🏈 Nolan 🏈

It's been nearly two weeks of my new makeshift family guests taking up space in my home. That's it. Two weeks. And yet it feels a whole lot like my entire life has been turned upside down for far longer than two measly weeks.

My new almost stepsister wasn't lying when she said she didn't plan on making our ridesharing into a habit. She hasn't been in my car since I took her to practice last week. In fact, she didn't even ride home with me that day. She got one with Casey. Over the week, it's been a mixture of catching rides with her mom and calling in favors with her friend. Anything to avoid the front seat of my truck.

I don't blame her. I was an ass. But I don't blame myself either. The girl was clearly sick the night before, didn't eat her breakfast, and then just hopped in my car like nothing was wrong. Like she wasn't sharing all her stomach infested germs in the small space of my truck. I don't need that shit. Not at the start of the season.

I reach down for the bucket of water I just filled, the suds nearly flowing over the top. If there's one thing that calms me more than being on the football field, it's my car, or rather cars in general. I don't know exactly when I started finding a second love in fixing up cars. I guess I always found interest in them, since early Tonka days to car shows I went to with my dad.

Somewhere along the way, I wanted to know more. It's why I started working for my buddy, Taylor's, dad at the mechanic shop. Started when I was ten years old as something I'm pretty sure my dad used more as a means of babysitting. Before I knew it, I was buying my first car at an auction with full intent to rebuild it from the inside out. A 1967 Chevy Camaro.

It sits in the shop, there when I have small openings of spare time to work on it. Taylor's dad, Leo, lets me go after hours, he even gives me a good deal on parts when he has some to spare.

But right now, it's all about my truck, washing the gathered dust off the exterior. Living on the outskirts of town has its perks. We're away from the prying eyes of the town, nothing but countryside views surrounding us. The downside is the amount of dust that likes to cling to my car like a freaking magnet.

It's not terrible washing it every week. Because dipping my hands in a bucket of suds and lathering the side of my truck calms the brewing storm inside me before a game. It's our first game of the season later this week. Don't get me wrong, I love the thrill of the game. There's nothing like the high of the field, the fans screaming, the band echoing across the stadium. It's the days leading up to the game I don't exactly enjoy. The nerves, the stress, the burden to make sure I carry the team to a win.

"You know," my dad's deep voice comes in from behind me. I don't stop in my task, knowing soon enough he'll join me. "I'm all for tradition and superstitious routines, but every week? You're going to wear the paint right off this thing."

I smile, bringing the sponge to my truck. "It's more than superstition."

"I know," he acknowledges before he's dipping his own sponge into the bucket and joining me. "So, how's the arm feeling?"

"Good."

"The team? They still looking strong this year?"

He knows the answer to this question. The whole starting offensive line returned this year. We only lost a couple defensive players. The good news is our team is as solid as ever. The bad news is the majority of us graduate this year, leaving next year's team up the creek.

"Yep. Everyone looks good."

"That's good. Valley is no joke. Their defensive line is solid, they like to rush, and if you're not keeping your head on a swivel–"

"I know," I cut him off. "I've spent the week reviewing film. So has my line. We know what to expect."

"So do they," he's quick to add. "You always have to be prepared, ready for the unexpected. You and Taylor stay this week to run routes?"

I take a breath, hitting the last spot left on my truck before tossing the sponge back into the bucket. "We did. We're good."

"Good." He's quiet as he takes a step back and watches me spray the car down with the hose. "You know scouts will be out there again this year."

"I know."

"They know what they want by now, but it's this moment to make them work for it, to show them how much they need you. You've got to be prepared for every game."

"Dad," I cut him off, shutting off the hose and throwing it to the side. I look at him, his eyes set on me, the realization crossing them.

He raises his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry. I care about you, Nolan. About this dream. I'm just trying to help."

I let out a breath. "I know. But I'm ready."

He nods. "I know you are." He's quiet after that as he grabs a towel to help me dry. "So, how is everything else going? You know, with our family growing?"

Our family growing. The words sound bitter. Like we're some kind of Disney collaboration of DNA lines, coming together in perfect harmony. That's far from the truth. I had zero say in the decision.

"It's going," I reply.

He laughs. "Care to elaborate?"

"Nope."

He exhales, and the heavy sound of his breath tells me I'm about to get one of his lectures. I've been getting them since I can remember. From football to ways I should act, to expectations, I know when a good old fashion talk is coming.

"I know this is fast," he begins. "I know I didn't give you time or ask if this is something you want, but I didn't plan this, Nolan."

"I know the story," I quickly add in order to cut him off. The last thing I need is the whole rundown of how it all went down. He had gone to visit them in New York, something he started doing much more often. According to him, he had no intention of proposing. But he walked by a jeweler, and the ring supposedly spoke for itself.

"I never planned to propose," he says. "Not in that way, not without talking to you first. But when you know, you know. And I couldn't leave without asking her to be my wife."

"You mean you couldn't leave without finding a way to make sure she didn't leave you?"

"Nolan."

"Just say it, Dad. You only proposed because you think it's the only way to tie her down, to force her to stay."

"That's not–"

"Have you ever stopped to ask if she's the one trapping you?"

"You're out of line, son."

"Am I? Is it really that absurd to think they need your money? Our home? I'm sorry if you think marrying her will actually make them stay this time around, but I don't. Putting a ring on her finger isn't going to make her stay."

It's then that I catch a small movement to my left. My dad doesn't notice it, but the flash of something swaying pulls my attention away. The curtain to Rosie's window is swinging. And soon after, I see a small hand reach out and slide the window closed.

Fuck.

With her window open, there's no way she didn't hear us. It's not that what I said isn't true, but it was hurtful. I know that. No matter its validity or my anger in it all, no one deserves to be hurt, especially not her. She has nothing to do with this whole thing. As far as I know, she's just as pissed as I am to be here.

"Nolan," my dad says my name in a heavy sigh, his hand on his forehead. He hasn't noticed the fact that Rosie has been listening. "I'm sorry I haven't given you the best examples of what love should look like. I'm not asking you to understand something you've never had a chance to witness, to feel. But I am asking you to give this a chance."

A chance. Like I haven't spent years giving chances.

The first time I saw my dad fall in love, I was six years old. Her name was April. She made the best chocolate chip cookies. I remember one day I had skinned my knee. She was the one to bring me inside. She sang to me as she cleaned it, pressed a kiss to the bandaid she placed over the cut. When she would stay past dinner, she'd always read me a story. It's the first time in my life I realized what a mom was. The first time I began to miss something I never had.

She left without saying goodbye. I didn't understand it. I couldn't find reason in her not wanting to see me anymore, to read with me, to sing when I hurt.

When I turned nine was when my dad brought Kelly-Anne home. She loved to garden, to grow her own vegetables. She was always bringing us all kinds of new things to try. It's the first time I actually enjoyed eating my vegetables. She made me a garden in the backyard. The two of us spent hours out there. I'll never forget the taste of the first tomato I grew myself.

After nearly two years, Kelly-Anne said goodbye. With tears streaming down her cheeks, she said she loved me. And then she said she was leaving. I didn't understand how someone who loved me that much would want to leave. When her car pulled out of the driveway, I took a shovel to the garden. Dad tried to stop me, but eventually, he let me destroy the entire thing.

There have been a few others along the way. Most of which I only met a few times, all of which have left.

And then there's the OG, my birth mom. I never met her, not technically. From what I've been told, she left me on my dad's doorstep when I was six months old. I was barely even alive before she decided she didn't want me.

I've thought about her a lot. Wondered if she ever thinks about me. If she's started a family. If I have brothers or sisters. If I'm the only kid she didn't want.

"Nolan," my dad cuts in again, his hand on my shoulder. "I don't blame you for having your guard up. I'm only asking you to be open to the idea that this one could be real."

There's that same hopeful look in his eyes. The one he has every time. I'm not mad at my dad, I don't blame him for bringing those women into our lives. He believes love is real. That women actually intend to stick around. I'm not going to be the one to burst his bubble.

"Yeah," I say, giving him a nod. I don't intend to drop my guard, to let in either one of the women taking up space in our home. I don't plan to start something that will eventually end. It's only a matter of time before they leave, just like everyone before them. But my dad doesn't need to know that, he doesn't need the reality of the situation. "I can do that."

He smiles, his hand tightening in acknowledgment on my shoulder before releasing me. "Thank you."

He walks away. I wish I could harness some of his optimistic bullshit. That I could naively believe in something. But I've been burned too many times. Fool me once and all that crap.

As he enters the house, I turn back to the window beside me, back to where Rosie clearly heard our quarrel. I don't know exactly how much she heard, but I have no doubt it was enough to hurt. Despite the fact I'm not exactly thrilled about the situation, the last thing I want is to hurt someone.

I don't really know where I go from here, but I do know my dad is in deep with this one. And I know that when the time inevitably comes, he's going to need me to lean on.