Ezra Thomas.”
“That’s a relief.”
“It is.”
Coach has been tight-lipped about his feelings toward Ezra, which is weird because if Coach is upset with someone, he lets that person know it. Conversely, he never withholds praise.
When he doesn’t say anything else, it makes me wonder if the rumors are true. That Ezra Thomas is Roxy’s baby daddy, and that’s why Coach iced him out of his circle of trust last fall. Because Roxy is Coach’s daughter and his obvious pride and joy.
If some douchebag knocked up Hazel and then left her high and dry, like I suspect Ezra did to Roxy, I’d be out for blood.
I’m told Billy and Roxy were friends long before they announced they were dating and having a baby, so no one really questioned her pregnancy at the time. But now I’m wondering if Billy throwing that pass was about more than just winning a game. Maybe it was Coach rubbing a little dirt in Ezra’s face for being such an asshole.
Whatever the case, Coach is right. If I wanna get drafted next spring and have the life I want for my daughter, give her the security I never had growing up, and help my father retire, I have to change how I play.
I hope I won’t let them down.
* * *
After I pick up some dinner for me and Hazel, I book it home. She should go to bed soon, but if I don’t see her in the evenings, I won’t see her all day, and that’s not okay with me. It’s bad enough she’s down to one parent. The least I can do is love up on her and make sure we hang out a little.
When I pull into my driveway, I notice that my neighbors aren’t home. The girls are rarely there. I think Paige teaches gymnastics and has cheerleading practice. I’m not sure what Abigail does. I’m surprised I haven’t seen her much this summer.
When I walk in the house, it’s spotless. The floors are clean, the house smells like lemon Pine-Sol, and everything looks neat and orderly.
Oksana is sitting on the couch, knitting.
“Hey. How’d it go today?” I glance around again, looking for my little gingersnap, as I drop my gym bag by the door. “Where’s Hazel?”
Oksana doesn’t bother looking up from her knitting needles that click, click, click. “That child is obstinate. She would not put her toys away when I asked, and she did not like what I made for lunch.”
My heart sinks. Sometimes, those two get along, and other days they butt heads. “What did you make?”
“Borscht. A staple in my country.” She sniffs. “But she wanted chicken nuggets.”
Hazel can be picky. That’s why I have a wall of nuggets in the freezer. “What did she end up having?”
“Nothing. She would not eat the soup I made, so I sent her to bed early.”
I wait for her to say that’s a joke, but she doesn’t. “So she went all afternoon without anything to eat?” I can understand not wanting to waste food, but my daughter is young and pretty slender. I’m not sure she should go that long without any sustenance.
“Do not fret. I gave her bread and water.”
My brows lift. “Like she’s in prison?”
The click-clack of her needles stops as she finally looks up at me. “You are too lenient. She needs rules.” Oksana pulls her hair back into a tight bun, so her eyebrows are always raised.
“Rules, yes, but she’s only four.”
After another ten minutes debating the topic, I scrub my face, and we agree to disagree. Once my babysitter leaves, I head for Hazel’s room and poke my head in. I find her curled up in the corner of the room on the floor, wrapped in a white fuzzy blanket, listening to music with my giant headphones. On the nightstand is a plate of uneaten bread and a full glass of water.
What the fuck? Oksana never checked to see if Hazel ate even a bite, which means my daughter hasn’t had anything since eight this morning.
