Page 45 of Against the Clock
I’m halfway out the door when my phone vibrates again. My keys jangle in the lock and I pull my phone to my ear without looking at the caller ID.
“Hi,” I say, expecting Daniel. Grinning.
“Hey honey.”
“Dad,” I say, gripping the keys so tight they start to hurt my palm.
“How are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m uh, I’m really good, Dad. How are you?” I squeeze my eyes shut, leaning my forehead against my locked apartment door. The fluorescent hall lights hum overhead, a high-pitched whine that sets my teeth on edge.
“Oh, you know,” he says. “Same old, same old.”
I choke back a sigh, because I do know.
“Is it your head? Is it bothering you again? Did you try that new doctor I told you about?”
“Kelsey, honey, you know I don’t like it when you worry about me.”
“That’s my job, Dad. I’m your kid. I love you, of course I’m going to worry about you.” If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times.
“That new doctor’s expensive, and he’s not going to tell me anything we don’t already know. I don’t need to spend a couple hundred bucks just to hear the same thing.”
“Dad, they have all kinds of new therapies and treatments—”
“Kelsey, I didn’t call you so you could try and persuade me to go to the doctor.”
I bite my cheeks, turning around so I’m facing the hallway instead of talking to the door. A stain discolors the ceiling, and I squint at it. A rabbit, I decide. That’s what it looks like.
“Why’d you call, Dad?” I finally ask, the phone silent besides his breathing.
“I heard you were dating Daniel Harrison.”
I ball my fist up and smack my door with it.
“I think that’s great, honey. You know he played for the Denver Mustangs, right?”
“Mmhmm,” I say, tucking my coat tighter around myself. God, has he been on BeaverTok? The thought of my father watching Daniel make out with me in some weirdo fan CapCut treatment makes me slightly nauseated.
My dad continues rattling off Daniel’s stats as I make my way down the stairs, through the parking lot, and to my car. It’s turned colder, the air more frigid than crisp, a sign that winter’s waiting in the wings.
“He’s a little old for you, though, isn’t he?” my dad finally stops his monologue about completed pass rates and yards, and I tune back in.
“He’s thirty-nine.” I unlock the car and slide into the front seat. The engine turns over, and heat floods the car. The phone skips, connecting to the Bluetooth.
“And you’re twenty-nine. Ten years isn’t so bad.”
My stomach drops. On the wheel, my knuckles are white, my fingertips cold on the plastic.
“No, Dad,” I say softly. “I’m twenty-five.”
I want to cry. I lean over the steering wheel, embracing it like a lover, like the airbag inside will somehow protect me from the truth.
The head injury my dad sustained playing in the AFL when I was little is only getting worse, and this is why I swore I would never have anything to do with the AFL or football or anyone who bought into a game that uses athletes up until there’s nothing left.
“I knew that, sweetie,” he laughs, but there’s no humor in the sound. “Hey, you know what, why don’t ya send me the info for that doctor again, if it means that much to you.”
“Sure thing, Dad.”