31. Greedy

"Good evening, Mr. Ferguson. Right this way."

Though it's completely unnecessary, the concierge guides me to the table.

My father is a creature of habit. He sits at the same booth and orders the same entrée each time we come to Virtues.

It's a ridiculous name for a fine dining restaurant.

Though I don't know that any name would be fitting of a fine dining restaurant in the middle of a hospital.

It may seem like an odd location, but it probably comes in handy when it's time to entertain board members or conduct important meetings.

The space hasn't changed in years. The walls are dark blue, and as always, every table is lit by candlelight. It has an intimate feel, though that may be in part because the restaurant's mostly empty.

We're meeting up for a late dinner. Eight o'clock was the earliest I could pull off this week with the new offseason training schedule. My dad will work until the early hours of the morning like he does most nights, so it worked out okay.

"Hey, Dad."

He stands to pull me into a hug. "Hey, yourself. I'm glad we could find a time that works. Sit, please."

Once I've taken a seat, I sip my water and browse over the specials. I only look as a courtesy. We've come here enough over the years that it's entirely unnecessary.

Many a birthday and celebration dinner have been hosted at Virtues.

Not that I'm complaining.

The food is excellent, and I'm grateful my dad makes time for me.

More often than not, he works upward of one hundred hours a week, but he makes an effort to eat with me as often as he can. When I was little, my mom would bring me up to the hospital for lunch in the cafeteria. After she died, my dad hired a driver whose soul mission was to get me home from practice and to the hospital a few nights a week.

My dad's an amazing man. He's a brilliant surgeon, a great leader, and an exceptional father. He's never made me feel like I'm a burden. He's not perfect, but he always puts forth the effort. I strive to be like him in so many ways.

"Where are you coming from tonight?"

"The gym. I was there lifting with some of my teammates." I leave out the part where I was also leading a team meeting with next year's returning players.

We had an outstanding season. We ranked second in the conference, coming so damn close to a bowl game we could taste it.

After a few weeks off to recoup, we're back at it with offseason workouts and film review. Our core group of guys is already hungry for next season, and I'm fucking here for it.

"It's pretty late for a workout," my dad remarks, perusing the menu himself, as if he's not going to order the same thing he always does.

"A few of the guys are still finishing up finals, so we tried to accommodate their schedule. I could work out alone, but I like the group dynamic," I admit.

A server comes by and takes our orders: a filet for Dad, and a porterhouse for me. We order mushrooms and broccolini to share, then each request a loaded baked potato, hold the bacon.

He hands over his menu and assesses me over the rims of his glasses. "How did your classes end up this semester?"

"Really well. I'm still waiting for two exams to be posted. I barely squeaked by with a B in organic chemistry, but I'll still make the honor's list."

My dad laughs. "Apple doesn't fall far from the tree there. I hated organic chem with a passion." He clears his throat and takes a sip of water. "What else is new?"

It's not a loaded question, but it carries a bit of heft to it. He's trying to feel out my plans for next year. Surmise which medical school I'm leaning toward. Where I might end up.

What I haven't had the heart to tell him is that I'm planning to stay at South Chapel for one more year. I want to play football for one more season.

Med school can wait. My MCAT scores will keep. I haven't deferred quite yet, but I've already made up my mind about it.

"Just looking forward to a few weeks of calm before spring semester begins."

"No senioritis yet?" he jokes.

With a huff of a laugh, I bring my water glass to my mouth to avoid having to actually reply.

"Your Uncle Philip called yesterday."

Philip, who isn't actually related to us, is my dad's best friend from college. He's an anesthesiologist who lives in Ohio. He's very well connected at Case Western Reserve, which is one of the schools where I've been accepted.

"How's he doing? Did he mention the girls?" I ask, referring to his two daughters.

"They're all good." He dips his chin. "Gracie will graduate in May and is anxious to hear back from a number of schools. Makayla's about to start her residency with Cleveland Clinic. He was asking after you, of course."

I curl my hands into fists but keep them buried in my lap.

Then I sit up straighter, bracing for impact.

"So. Have you made any decisions?"

I take a sip of my water, wipe my mouth with my napkin, rearrange it in my lap.

Only then, when it's painfully clear that I'm doing everything in my power to stall, do I look up and meet my dad's gaze.

"No," I tell him truthfully. "I haven't picked a school."

With a steadying breath in, I garner all my courage and will myself to get this over with.

"I'm considering deferring and doing one more year at SCU."

His expression remains placid as he absorbs my statement.

He's always been steady—even tempered, emotionless, and practical when needed. That's why he's a damn good surgeon and has worked his way to chief physician.

"Another year at South Chapel," he repeats, rubbing at his jaw. "Because you need to? If it's a matter of making sure you have enough credit hours—"

"No, nothing like that," I assure him. "Academically, everything is fine. They offer a few electives I'd love to take while I have the chance, and I'd really like to play one more year of football."

His brows furrow ever so slightly with the admission. He looks pensive, but not at all surprised, like maybe he's seen this coming all along.

"It's your decision. If that's what you want to do, I think it's a great idea."

For a minute, all I can do is blink at him in surprise. "You do?"

"You only live once." He lifts one shoulder. "Might as well do it in a way that leaves no room for regret."

I have no idea where this YOLO mentality is coming from, but I know better than to question his opinion. I didn't expect my dad to completely reject the idea, but I was concerned that my decision would disappoint him.

Relief floods my system, followed by a sense of peace. There's a renewed determination brewing in my gut now that I have his full support.

"Selfishly, I'll be glad to have you home for another year," he admits. "Another year of dinners. A whole other season of football. Plus, now, with Hunter back in the fold—"

The server arrives then with our food.

Saved by the bell. Or in this case, a porterhouse.

Once everything is placed in front of us, we dig in.

My dad's words linger as visions of Hunter percolate in my mind. She looked so pretty when I passed her on the way out earlier. Hair down and wavy, minimal makeup and looking more at ease than she has since she reappeared.

I blink to clear my thoughts. To push her out completely would be impossible, but I need to make space to focus on something besides my stepsister. She's never far from my consciousness. Hasn't been for the last three and a half years.

An extra year of football also means an extra year at home with Hunter.

It's exactly what I need, because I'm not ready to give her up.

I'm not ready to give up on us.

An easy silence settles between us as we eat, though the moment my dad is done, he sets his silverware down and locks in on me. He folds his hands together and looks me right in the eye.

"There's nothing you could do to disappoint me, son. You know that, right?"

I nod and chew, ignoring the twinge in my chest. On the surface, it makes sense. But part of me does want to make him proud.

"I still fully intend to go to med school," I offer.

He smiles but shakes his head. "Even if you didn't, or even if you change your mind later, that would be okay."

The corners of my mouth ache with emotion, and pain radiates through my eye sockets as I fight back tears.

He's so understanding. Not everyone gets that. Hell, most people I know have complicated, if not downright dysfunctional, relationships with their folks.

My dad, though, has always given me his best, and more often than not, we see eye to eye.

I appreciate him so damn much.

I'm about to tell him that, but before I can, he opens his mouth and dumps a bucket of ice-cold water over my head.

"I'm especially glad you'll be home a while longer, because Magnolia's coming home for the holidays," he says, a tight smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

My stomach sinks, along with my heart.

He knows how I feel about her. He knows how I hate her in every sense of the word.

Herbeing Hunter's mom.

"She's coming home, son. And this time she plans to stay."