I nod, and flinch at Dad’s hand landing heavily but comfortingly on my shoulder. “I see. Thanks, Doc.”
He smiles at me. “It’s the end of a dream, son, and I know it’s hard to hear. I’ve been treating athletes my entire life, and this is by no means the first time I’ve delivered news like this. It’s hard. It just sucks, in modern parlance. But even if you can’t play professionally anymore, you can still be involved in the game, right? For some, it’s too hard to be around what they can no longer do. But for others, coaching is a way to be part of the game they love. Think about it. I know your father can help you in that direction, if you were to so choose.” He stands up and claps me on the bicep. “Like I said, it’s the end of one dream, son, but that doesn’t mean it’s the end of everything.”
I nod, and the doctor leaves Dad and me. “I know, Dad. Finish my degree first, and then think about what’s next.”
He laughs and slaps my shoulder. “You got it, son. A college degree, even if you don’t end up in that field, will never be wasted.”
“My credits are all toward political science, Dad.” I laugh with sarcastic self-deprecation. “What the hell was I thinking?”
He shakes his head and laughs. “You know, I always wondered that myself, but there ain’t much you can tell a kid your age.”
“At this point, I think I might be willing to listen.”
Dad shrugs. “You’ve got time, kiddo. You’re what, thirty credit hours short of a degree? That’s a couple semesters, Ben. Just finish it. Then you’ve got a degree to show for yourself, and you can rethink your career in the meantime. With so little left to complete your degree, it’d be kind of stupid to try to totally change your major, if you ask me. If you decide on something else, you’ll have your basic requirements out of the way, so you could get a second bachelor’s or a master’s or something and only have to take catch-up pre-reqs.
“And, like Doc Petersen said, there’s always coaching. Volunteer to coach Little League, or apply to coach at a high school or junior high. Get some coaching experience under your belt, and I can talk to Mike about getting you on the Titan sidelines. There’s a whole world of possibility out there for you, Ben. You just gotta figure out what you want. This is one closed door. There’s countless other doors still standing open.”
“But that was the one door I’d been working toward my whole life. I remember sitting in the box with Mom at six years old, watching you play, and just knowing I’d do that, too.” I have to swallow hard past the lump. “I don’t know what I was thinking when I chose poli-sci. I was thinking it didn’t matter because I’d be playing pro ball.”
Dad nods. “I know.” He claps me on the shoulder yet again and leads the way out of the exam room. “Come on. I’ll buy you a beer.”
I look at him skeptically. “Dad. It’s barely noon.”
“So it’ll be a lunchtime beer.”
I grin. “Sounds good.”
So we sit at a burger joint and drink beer and talk about the next season for Dad. It would be his last, he’s decided. Not surprising news to anyone. He’s played hard for a long, long time, and put up some receiving records that will probably not be broken anytime soon.
When we’re done, Dad slips me a scrap of paper with familiar feminine writing on it.
Ben, meet me for coffee at 1:30. She’d written the name and address of a coffee shop near Belmont beneath that and signed her name with a swirling scrawl: Kylie.
“It’s quarter after one, kiddo. Best get moving,” Dad says. “And Ben? I know it’s gonna be hard, but just…think before you speak, okay?”
I just nod. Once upon a time I probably would have taken umbrage at that, so I take it as a sign of having matured that I am able to see it for the wise and likely difficult-to-heed advice it is.
He hands me the keys to his Rover. “I can walk to the stadium from here. Just be careful, okay?”
“Thanks,” I say, waving as he heads out.
* * *
By the time I find a parking spot within a couple blocks of the coffee shop, it’s already a few minutes past 1:30. I take it slowly, allowing myself to lean on my cane and not use my knee too much.
She’s sitting in a thick leather armchair, sipping coffee from a ceramic mug, flipping idly through a house copy of TIME magazine, positioned so she can keep an eye on the door. She sees me the moment I enter, and her face lights up as she leaps out of her chair, sloshing coffee on the floor as she hurries to set the mug down.
“BEN!” she shrieks, rushing toward me. Her arms go around my neck as she slams into me; it’s like none of it ever happened, in that fraction of a moment. “Benji…oh my god…Benji, it’s really you!”
My heart flops, squeezes, and aches, and I don’t know how to decipher the rush of a thousand different emotions. “Ky. God, I’ve missed you.” And…I had. I really, really had. I just hadn’t let myself realize it until now.
Benji. How do I handle the ache those two syllables engender? It was her nickname for me, and then it was Echo’s, and now? Does it belong to both? Neither? God, I don’t know. I don’t know. I just know it’s good to see her, but that initial joy is quickly tempered by the other emotions connected to Kylie.
She lets me go and backs away, and I plant my cane and lean on it. Her eyes go to it. “Ben? What’s…what’s with the cane?”
I shake my head. “Let me get a cup of coffee and we can catch up.”
She gestures at the table between her chair and another, which she’d claimed with her purse. A mug of black coffee sits on the table, and I’m sure she’s sugared it to within an inch of its life, just the way I like it. “Got you covered.”
So we sit, and I’m acutely aware of Kylie’s gaze following my limping progress across the coffee shop, and the careful, ginger way I sit, extending my leg. I grab my mug and sip at the coffee, and take in the reality of Kylie. She’s more gorgeous than ever. Her curly red-blond hair is longer than it’s ever been, bound in a loose, low ponytail, flyaway strands drifting across her forehead and brushing her chin and shoulders. She’s wearing a below-the-knee khaki skirt and a white V-neck T-shirt, and while her clothes aren’t revealing, they accentuate her curves with classy, sexy, sophistication. She’s got calf-length black leather boots on with a heel that makes her even taller and makes her long legs longer. She’s wearing minimal makeup, as usual, and the purse she slides between a hip and the chair is a black leather Dior.