I have no choice. I have to go.
I shoot Alan a quick text that I’ll meet him at the day care, grab my keys, and start to run, still in my cleats and shin guards. When I get to my car, the clock on the dashboard says two fifteen p.m. Practice is starting now. And I’m on my way out of the parking lot. Coach is gonna have my ass.
Alan’s waiting outside the day care building, leaning against a brick column with a sign that says No loitering.
“Why are you out here?” I ask.
“They made me leave. Said people without kids aren’t allowed in there. I think they thought I was some sort of creeper or something.”
I sigh. “Be right back.”
There’s a line at the metal detectors, and the security people don’t seem to be in any rush, chatting with each person who comes through. My heart is pounding, every second feeling like an hour. Finally I cut to the front of the line and say, “Sorry, I’m in a rush. I have to pick up my kid.”
The middle-aged woman at the front of the line with ’80s hair—you know, the kind with the bangs that are hair sprayed to look like they’re flying in every possible direction—stares at me, appalled. She takes in my soccer gear and my long hair and my sweaty face and looks like she’s trying to decide if she feels bad for me, “poor teenage dad, what a shame,” or if she wants to tell me to go to the end of the line and wait my turn like everyone else, that it’s not her problem I have a baby at seventeen.
“She’s sick,” I add. “Really sick.” I toss my keys in the bin and go through the metal detector before anyone can stop me.
I sprint down the halls, sliding a little in my cleats, and finally reach the day care.
“Ryden Brooks, Hope’s dad,” I call out to Sonya as I bypass the front desk and head directly to the baby area. Hope’s in a crib, crying. No one’s paying attention to her. The two teachers are busy changing and feeding other babies. Goddammit. I lift my baby from her crib, hold her securely to my chest, grab her bag, and leave without saying anything to the teachers. No time.
I only stop to fill out the form that says Alan can pick up Hope from now on, and then I’m on my way again, though I have to take it a little slower on my way out of the building—can’t go sliding in my cleats with a baby in my arms. I retrieve my keys from where I left them at the security station and meet Alan outside.
“She’s crying,” Alan says.
“No shit, man.”
“Does she need to be changed?”
“Probably.” I hold Hope toward him. “Do you mind taking care of it? I really need to get back to practice.”
Alan’s mouth presses into a hard line for about a second, but he looks at Hope and starts making those idiotic smiley faces people do at babies and takes her into his arms. “No problem. See you after practice.”
By the time I make it to the soccer field, it’s close to three o’clock. I’m forty-fucking-five minutes late. Again.
This time no one even looks at me when I arrive. That’s worse than them all staring, because it means they’re getting used to me being unreliable. I’m so not that guy, I want to shout at them. I’m the guy who puts in extra time at practice, who gets there early and stays late. I’m the guy who runs five miles on Saturday morning even when we don’t have practice. I’m the guy who’s pulled a W in every single game played for the past two years, the guy with the lowest goals allowed average Downey High School has ever seen, the guy who’s ranked in the top five high school goalies in the country, for Christ’s sake. I’m the guy who’s going pro.
Coach calls me over to the sidelines. His voice is pretty level, considering, but I already know this is going to be bad.
“I’m so sorry, Coach,” I begin. “I had an emergency. It won’t happen again.”
“I’ve heard that before, Ryden.”
Ryden? He never calls me Ryden. He always calls me Brooks.
“I mean it this time. There was a problem at the day care—”
Coach O’Toole nods, still watching the drills out on the field. “I have kids too, Ryden. Four of them. And their mother and I are divorced. I know what it’s like. There’re times when they’re with me that I just don’t know how to handle them. Someone’s always sick or getting her period or needs to be picked up from somewhere or needs help with some science project or decides she’s a vegan and won’t eat anything I’ve made for dinner. I know, Ryden. I get it.”