OFF THE RECORD

There are three things my father believes can cure almost anything.

Chicken soup.

A good night's sleep.

And football.

I personally believe the first two are debatable. The third one is definitely questionable. Especially when your team is losing by seventeen points.

"You're going to burn the toast," Dad says without looking away from the television.

I freeze.

The smell of something suspiciously resembling charcoal fills the kitchen. I slowly turn my head toward the toaster only to see smoke curling out of it.

"Oh," I mutter, staring at the toaster like it has personally betrayed me.

My father doesn't even look away from the television.

"I told you," he says calmly.

"You said I was going to burn it. You didn't say when," I argue, reaching for the toast.

"That's generally how predictions work," he says, finally glancing over at me.

I roll my eyes and grab the toast.

"Don't," he warns, holding up one finger.

I stop halfway.

"What?" I ask, looking over my shoulder.

"You're going to burn your hand," he says, pointing at the toast.

"I have functioning fingers, Dad," I remind him, carefully transferring the toast onto a plate.

"You also have terrible judgment." He says and I stare at the back of his head.

"Are you talking about my cooking or my life choices?" I ask suspiciously.

"Both."

I gasp dramatically.

"Wow." I mock offense.

He finally looks at me.

"You're welcome."

"For what?" I ask, placing a hand over my chest.

"Keeping you humble," he says with a smug smile.

I turn back toward the toaster.

"I don't need your help. My career keeps me humble."

"Your career lets you sit in a press box and yell at grown men for missing tackles," he says, turning his attention back to the game.

"I don't yell." I protest. Well...maybe a little.

"You absolutely yell."

"I ask questions."

"You once called a defensive coordinator 'a walking headache.'" I shrug at that.

"He was." I say, eliciting Dad's rare laughs. And just like that, the kitchen feels warm again. Not because of the heater. Not because of the coffee sitting beside me, but because he's laughing.

I glance at him for a second longer than I should. The laugh fades into a small cough and my smile disappears. He's been doing that a lot lately.

Turning the television up, he Pretends he's not tired. He Pretends he isn't in pain, like I'm not watching him but I'm getting really good at pretending too, It's almost impressive.

Almost.

I slide the burnt toast onto a plate and hold it up.

"Here."

Dad looks at it wryly.

"That's not toast," he says, squinting at the blackened piece.

"It's artisanal," I reply, keeping a straight face.

"It's black." He quips.

"It's extra crispy."

"It looks like roofing material." He retorts.

"You're so ungrateful." I scold, making him shake his head, fighting another smile.

"You're eating it too."

I pick up the toast and point toward the hallway.

"I'm going to my room."

"You're eating it," he says firmly.

"I'm throwing it away."

"You're wasting food." Now he scolds me.

"I'm saving myself from carbon poisoning." I correct and he laughs. Again. And I can't help smiling.

That's until he calls my name in that tone I know too well.

"Milena."

I stop in my tracks. I know that tone. The father tone. The one that says he is about to say something I don't want to hear.

I turn slowly.

"What?" I ask.

"You have an interview tomorrow, right?" he asks, lowering the volume of the TV.

"Unfortunately."

"With the quarterback?"

I sigh. Where is he going with this?

"How do you know that?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.

He gives me an offended look.

"I'm your father."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"I read your emails."

I blink.

"You WHAT?"

"I didn't read them," he quickly corrects, waving a hand dismissively.

"You just said-"

"I saw the notification." He quickly interjects.

"That's still suspicious."

He shrugs.

"You're interviewing Cameron Callahan."

I sigh again. Not now. Please, Dad.

"Yes."

Dad's expression immediately changes. It's almost embarrassing how excited he looks.

"Oh, good."

"No. No, it's not." I say firmly, pointing at him.

"I like him."

"You don't know him."

"I've watched him play."

"That's not knowing someone."

"He's a good quarterback." He counters.

"Dad."

"What?" he asks innocently.

"Please don't become one of those fathers."

"Those fathers?" he repeats, raising an eyebrow.

"The ones who start planning their daughter's wedding because a man completed three touchdown passes."

He looks genuinely confused.

"I'm not planning your wedding."

"Thank you."

"I'm just saying he's good."

"At football."

"That's generally the important part when discussing a football player."

I point at him.

"Exactly."

He smiles.

"And he's handsome."

I stare at him.

"Dad."

"What?" he asks, spreading his hands.

"Please."

"What? I'm not blind."

I cover my face with both hands at his words.

"I need new parents."

"You can't afford them," he says, laughing.

"I'll crowdfund."

He chuckles. Then he coughs again. This time, longer and my stomach tightens.

He reaches for the glass of water beside him and I move before I even think about it. I cross the room and hand it to him.

"Slowly," I tell him, watching until he takes a sip.

"I'm fine," he assures me, waving me off.

"I didn't ask."

He gives me a look over the rim of the glass.

"Bossy."

"Learned from you."

"I don't remember teaching you that."

"You taught me everything." The words come out quieter than I expect.

He looks at me. For a moment, neither of us says anything. Then the TV erupts what little peaceful moment we had.

"TOUCHDOWN!"

Dad's head snaps toward the screen.

"YES!" he shouts, nearly jumping out of his chair.

I jump too.

"Dad!"

"That's what I'm talking about!" he yells, pointing at the TV and he suddenly looks ten years younger.

I smile at that.

This is what football has always been for us. Not the money. Not the fame. Not the screaming fans. Not the endless arguments over which quarterback is overrated.

Football is Saturday afternoons when I was eight, sitting on his shoulders because I couldn't see over the crowd.

It's Sunday mornings when he'd wake me up by yelling at the television.

It's me sitting beside him while he explained formations I didn't understand.

It's the first time I correctly identified a blitz at fourteen and he looked at me like I'd personally invented football.

It's us.

Football is us.

Which is probably why I became a sports reporter. That, and because apparently I enjoy being surrounded by men who think yelling louder makes their argument better.

My phone vibrates on the counter.

I glance at it. It's a text from Naomi.

NAOMI:

Tell me you're awake.

I type back.

ME:

Unfortunately.

Three dots appear immediately.

NAOMI:

Are you ready for tomorrow?

I look at Dad. Then at the television. Then at my phone.

ME:

Define ready.

NAOMI:

Have you stalked Cameron Callahan's entire existence yet?

I snort. Dad looks at me.

"What's so funny?" he asks, glancing over his shoulder.

"Nothing," I say quickly, turning my phone slightly away from him as I type my reply.

ME:

I'm a professional journalist. I research people.

NAOMI:

That's what stalking is when you have a press badge.

I bite back a laugh. Well...She's not wrong.

ME:

I haven't stalked him.

NAOMI:

You looked at his Instagram, didn't you?

I stare at the message. I don't answer.

Another message appears.

NAOMI:

Lena.

ME:

Maybe.

NAOMI:

I KNEW IT.

I roll my eyes. I can practically hear her delight.

I did look. Once.

Okay.

Several times. But strictly for professional reasons.

His career statistics are impressive, his passing accuracy is impressive, his ability to read defensive formations is impressive. And, unfortunately, his face is also...

No.

Absolutely not.

I refuse to finish that sentence. I put my phone face down.

Dad raises an eyebrow.

"Trouble?" he asks.

"My best friend."

"Ah," he says knowingly.

"She thinks I'm going to marry the quarterback."

He looks thoughtful for a moment.

"I wouldn't rule it out."

"Dad!" I exclaim, throwing my hands up.

"What?"

"I haven't even interviewed him."

"Yet."

I grab a pillow from the couch and throw it at him.

He catches it against his chest.

"Violence!"

"You deserve it."

He laughs and I can't help smiling. Then my eyes fall on the framed photograph sitting on the shelf.

Mom.

I don't look at the picture for long.

I never do.

It's strange how someone can be gone for so many years and still occupy an entire room without physically being there.

Dad follows my gaze, his expression softens.

"She'd be proud of you," he says quietly.

I swallow.

"I know."

"You sure?" he asks, watching me carefully.

I nod.

"Yeah."

I wish I knew. I wish I could ask her. I wish I could hear her say it herself.

But I can't.

So I settle for believing it.

My phone vibrates again and I pick it up. This time, it's an email from my editor.

MICHAEL GRANT:

Tomorrow. 10:00 a.m. Press conference. You're lead reporter. Don't embarrass us.

I stare at the message. My God! This again!

ME:

I never embarrass you.

The reply comes almost instantly.

MICHAEL:

You called Coach Reynolds "emotionally unavailable" on live television.

I grin.

ME:

Was I wrong?

No response.

I consider that a victory.

"What's tomorrow?" Dad asks, reaching for the remote.

"Press conference."

"With Callahan?"

"Yes. You know that already."

He nods.

"You like him."

"I don't know him." I say rather calmly.

"You've been watching his games for years."

"That's different."

"How?" he asks, turning toward me.

"Because I don't date athletes."

Dad looks at me.

I know that look.

He's heard this speech before.

"You don't date athletes," he repeats.

"Correct."

"Because?"

I hesitate. There it is. The question I hate.

Because the answer isn't simple.

Because somewhere between sixteen and seventeen, I learned that loving someone could become a public spectacle.

That promises could become jokes. That the person holding your heart could hand it to an entire school and watch them laugh.

I still remember the whispers.

The photographs.

The messages.

The humiliation.

I still remember promising myself that I would never again give someone enough power to make me feel that small.

So I smile.

"Because they're annoying."

Dad watches me suspiciously. He knows I'm lying. But he doesn't push. That's one of the things I love about him. He knows when to leave the door open. He doesn't force me through it.

"Fair enough," he says, turning back toward the television.

I smile.

"Thank you."

He pauses.

"So if Callahan asks you out-"

"Dad."

"I'm just saying," he says, lifting both hands defensively.

"No."

"You didn't even let me finish."

"Because I know exactly where this sentence is going."

He grins.

"What if he asks you out?"

"I'll say no."

"What if he's charming?"

"No."

"Handsome?"

"Still no."

"Rich?"

I stare at him.

"That makes it worse, Dad."

He laughs.

"What?" he asks, clearly amused.

"Rich football players are exactly the type of men I avoid."

"Why?"

"Because they have too much money and too many options." I grit out.

Dad shakes his head.

"You're impossible."

"I prefer selective."

"You're twenty-seven."

"And?"

"You should date."

"I date."

"When?"

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Dad smiles triumphantly.

"Exactly."

"Why are you enjoying this?" I ask, folding my arms.

"Because you're my daughter."

I smile despite myself.

My phone vibrates again.

Another message. This time from Michael.

MICHAEL:

And Lena? Wear something professional tomorrow.

I frown. What's that supposed to mean?

ME:

I always do.

MICHAEL:

You wore sneakers to the governor's press conference.

ME:

They were designer.

MICHAEL:

They had glitter.

I smile.

ME:

Exactly.

I put my phone away.

Tomorrow is just another interview.

Another press conference. Another athlete. Another day at work.

Nothing special.

Nothing life-changing.

And absolutely nothing to worry about.

I glance at Dad who's back to watching the game again and I smile.

Tomorrow will be fine.

It has to be.

After all, I'm Milena Henderson.

I'm a sports reporter.

I don't get distracted by handsome football players.

I don't date athletes.

And I certainly don't fall for them.

Ever.

Famous last words?