A Daddy for Mother's Day

by Natalie Knight

  He’s a man-child. And I find it oddly so endearing.

  I’ll blame it on Liam and their bond. It’s clouding my better judgment, not allowing me to see Brady for who he really is. It’s blinded me to all the reasons why I shouldn’t be falling and feeling what I do for him.

  I make myself a cup of tea to relax before going to bed, mulling over what I should do—if and how I should approach Brady about me and Liam. To tell him the truth about everything.

  The longer I stay here, the more likely I’ll spill. But I know that when I do, everything will change, and I don’t know if I’m ready for that. I’m not ready for his reaction and for the repercussions I’ll deal with for betraying my sister.

  Most importantly, I don’t know if Liam is ready to know. He’s the most significant factor in this decision—I have to do what’s best for him, regardless of my feelings. Even if all I want to do is tell Brady how I feel about him.

  Pouring the steaming hot water from the kettle into a mug and infusing the honey lavender tea, I spot something out of the corner of my eye. From where I’m standing, I can make out the title—Sports Illustrated—and I quickly recognize the model: it’s Brady and his half-naked body.

  No wonder it caught my eye—he’s always so distracting.

  I head toward it, recalling our conversations and wondering if I missed him saying anything about the interview, but I can’t place any.

  Once I reach it, I see a sticky note with FOR BRADY scribbled on it. Well, it’s definitely his. I hesitate to reach for it, feeling like I’m prying, voyeuristically peering into a part of his life I’m not supposed to see.

  But at the same time, I’m in his house, and I already know so much about him. More than he knows.

  And I’m also his co-worker, who dedicates her day to managing his diet. So really, I have every right to read this.

  Reassuring myself, I settle into the couch with the magazine and tea in hand. I aim to get comfortable, preparing for an entertaining read, but for some reason, my anxiety is heightened. I’m feeling almost nervous to read it.

  I don’t understand why.

  My eyes linger over his cover, amazed at the definition of his abs and arm muscles. They glisten impeccably with the oil painted on him. He looks bigger and more alluring than usual.

  A familiar shiver travels down my spine as flashbacks of the other day play on repeat. I revel in the moment, feeling the warmth envelope and tingle my body.

  My eyes follow over the white, bold lettering spelling his name, and I swallow the lump in my throat.

  Football’s resident bad boy talks women, money, and the one thing he never wants in his life, the cover reads.

  For some reason, nausea suddenly consumes me, and I regret having peeked inside. Nothing about the subtitle seems reassuring in the slightest. A part of me hoped that reading this interview would motivate me to tell him, or at least make the decision for me, but now, having read that, I’m not sure.

  I tell myself to continue and to avoid jumping to conclusions. Those have failed me a lot lately, especially concerning Brady and my feelings for him.

  I flip through the pages and fall upon the article. It’s quick to find—a large two-page spread of him in front of a mirror in the weight room, bench-pressing two hundred and fifty pounds.

  I bite my bottom lip as I stare at his image, imprinting his figure into my memory, despite it already being memorized.

  I shake my head, redirecting my attention to the actual story. From the start, I find it enlightening, somewhat informative albeit familiar. The article dives into his background a little at first but barely spends enough time on it.

  And as the subtitle indicates, this interview is not interested in his career; it’s concerned with what it’s afforded him off the field and out of uniform.

  Most of the conversation rehashes old stories that I’ve known or heard of. For instance, he’s reputation with women. Apparently, he’s had more than enough conquests to fill a luxurious five-star hotel, which he’s frequented many times, while leaving suites looking like some sort of rock star was there.

  The depiction suits him well, seeing as that’s exactly how he thinks of himself.

  The interview goes into detail regarding his latest stint on a yacht with a prince and mentions the few other infamous incidents coloring his football career, despite them having nothing to do with football.

  Brady admits that he has a bad boy reputation that precedes him, and I chuckle at this omission. He does have a knack for being candid and reckless.

  But as I read over these accounts, all I find myself thinking about is Liam, and I’m reminded as to why I have my reservations about Brady in the first place. He was, and still is, according to this interview, living an outrageous lifestyle and not giving it a second thought.

  How can that be suitable for Liam? Even if he looks adorable playing with and taking care of him—and despite him being the father, his lifestyle is not conducive for raising a child.

  I turn the page, and a timeline stretches across the two pages. Rather than highlighting the major points in his career, it outlines his extracurricular affairs—his hook-ups, high-profile scandals, and extravagant spending.

  It’s sad to see his lifestyle overshadowing the amazing skills he has as a quarterback. Even if there are sporadic photos of him related to his career—him on the field practicing and running drills and in the weight room bantering with his teammates, they all look like simple background props, not the main focus.

  It’s amazing how different he seems around me, though. So opposite to what this article depicts. I’m finding it hard to reconcile the interview with my feelings for—and my time with— him.

  And although I hate to admit it, it’s starting to hurt.

  Reading these accounts over and over again in numerical and heightened detail makes me feel sick.

  Shaking my head, I stand up and take the magazine with me to the kitchen counter and place my now cold tea in the sink. I’m hoping that in a different position, I’ll be able to refocus my attention and stifle these uncomfortable feelings.

  I continue to read, and Brady boasts about the vacations he’s taken and the trouble he’s gotten into. I become more exasperated when he mentions the one time he had a run-in with the French police for being caught pants-less in the park in front of the Eiffel Tower.

  He’s quoted: “What can I say? The moment got away from me. A beautiful woman, a romantic setting. It was bound to happen. Never underestimate what money and some charm can do for you, though. I’ve learned that can get you in and out of places rather easily.”

  He sounds like such an ass. Someone I’d never see myself falling for. A man not qualified to be a father, especially a father to Liam.

  And yet I have. And yet he is.

  It makes everything about this so much harder. I know who and what he is, and I’m still here reeling after him.

  As I finish the interview, my eyes latch onto the journalist’s last question: “So, do you think you’ll see yourself settling down soon, with a wife and a few little Bradys running around?”

  I take a deep breath in, and my body stills, my anxiety coiling around me like a snake smothering its prey. I didn’t know that I wanted to know the answer to this question, but now I have to know. His answer will steer me one way or the other—should I tell him or not?

  I can feel the pressure settling onto my chest, making it hard to breathe.

  The journalist describes: “Laughing almost too loudly, Brady responds, ‘That life—a wife, a white-picket fence, and 2.5 kids—has never and will never be in my cards. I never want to settle down, and I for damn sure never want children. There is too much life to live to be tied down.’”

  I read and re-read his answer, wanting the letters to re-scramble into something I can swallow easily. But they don’t—they remain permanently printed.

  I clutch onto the magazine, and a tear falls down my cheek. The realization hits me like a freight tra
in.

  If I do tell Brady, he’ll never accept Liam as his own—and I can’t do that to Liam.

  Chapter 26

  Brady

  I’m standing in the kitchen sneaking a beer from the fridge when Liam suddenly stomps in.

  I swear, living with kids has definitely been an adjustment.

  He comes in and slams his backpack on the table, all rudely.

  What gives?

  He then throws himself into a chair, folds his arms, and pouts.

  Ooookay.

  I’m new to kids, so I’m still figuring this shit all out.

  I slowly walk up to him, fearing he’ll yell at me, and quietly pull up a chair.

  “Hey, what’s up, little man?” I pat him gently on the arm. “If you keep throwing your backpack against the counters like that, we’re going to have to replace them.”

  “Oh, crap.” Liam looks up at me and looks genuinely remorseful. “I’m sorry about that, Brady. It won’t happen again.”

  I wave him off. “No, sorry. You’re fine. That was just a bad joke. Those counters are made of marble. They’re indestructible.”

  Liam doesn’t look any happier. He sinks back into his seat and looks away from me.

  You know, over these past couple of weeks, I was starting to think I was pretty good with kids. But it’s times like this where I realize that, nope, kids are still confusing sometimes.

  Is it girls? Was he picked last for soccer or something? What the hell can it be?

  Fortunately, before this situation can get any more awkward, Izzie comes in.

  She’s changed out of her work clothes into an oversized hoodie and tiny shorts that show off the slight curve of her ass.

  Liam who?

  Izzie walks over to the other side of the table and sits next to Liam. She places her arm around his shoulder and kisses him on the forehead.

  “It’s okay, Liam.” She brushes strands of hair out of his face. “If you want to go, you can bring me instead.”

  Liam roughly pulls away. “No! That’s stupid. You’re a girl.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I stand up, raising my palms. “This is a sexism-free household. Anything men can do chicks can do, too. Right, Izzie?”

  I give a quick eye at Izzie, waiting for her validation, but she doesn’t even look at me.

  “It’s not about that.” She continues staring at Liam with concern dripping from her eyes. “There’s a father-son pancake breakfast at Liam’s school, but he doesn’t have anyone to go with him.”

  “Because I don’t have a dad.” Liam looks up at me with these big ol’ puppy dog eyes.

  If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought he was a child actor starring in a very emotional TV movie.

  “Oh...right.” I scratch the back of neck awkwardly.

  Now that I know everything about Izzie’s history, I can’t help feeling nervous when she talks about family stuff. I know it must all be hard for her and possibly even harder for Liam.

  “It’s not fair!” Liam stands up suddenly and runs from the table.

  Man, this kid is dramatic.

  I look over at Izzie with my What the hell was that? face.

  She shakes her head and shrugs.

  “These situations happen all the time.” She places her chin on her hand. “I wish there was something more I could do. I hate that he has to grow up feeling different or feeling like he lacks something that everyone else has.”

  I reach out and try to stroke her hand, but she moves her hand away. I try to brush her hair behind her ear, but she waves that off, too.

  “Come on, knock it off,” she whispers. “Liam’s just in the next room.”

  That’s weird. Is she mad at me or something?

  Crap, now I’m going to spend the rest of the day mentally reliving everything I’ve done in the past twenty-four hours that could’ve possibly pissed her off. Honestly, knowing me, it could have been anything.

  “Anyway,” Izzie switches the conversation back. “He’ll get over it. He always does. Don’t take his anger personally.”

  “I don’t.”

  I look up through the doorway at the mezzanine, where Liam is trying to kill my foosball table. He reminds me so much of myself that it’s weird. I had the craziest temper when I was a kid, and it was mostly due to me not feeling wanted by my biological parents.

  Or at least that’s what my old coach back in college used to tell me. Hey, I believed him.

  I turn to Izzie. “Hey, what if I take Liam to his pancake breakfast thing? I could totally do it. It’s not a problem at all. I love me some pancakes.”

  Izzie looks up at me with a bewildered expression. “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  She stands up and starts walking away, and I chase after her.

  “Why don’t you think it’s a good idea?”

  Her words genuinely hurt my feelings a little bit.

  She sighs. “Because,” she says, then stops and lowers her voice since she’s aware Liam’s nearby, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to make promises that you can’t keep.”

  Wow, that was a low blow. “What makes you think I can’t keep my promises?”

  Izzie opens her mouth and closes it again. She looks like she’s trapped in an argument she doesn’t want to be in.

  “Geez, Brady.” She runs her hands through her hair. “I mean, can we just be honest with each other? You’re not exactly someone who likes kids.”

  “That’s bullshit!”

  “Hey!” She shushes me. “Lower your voice.”

  She points at Liam up on the mezzanine, who continues punishing my foosball table.

  “I like kids,” I angrily whisper. “Especially Liam. He’s the coolest kid I know.”

  “He’s the only kid you know.”

  “Why does that matter?”

  It’s crazy how angry I am about this. Why does she think I don’t like kids? I mean, I admit, I’ve never seen myself as a family man, but I’ve been great with Liam.

  And frankly, I’ve enjoyed having Liam around. Although he’s been killing me at Madden.

  “Because, Brady, this breakfast is a big deal to him. And if you suddenly become too busy and you can’t make it, it’ll crush him. Completely destroy him.”

  Oh, so she thinks I’m irresponsible? True, I haven’t been to any parent-teacher conferences, but I would never make a promise to Liam I couldn’t keep.

  “Izzie, I understand your concern, but I don’t have a game that day. I can totally make it.”

  Izzie doesn’t look convinced.

  “I don’t know, Brady.”

  “Oh, come one.” I grab her gently by her shoulders. “Just imagine Liam strolling up to school with Brady Thomas. The Brady Thomas. Holy shit, he’ll be the most popular kid in school. No one’s going to ever make fun of him for not having a dad again.”

  Izzie slowly starts to loosen up a little as a grin spreads across her face.

  “I guess you have a point,” she mutters into her hoodie. “But you promise you’ll show up? Swear to god?”

  “Are you kidding me?” I laugh. “I swear to all the gods that I’ll be there bright and early for pancake breakfast.”

  Izzie is biting back a smile, but I can tell she’s really grateful that I’m stepping up and trying to be a father figure for Liam.

  “Come on.” I grab her hand. “Let’s go tell him.”

  We walk up to the mezzanine where Liam is.

  “Yo, Liam, my man. Come over here for a second.”

  Liam continues ignoring me as he twirls around the handles to the foosball table.

  “Liam, don’t be rude,” Izzie says in her mom voice. “Brady has something to say to you.”

  Liam looks up for the first time. I walk over to him and kneel so that I can look at him eye-to-eye.

  “Listen, I know I’m not your dad, but if you’re cool with it, I’d like to come with you to that pancake breakfast thing.”

  Liam’s eyes
widens as his head bounces back and forth between me and Izzie.

  “Really?” He’s in disbelief.

  Izzie and I both nod our heads.

  “Really?!” he asks again.

  You’d think it was Christmas morning judging by this kid’s excitement.

  Izzie walks over and kneels by us. “Yep, and it was all Brady’s idea, too,” she tells him. “So thank him.”

  “Thank you so much, Brady!” Liam suddenly wraps his arms around my neck and gives me a surprisingly rough hug.

  This kid definitely has a future in football.

  “No problem, buddy.” I pat him on the back as he continues to strangle me with his little arms. “Just ease up on my neck a little bit, bro. I can’t breathe.”

  From around Liam’s shoulder, I see Izzie’s smile slowly fade into a worrying frown.

  That’s odd.

  What does she have to be worried about?

  Chapter 27

  Izzie

  “We’re going to be late, Liam! Grab your backpack!” I shout from the bottom of Brady’s staircase.

  I still don’t know how this day is going to go, but I know this is the most exciting thing that’s happened to Liam in who knows how long.

  “You gotta loosen up, Izzie,” Brady says, standing behind me.

  I turn around, and he’s fully adorned in his cool guy garb. He’s got on designer jeans, designer shoes, a polo, and a leather jacket. Oh, and I’d be doing an injustice if I didn’t notice the Ray Bans.

  “Well, I don’t like to be late. Is that a crime?” I respond snidely.

  “No, but, like, chill. He’s a little kid. He’s a little scattered. I mean, come on, it’s not every day you get to have breakfast with a celebrity,” he says pompously.

  Damn him. He’s right.

  “I’m ready, Mommy!” Liam shouts as he tramples down the steps and stands next to Brady while I fish out my car key from my purse.

  When I look up, I see the uncanny resemblance between the two of them. The way their shoulders sit, how they both have this slight grin on their faces as they’re looking at me, and even just the overall fidgeting mannerisms—they’re the same.