Book III of UNC Series
While it's known that there are five stages of grief, did you know that there are also five stages of love?
Bailey Nicholson dreamed of finishing her Master's degree and settling in Boston while working alongside her boyfriend...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I consider for a moment if I need to see a doctor. Not for my arm, but my eyes. The more I squint, the more I convince myself of the fact.
I must be seeing things; it's the only explanation because the chances that I actually see my dad standing on the sidelines of my homecoming game against Weston are slim to none. With every flash of the camera, the blazing heat that ripples the air around the stadium, I think it's a trick of the light.
"Pinch me," I mutter over to Sutherland, who squirts water into his mouth.
He gulps, nearly choking, before shooting me a baffled book, "What?"
"Pinch me, punch me, do something. I need to know if I'm dreaming or seeing things," I say while keeping my eyes on Dad.
"Are you okay?" Concern swirls in his tone. I notice him shift towards the crowd, trying to determine what's got me spooked.
"Just hit me," I exasperate.
Sutherland's fist lands squarely on my upper arm as the pain spreads from my elbow to my wrist, and the dulling ache from before flares again. But I'm not hallucinating or dreaming because there he stands, in his light blue three-piece slim-fitted suit that screams money. He perches back in one of the coloured chairs, lifting his leg to rest his ankle over his other knee while his fingers drum against his thigh.
He tips his chin towards the goal line before shifting his gaze to meet mine as I sit on the sidelines while the defensive team is on the field.
There's no illusion or deception. I can't blame it on a hangover since I didn't go to any parties last night. My dad is very much sitting in the crowd, sweating under the smouldering heat in his crisp suit.
"Do you see him?" I jut my chin in his direction.
Sutherland lifts his hand over his eyes, narrowing his gaze before they widen in surprise, "Wait, isn't that your dad?"
So there is absolutely nothing wrong with my vision.
He's never attended my games before, never taken an interest in me. He's been busy with work or with Justine and Sophie. I never invite him to my games anyway. But today, on an early Saturday afternoon, with only the slightest draft and breeze, my dad sits across the field, watching me, waiting for me.
A whistle blows, catching my attention as I turn to find Nick on the ground after a sack. He gets up with a grunt, ready to charge at Johnson, our centre linebacker, but he thinks otherwise, retreating to his huddle.
Today happens to be the worst day for Dad to show up. After receiving a scolding lecture from Coach Flint about my performance in the first quarter, and snide remarks from Nick, who's still pacing across the field, the last thing I need today is a confrontation with my dad.
I glance over to the scoreboard as Weston slowly approaches our end zone. Winding down into the third quarter, we're doing well for ourselves in this game compared to some of our previous ones. The last time we played Weston, we were coming down to the wire, almost losing if it weren't for that touchdown by Sutherland, in which I also broke my arm.
