by Peyton Storm
“Wait a minute. What changed? It seemed as though two seconds ago, you wanted Greyson to go back to being a distant memory. Now you want to split a birthday cake with him? What gives?”
Carter released my hand, pushed his chair back, and rose to his feet. With a nervous stomach, I watched as he rounded my dining table and made his way to me. He hunched down alongside my chair and looked up at me as he rested his chin atop my thigh.
“I have to believe in second chances. Without it, we’re all screwed. Our daughter deserves the best of us.” He stood as I wiped a tear from my cheek.
“Come on. I’ll help you clear the plates and then!” His voice rose in excitement “We’ll discuss Dad’s birthday cake.”
“Hey.” I pulled him back before he made his way towards the kitchen. “I’ll never fully understand why or how you put up with me or how you always find a way to make it better. Please, let me at least try to do the same for you.”
“We’ll see.” He winked before stacking our plates.
I worried about him. Paisley hadn’t mentioned Matthew in some time. Maybe they’d grown apart. Carter loved so hard, I didn’t want to see him hurt again.
Once the dishes were put away, we settled on a menu and the grocery list to make it happen as well as Dad’s birthday cake—vanilla with buttercream icing—and the invite list. I penciled in Greyson and Dax at the bottom, question mark, question mark. Then Carter and I said our goodbyes again.
With the house finally quiet, I was left with not only my own thoughts but the chance to mull over all the advice given to me within the past twenty-four hours. Little did I know, there was more to come.
My phone screen lit up, displaying a number I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t local. Curiosity got the best of me.
“Hello? Presley? My name is Dax DeLuca, I’m—”
Here we go.
“I know who you are.”
My response may have come out a little sharper than I intended, but there was something in his tone that immediately put me on edge, if not on the defensive. I let him have his say and couldn’t help but smile at the fact that Greyson did indeed have someone looking out for him. It felt odd knowing I was what he needed protection from, though.
Dax came across as more than just an agent. He seemed truly genuine in his concern for Greyon. He was careful with his words, and I wondered what I was missing.
“Ms. Manning, I don’t mean to pry, but with the draft coming up, it’s imperative that Tack—sorry, Greyson keep a clear head, and my concern is that—”
Okay, I’d heard enough.
“Mr. DeLuca, I can assure you that I only wish the very best for Greyson and that he lands where he wishes to in the draft, and I hope you do as well. I’m inviting Tack to my dad’s birthday BBQ on Sat. You’re invited as well, BYOB, see you then.”
I disconnected the call in a hurry, left with even more advice to mull over. If Mr. DeLuca had more to say, he could do so over brisket.
I hadn’t even extended an invite to Greyson yet. Would Dax intervene before I had a chance to? Who knew? I tossed my phone aside and picked up the TV remote.
The commentators were going head to head in regards to where the top prospects would land, which NFL teams needed quarterbacks and which teams needed to focus on rebuilding their defense. Next up was clips of some of the most interesting prospects and the teams who were interested and calling in for a sit-down. Greyson’s clip couldn’t have been much more than ninety seconds, but I was transfixed nonetheless. He wore number seventy-six, and Thomas read across his back in navy blue.
The jersey itself had started out as white, but the clip was from half-way through the third quarter, and so it was stained in various shades of brown and green. My attention, though, was drawn to his left hand. Greyson had always been afraid of failure, of not living up to the expectations of him out on the field. Most players tape their wrists, hands, or fingers to support a previous injury or to prevent one from occurring in the first place. Greyson had his own reasons.
The tape around his wrist was always frayed from him fidgeting with it when he thought no one was looking. His index and middle finger were also taped just below the knuckle. Just before every play as he took his stance at the line of scrimmage, if you looked closely, you could see him graze one finger against the other. I’d always wondered if it was part of the problem or his attempt at a solution. Maybe one day I’d ask.
I debated Carter’s suggestion over and over in my head, and ultimately, I reached for my phone. I didn’t trust my voice at the moment or that I wouldn’t ramble my way straight to sheer embarrassment. My thumb hovered over the send button for far too long, but once the screen displayed delivered, I finally exhaled.
After I locked up the house for the night, I grabbed my book from the coffee table, peeked in on Paisley, and headed to bed. My stomach fluttered at the sight of the tossed bedding. I crawled onto the center of the bed, wrapped myself in his scent, and soon I was fast asleep.
Chapter 26
Greyson
The week went on as a whirlwind that had Dax and I on a plane most of the time. Presley and I continued to text back and forth as I bounced from one team facility to the next. I sent a couple pics from the plane, especially when we were mid-flight during sunrise or sunset. She showed them to Paisley, who apparently was a little artist. Pres had texted back a watercolor duplicate. It was pretty damn good, and may or may not have become my screensaver. That kid was so fucking cool. Regardless of what would come of Pres and I, the memory of Paisley, half pint or not, rolling up on me at my booth was one I wouldn’t soon forget.
Each team visit went extremely well. I’d taken the advice of Dax and Doc and was upfront about the trouble I’d been in, my view of things moving forward, and what steps I would continue to take to protect my mental health, along with my physical. Each team’s top brass seemed to appreciate my honesty, and truth be told, I’d be blessed to be drafted by any one of them. Still, my mind continued to drift towards Houston.
Uncle Jake used to keep a team cap on the dashboard of his truck. Never once did I see it on his head. For all I knew, the tags were still tucked underneath. He, like Mama, had gone too soon. I’ll never forget the day I got the phone call. My only comfort was that unlike Mama, he hadn’t suffered. A brain aneurysm took him quickly, leaving me to pick up the pieces. His last wish was to be buried alongside his parents up near the panhandle, and I was sure to make it happen. His home in Ocean Falls had been left to me, but I’d yet to step foot inside since his passing. I’d paid a company to go in and get rid of perishables, but other than that, Uncle Jake’s belongings hadn’t been touched in two years.
The notification of Presley’s text pulled me from my memories. She asked that I keep her up to date on how things were going. We were en route from New Orleans to Houston, and I shot her another text once I got settled into my hotel room. What I wouldn’t give to have talked to her through the night.
The next morning I was to meet with Houston at eight a.m. No way would I manage anything resembling a restful sleep. Instead, we texted back and forth about her dad’s birthday BBQ that coming weekend. What time and how, in her words, it would be okay. I’d have to remind Dax about the tickets I’d decided to give Mr. Manning.
Her last text came through at twelve o’clock a.m., and once I returned her goodnight, I spent the next four hours staring at the ceiling, fixating on how the meeting would go. Six a.m. came quickly, but I all but launched myself from the bed and into the shower. Exactly eight and a half minutes later, I was toweling off and back to obsessing. Houston was known as a no-nonsense organization, and given my track record, I was still in awe that they wanted to talk to me in the first place. Dax swung by a few minutes early with what I guess you could call a pep talk. I was nervous as fuck, and he knew it.
A hard pat on the back, and we headed out the door. Dax had
opted to leave “Weezy” in Ocean Falls, and we’d rented a car throughout all of our pre-draft stops. This one in particular was too small, making our time on the Beltway even more eventful. That or it was plenty big, tons of legroom, and my ass just needed to calm the fuck down.
The walk from the parking lot to the main doors seemed to be a mile long. I could feel the rhythm of my breathing shift and a rush of heat shoot down my spine. Not now, please, God, not now. Dax’s large hand landed on my shoulder once more. I hadn’t realized I’d been walking ahead of him.
“Easy there, Tack. Why don’t we take a minute or two? We’re a good fifteen minutes early, no biggie.”
We veered off the walkway and parked our asses on a not nearly big enough bench. I immediately folded over, dropped my head between my knees, and focused on my breathing. Dax sat right by my side and took a similar position, only he looked straight ahead. He sat in complete silence as I worked through it. Just when I thought I’d rub my fingers raw, my breathing slowed, my vision cleared, and the vice grip at the center of my chest slowly released. Dax cleared his throat, and when I didn’t bolt, he knew he was okay to speak.
“Houston. It matters to you, I get that. Family, memories, the girl. I gotta say, man, I’m a little concerned. They have the twenty-first pick. I don’t give a fuck what some of those commentators say, you’re not gonna fall that low in the draft. You’re going first round, top ten. I can feel it in my gut. You okay with that? Not landing in Houston?”
What the fuck was wrong with me? So many would never get close to where I stood. There was so much undiscovered talent out there; I was one of the privileged.
“I’ll happily go wherever I’m drafted.”
Dax nodded once, and we rose to our feet and made our way toward the double doors of the facility. The second we entered the automatic doors, we were greeted by a guy who looked to be a trainer. His name was Micah, and he’d be our guide. You needed a badge to navigate through the facility, and so we followed behind him.
I found myself in awe as we walked down hallways decorated with large framed prints of every superstar that ever called Houston home. Uncle Jake would have been beside himself. Would my own image ever grace those walls?
I spent exactly eighty-eight minutes sitting across from the team’s general manager, head coach, and defensive coach. Instead of struggling, failing, as I searched for the right words, I gave them the best of me and hoped it was good enough. I’d be willing to fall deep in the draft, even out of the first round, if it meant I would land there.
The meeting ended with firm handshakes, and soon, Dax and I were headed back to Ocean Falls. Four teams in seven days and my ass was exhausted. I was dead on my feet as we made our way through the hotel parking lot. Dax knew Uncle Jake’s home had been left to me, but never did he question why we were staying in a hotel instead. Shit like that was why I called him a friend instead of an agent. I reminded him to secure the tickets for Presley’s dad and headed to my room.
A quick shower later, and sleep was calling. Presley and I had texted all week but that night, for whatever reason, a screen wasn’t enough. I needed to hear her voice and hoped that at least a part of her needed to hear mine.
“Hey you.”
She’d answered on the first ring. Maybe she did need to hear my voice after all.
At last check, we’d talked for one hundred and eight minutes. My lids peeled open at 9:40 the next morning with my phone clutched to my chest. I quickly wiped the sleep from my eyes and scrolled through my phone to see what I’d missed.
Emails and alerts aside, my attention was solely drawn toward the text Presley had sent a couple hours earlier
“Wake up, sleepyhead. Don’t you have some training to do?”
Included was a selfie from what looked to be her morning run. Her curls were tucked underneath an Astros baseball cap, high off of her neck. Her cheeks were flushed from exertion, and small beads of sweat shimmered against her adrenaline flushed skin as it trickled it’s way down the center of her chest and into the purple sports bra that fit all too well. She had no idea what she did to me. Or maybe she did.
I bit my lip, snapped a pic, and hit send. Once again, Presley wanted to play.
Presley
For the most part, my week went on as usual. Early morning workouts, taking Paisley to and from school, multiple dance classes in between. Grocery shopping on Thursday and lunch with Belle on Friday. The only new addition was hearing from Greyson on a regular basis. He texted morning and night in between team visits. Some texts I was able and happy to share with Paisley. Others, not so much.
I wouldn’t hide him from her. The only way he could be in my life was to also be in hers. She hadn’t really asked too many questions at that point; she knew I’d known him since high school, and that was when she asked if Daddy knew him back then too, which I answered honestly. She was happy to hear I’d invited him to Pop-pop’s birthday BBQ on Saturday. Doing so made me feel a little guilty, though. My dad had reservations about Greyson early on and rightfully so. He eventually softened towards him and even went so far as to welcome him with open arms.
Greyson and his uncle Jake had come over for both Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner just before he bailed and skipped town. Dad would never admit it, but Greyson leaving like that hurt. He was angry that he’d accepted him into our home, into my life, only for Greyson to bail. My dad held on to an odd sense of guilt. That’d been twice my heart had been shattered by people my dad trusted and nothing he could do to protect me from it. It was a heavy weight for him to carry. I’d been too chicken to tell him Greyson was back and some way, somehow, he hadn’t heard it on his own or else I would have heard about it. Immediately.
Belle arrived early on Saturday, fully equipped with balloons and other party supplies. Paisley’s eyes were wide in wonder, and the two set out to decorate our backyard. I went out to check on the brisket, Dad’s absolute favorite, before heading back to the kitchen to rinse and chop. The guac and pico were set. I cut up extra limes for Dad’s favorite beer, and Carter was due any minute with the cake. Dad’s guests were all set to arrive an hour later.
I was a nervous wreck and, to be honest, a coward. Dad was an absolute southern gentleman, he wouldn’t make a scene in front of company, but he would feel it. It was wrong of me to choose an otherwise happy occasion to rip the bandaid off, yet there we were.
“Incoming!”
Carter’s voice pulled me from my thoughts, I was so happy to see him; I knew he’d have all the right words to pull me from the ledge. A glance over his shoulder proved Matthew wasn’t in tow.
Dad was punctual as always and had a big bear hug for Paisley and I, plus Belle and Carter. Every year he was sure to insist we not go to all the trouble, yet every year, once he arrived, his eyes lit up. And so a tradition was born.
I had to force myself not to look at my phone every thirty seconds, just as I began to wonder if Greyson had decided to sit this one out. If he had, I wouldn’t blame him. We had all gone in together to get Dad a great birthday present, something he’d enjoy immensely but would never consider buying for himself. By we, I meant Paisley and I, Belle, and Carter. They were family, after all. Two weeks from the day, Dad would go on an offshore fishing excursion out of Galveston. Paisley’s arms were wrapped tight around his neck as he read over the details and dug through his new tackle box. He even let Paisley help him with the “long” words. Belle steadily took picture after picture while Carter and I looked on, satisfied that we’d made the right choice.
“Y’all know this is too much.”
His eyes sparkled with gratitude, and Carter stepped forward. “Nonsense, Dad. Go. Enjoy. We want to hear all about it when you get back.”
Dad smiled wide and pulled Carter into the stereotypical man hug.
“‘preciate it, Son.”
When Dad’s expression suddenly changed,
I knew at least one more guest had arrived.
All eyes swung on Greyson and Dax’s direction, and God bless her, Belle was the first to speak.
“Well don’t just stand there! Grab a plate.”
Mouthing “Thank you” wouldn’t be enough; I owed her. Big.
Dad didn’t even acknowledge their arrival. Instead, he turned to Paisley, who had taken to decorating the patio with sidewalk chalk.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
It wasn’t awkward. Nope, not at all.
“Listen, about Dad…”
“No, it’s fine. Not like I expected to be greeted with open arms.” His face was pained, but he continued anyway. “Sorry we’re late, a call came in. Draft stuff. You remember Dax?”
“Of course.”
Dax shook my hand, making everything feel much more formal than it needed to be. Though given his dress slacks and button-down shirt with rolled-up sleeves, I thought maybe that was just his way.
I had to give them both credit. They’d walked right into the lion’s den but put on brave faces.
“Gentlemen.”
Carter nodded on his way into the kitchen. He’d sliced the brisket and was ready to serve. Everyone watching Dax dig in was just what we needed to break the ice. Belle saddled up beside me where we spent the next five-plus minutes admiring his newfound discovery and complete adoration of true Texan BBQ with all the fixin’s.
“You got balls, Sis. This could have turned into a real shit show, real quick like.”
Belle was right, as always. I’d have to be ready to diffuse any flaring tempers, though I didn’t really anticipate the need to. Not with Paisley around, at least.
“Keep an eye on them for me? I wanna talk to Dad for a sec.”
“Sure thing. Good luck.”
I made my way over to two of my favorite people on the planet. Dad and Peanut were still busy with the sidewalk chalk. There were flowers, rainbows, and even monster trucks scattered about.