Page 147 of Puck the Coach's Son
“YES.”
One word. One syllable. Full voice.
“YES, MADDOX.”
The front door opens.
Paul and Diane come out onto the porch. Paul's hand is on Diane's arm, not holding her back, holding on to her. His face is wrecked. Diane sees me on the sidewalk and her face goes soft. She doesn’t know me, but she does. She recognizes this moment. And she dips her head in what I can only guess is approval.
Paul opens his mouth.
Diane squeezes his arm.
“Paul, this isn’t about you.”
“Diane—”
“Paul.Let him decide.”
Paul's mouth closes.
I look up at the window.
“I'm on the sidewalk, kid.”
“I'M COMING DOWN.”
“Through the front door, Theo. Not the trellis. Your aunt is on the porch. Your dad is on the porch. Walk through your front door.”
He disappears from the window.
Thirty seconds. A minute. I don't breathe.
The guard hasn't moved. He's two yards off, earpiece live, chin tipped down like he's getting orders and deciding which ones to follow. I'd put money on him not actually being told to engage. Callahan hired him to be a photograph. A uniform on a lawn for the Sunday-paper optic. He didn't sign up to put a player in a chokehold at six on a Sunday in front of a father on a porch. His weight is on his back foot. He's waiting this out the same as I am.
On the porch, Paul has one hand on the railing. His knuckles are still taped. Diane has one hand on the back of his neck like she's holding a dog that might bolt. Paul isn't looking at me. Paul is looking at the open front door of his house.
A vehicle slides past at the end of the block and its headlights sweep the cedar hedge. Phoenix's truck, on a lap. He sees me still on the sidewalk and keeps driving. He'll come around again in ninety seconds.
I count in my head. Four in. Four out.
The front door opens all the way.
Theo comes out in the hoodie and jeans with no coat and a duffel in one hand that he clearly packed in about ninety seconds and his phone in the other, the charger trailing from thephone since he didn't unplug it properly. He stops on the porch between Paul and Diane. Diane puts a hand on his shoulder. Paul doesn't.
Paul's face.
Paul's face does a thing I will remember for the rest of my life. It's the face of a father watching his kid walk off a porch and knowing he can stop it and knowing he can't afford to. It is an apology that hasn't learned its own name yet. It is old grief rearranging. It's not a face I like. It's a face I respect, which is worse for him.
Paul opens his mouth.
Diane says, very low, “Wait, Paul.”
He waits.
Theo looks at his father.
“Dad.”
