Page 84 of The Holiday Makeover

I’d almost forgotten Kaden had taken Rory to our senior prom. Almost. He’d visited her a few times while she was away at school too. And if memory served, he’d once told Rory he’d marry her—all she had to do was say the word.

I remember Rory saying something like she wished she loved him. That he was the kind of guy any woman would be lucky to have. This was all before I realized the guy she really wanted was me.

“Yeah,” I said, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. “We’re back together.”

Kaden’s grin widened.

I didn’t care.

I wanted the point driven home. Especially since I was standing there, holding a football under a bunch of lights, pretending I was some big shot, all while feeling guilty for leaving Rory again. The undone projects were mounting. So was her stress. I could feel her patience thinning, even though she was doing her best to support me.

Kaden shook his head. “You always were a lucky dog. No one stood a chance with her because of you, even though you couldn’t see it.”

His grin faded a little, and the easy joking between us went with it.

It felt like he’d been saving this for a long time.

“Dude, I hope you deserve her.” He held my gaze. “Never known anyone like Rory.”

I swallowed hard. “Me either. I know how lucky I am.”

He slapped me hard on the shoulder, as if trying to pound me into the ground. “Good. Don’t forget it. And let her know I’m in town and I’d love to see her.” He winked.

“Not a chance in hell.”

Kaden barked out a laugh.

Quinton clapped his hands once, drawing everyone’s attention without raising his voice. Somehow that made it more irritating.

“All right, gentlemen, we’re going to take it easy. We’re not trying to recreate the state championship here. Nobody needs to pull a hamstring for television.” A few guys laughed. Quinton smiled like he thought he was charming. “We’re just here to get a feel for Tate’s history. Who and what shaped him.”

His gaze cut to me, then shifted toward the camera crew. “Let’s get some coverage first. Start with a few shots of Tate with the ball. Then, Coach Walters, I want you to walk him through the facility. Kaden, hang close. You two tossing the ball would be good. Nothing too staged, just natural.”

Which meant staged, but with better lighting.

“After that, we’ll do a few quick interviews. Coach first. Then Kaden. Dominic, I’d love to get you talking about what it meant watching your son play here.” Quinton’s smile sharpened a fraction. “And, Tate, we’ll save you for last.”

That was no surprise. Because by then, they’d have everyone else’s version of me ready to throw in my face.

I knew the questions about my failed football career would surface eventually. Audiences loved heartbreak, and Quinton was going to serve mine up on a silver platter.

And apparently, I was going to stand there and let him. All because I was trying to save face. Should have known pride always came with a bill.

The question was, how high was the price going to get?

I had a feeling I was about to find out.

But first, I was lulled into a false sense of security as Coach Walters walked me around the facility, reminiscing about the past. The man was finally showing his age. His stride was slower, and his thick silver hair had started to thin, but he had nothing but praise for me.

“To this day, I’ve never coached anyone with an arm like yours,” he said. “Or anyone who could think on his feet the way you did. The way you escaped the pocket, extended plays, and still hit your receiver in stride?” He shook his head. “Still amazes me.”

I wanted to bask in the glow of those words, but all I could think was that I wished, just once, my father had praised me like that. His compliments always came with a lecture and a list of my failures.

As I walked around with Coach Walters, I wondered what had happened to the guy he was talking about—the guy I stared at in the mirror every day.

Why couldn’t I perform like that in college?

At least tossing the ball around with my old teammates was more pleasant than I’d expected. My skills were rusty, but not gone. I could still hit my mark. Still put enough force behind the ball to make it land with a solid thud against a man’s chest.