Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 100060 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100060 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 500(@200wpm)___ 400(@250wpm)___ 334(@300wpm)
When I peek into the stadium and see there is only six minutes left until the game resumes, I groan, turn away from the pitch…
And I lock eyes with a woman who is standing right behind me. She is medium height, well dressed, her brown skin glowing youthfully, despite her age.
“Excuse me,” I mutter, starting to bypass her.
I’m not sure what stops me. A familiarity about her?
I don’t think we’ve ever met, but there is something in the staunch set of her jaw and fiercely intelligent eyes that gives me pause. She has stopped halfway up the tunnel leading to the field, seemingly hesitant about entering to watch the game.
“Do you need help finding your seat?” I venture, sort of surprised at myself. Up until recently, I was definitely the kind of person who minds her own business.
The woman looks at me like I’m daft. Maybe I am. Maybe pheromones have eroded my brain, hindering my ability to behave normally. “What gave you the impression I need help?”
“You seem…undecided,” I settle on. “About going in. I thought maybe…”
She waves off my stuttering explanation. “It’s fine. You’re just being nice.”
I nod through a hum. “Enjoy the game.”
When I turn to leave, she stops me. “Wait.”
“Yes?”
She’s poised to speak, but it takes a moment for the words to come out. “Do you come to many games?”
“I don’t. No. This is my first.”
“Ah.”
That seems to be that, so I start to leave again. Not because I’m worried about Tobias being worried about me. Certainly not. Having to check in is a big part of why I avoid serious entanglements. Still, I’d like to make sure he isn’t worried…
“My son is the coach,” blurts the woman, gesturing at the end of the tunnel, then crossing her arms once again. “He always leaves me a ticket at the front. This is the first time I’ve taken it…” She shifts. “But I can’t seem to make it in there.”
I’m still reeling from the revelation that this woman is Banks’s mother. Then I realize, I shouldn’t be shocked. The similarities in their features and mannerisms are uncanny. It’s why she seemed so familiar. And thank God I convinced him to leave the ticket one more time. She might have come here today otherwise and found nothing waiting for her. “Why can’t you go in?”
Her laugh only contains a speck of humor. “That’s a good question.” The small smile fades. “I don’t think I deserve to be proud of him, I suppose. I didn’t have anything to do with…all of this. His accomplishment isn’t mine. I did nothing to support him and yet he keeps on leaving me that damn ticket at the front gate.”
My throat feels heavy, along with my chest, and if a magic genie offered me one wish right now, it would be for Banks to overhear this conversation. Here it is. This is why I feel such a kindred attachment to this woman’s son. We’re both wrestling with the need for pride from our parents. It makes me wonder what a conversation would sound like between my parents and a stranger. Maybe their feelings about pride are just as complicated. Maybe I should ask.
For now, though, in this moment, if there is some way to nudge the relationship between Banks and his mother back to solid ground, I have to try.
“Well.” I swallow the weight in my throat. “As someone who is in a constant battle for her parents’ pride, I can tell you, I don’t care how I come by it. As long as I get it.”
She considers that for a few beats. “Did they support you in your chosen profession?”
“Yes. All eight of them.” I laugh, but it fades. “They’re starting to lose hope, though.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
“No, it’s true.” The pressure on my chest briefly doubles, but I rub it away. “It’s weird how I need their support now, as an adult, almost more than I did as a kid. The need never really goes away. It’s just lurking around, hoping to be fulfilled.”
When I glance back at her, she’s staring out at the field. Without following her line of vision, I know Banks is back on the pitch, along with his team. The reluctant hope in her eyes says it all. “It’s too late…for a second chance.”
“I don’t think it is.” I hesitate before saying the next part, worried it’s too much. But some sort of sixth sense tells me she won’t budge without good reason. “I think when he stops leaving the ticket…that’s when you know it’s too late. But if the ticket is his way of asking for support, maybe you don’t want to wait?”
The woman doesn’t respond, her gaze remaining locked on the pitch.
With a murmured goodbye, I head back to the curved indoor hallway, intending to make my way back to the section where I’m sitting with Tobias. Just before I walk out of sight, I glance back and find the woman stepping into the sunlight, handing her ticket to an usher.