Page 90 of The Player

“How was practice?”

“Cold as shit.”

“Drew,” his mother said, closing the door.

“What? It was.”

His dad laughed. “You’re getting soft down here.”

“Come stand on the sideline with me Saturday. We’ll see how soft you are.”

“I played in Columbus in November, smart-ass. I’ll be fine in the stands.”

“That was a long time ago, old man.”

His mother moved her purse off the edge of the bed so he could sit, and his dad took the chair again. “Where’d you two end up going for breakfast?” Drew asked.

“We ate downstairs,” his mother said. “Your father wanted to go find somewhere else, but I told him I wasn’t getting back in a car before I’d had coffee.”

“There was a place right down the street, Donna.”

“And there was food right downstairs.”

Drew smiled at his father. “You lost that one, huh?”

“I didn’t even bother.”

“Oh, you bothered,” she said. “You talked about it the whole way down.”

He laughed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees while his father started defending himself.

They stayed in the room for a while, catching up on things going on at home. His mother asked about his classes, and his father wanted to know how many of the guys were staying in town for Thanksgiving. Drew answered them, glad they’d come early enough to have a few days with him. When his mother finally checked her watch and went to freshen up for dinner, his dad had found a football game on TV. Drew stretched out on the other bed to watch with him until she was ready to go.

Drew had heard about Saturday’s game twice by the time the waitress brought their food, and his father was working his way back to it again.

Drew passed him the bowl of mashed potatoes. The table was crowded with enough food to make him glad he hadn’t eaten much since practice: sliced turkey, stuffing, green beans cooked with ham, sweet potatoes, biscuits. Somebody at the next table had just gotten a dish of cranberry sauce, and he was about to ask for some of that too.

“I’m telling you, if they keep bringing that safety down⁠—”

“Tommy, let him eat.”

“He is eating.”

“He’s answering you between every bite.”

“I’m good, Ma.”

“I know you are. But I’d like to hear about something besides football while we have you sitting here.”

His father held up a hand and went back to his plate. His mother turned to Drew. “How have you been? And don’t just tell me you’re good because you think that’s what I want to hear.”

He looked at her across the table. She’d been asking him that on the phone all fall, and he’d always gotten away with “pretty good” and a few things about school. There was something he wanted to tell her now, and his dad too.

“I’ve been good.” He moved his fork out of the way. “I met someone.”

His mother looked over at his dad, who stopped cutting his turkey. “Oh,” she said.

Drew waited for her to say more, but got nothing.