Seam Route

chapter seven

Parker

I was about about a block away from my childhood home back in Brooklyn.

I finished training before taking an ice bath and having my physiotherapist make sure my ankle looked good.

I reread my mom's text from earlier.

Mom: Hey Parker, it would make us very fucking happy if you stop by after training! I have some leftover dinner for you. Be there or be square! Xoxo, your mom Cathy!

My mom still hasn't gotten the texting thing down. She texts people like she's sending an email minus all the profanities she likes to put in her texts.

I never promised anything, but here I am right in the old neighbourhood I used to live in. Since the moment I stepped foot out of here in high school to when I graduated college I haven't come back very frequently.

Football, friends, and school were all the things that kept me from returning here.

But coming back here has reminded me why I decided to branch out and try a whole new city instead of staying back here.

After high school, the plan was UCLA after I received a D1 scholarship to play football. I didn't hesitate going two-thousand-seven-hundred and ninety-three miles away from home. It was the perfect place for me to thrive.

I circle once around my neighbourhood, then again. I slowly drive up to my face, observing the bright lights turned on through the window but the curtain obstructs anyone from seeing inside.

Go ahead and park on the street, Parker. What the fuck are you waiting for?

My gaze flickers to other houses around the street, all of their lights are off indicating that they're neither there or that they're already asleep. Mostly older people live here, some with children, others without.

My jaw tightens, blood runs cold. My fingers begin to tap along the wheel. I settle back into a routine I know way too well. Fuck this shit. I drive out of my neighbourhood, entering my address in Southampton to my GPS.

I'm drained and exhausted from the day. I love my family but I'm not up to the high-paced environment tonight of laughter or screaming matches.

I need rest. My legs are sore from running, and my fingers cramp after catching the ball three hundred times straight.

I stayed late after training today. After seeing those bitches on that sports news show at the bar with Daisy, there isn't a second where I don't think about how I want to prove them wrong.

Me, a bust? Absolutely fucking not.

I can't be.

I'm going to be the one to change that team.

I made the backup QB throw me about three hundred passes, and I caught them until he couldn't throw no more. It was great practice for me and it finetuned his sloppiness too. A win-win, if you ask me.

The road's are dark, with dimly lit lights illuminating the freeway.

Fuck those sports anchors. They clearly don't know what they're talking about. If I was alone I'd probably head straight to the punching bag in my personal gym and pretend that it was that sports anchor who said I'd flop like a fish out of water. Fuck those guys.

But I was in public, and not everyone comes up to you. Some just discreetly record you, waiting for you to fuck up and blast you all over social media.

Not to mention my neighbour was sitting beside me. Daisy wouldn't even hesitate to give me shit about it.