Free Right Brother by Patricia McLinn Page B

clipboards, and she wanted to do that herself,” she added hurriedly.
    â€œGood enough. What do you want?” He gestured toward the machine.
    She teetered for maybe half a second. Then she slid her hand out of her pocket, letting coins clunk back to its depths. “Root beer.”
    He put in coins, pressed the button, retrieved the can and handed it to her. She mumbled a syllable that might have been thanks.
    In silence, they each took a swallow. He almost felt sorry for her then. She was younger than the kids he’d worked with at the high school he and a couple teammates had adopted, but he recognized the signs. She wanted to leave, but she didn’t want to retreat.
    She took a second, long swallow. A nearly stifled belch followed.
    He smiled. Just a little, but she saw it. In an instant she was an outraged diva, reining in her justifiable wrath with the greatest of self-control in order to deliver a stunning put-down.
    â€œMy dad,” she declaimed, “was the best quarterback this town ever saw.”
    Trent thought about that. In his memory he saw Eric, only a sophomore but already the varsity starter, dropping back for a pass during a high school game, looking over the field before him, the play developing the way it was supposed to, his confidence complete.
    â€œI suppose that’s true.”
    â€œAnd you—you weren’t much of a player at all.”
    That same memory continued in Trent’s head. Sitting in thestands, his middle school game, played on a mudflat far from the glory of the varsity field, now long over. In that moment, Trent had seen the potential for the deep defender to intercept the pass Eric was about to throw.
    He’d sat forward, watching the play, while also playing it in his head, with him as that defender. Ignore the receiver’s fake, take two quick steps to cut inside, and have a clear shot at the pass. He didn’t need the dazzling skills Eric possessed, he didn’t need the impressive size some linemen possessed. He needed quick feet, the ability to see possibilities ahead and the faith that he could turn those possibilities to his advantage.
    The defender on the field didn’t make that play. Eric’s pass reached the receiver and became a touchdown. But from that point on, Trent had honed his quick feet, his ability to see ahead and his faith in his abilities.
    â€œNot then, I wasn’t much of a player,” he agreed with his niece. “But I worked and I got better.”
    The girl flushed. Blotches marbled her skin. She was too young not to want the fairy tale of her handsome prince of a father, and too old not to recognize some of the truth about him. He felt sorry for her.
    â€œHe hurt his knee,” she said defensively.
    Someone more accustomed to dissembling would have recognized that by giving her father an excuse, she’d highlighted his failure. By saying the words, she’d acknowledged that, unlike what Trent had just said about himself, Eric hadn’t worked hard and he hadn’t gotten better.
    â€œHe did hurt his knee.” He eyed her. He could let it go. But he wasn’t sure that was for the best. “You know how many NFL quarterbacks have played after that same injury? How many college players? They had to do a lot of rehabilitation, but they played.”
    â€œI’m not going to discuss this with you,” she said haughtily. As if he’d started this pissing match.
    â€œFine. I’ve got something else to discuss.” He gave her no chance to respond. “You don’t leave that apartment without your mother’s permission again.”
    â€œYou can’t tell me what to do.”
    â€œI can tell you what I’m going to do, though. If I find out you’ve gone out like that again, I will make sure your mother knows.” He tipped his head. “Or I might decide to deal with you myself.”
    Her eyes flared wide, but only for a second, then the diva