Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [42]
The disappointment in his father’s voice hit Charlie like a blow. He absentmindedly nudged a discarded gum wrapper at his feet.
“I know you got kicked, but with only a minor injury like that?” Charles shook his head. “You could’ve cost us the game.”
Barely above a whisper, Charlie said, “Yeah. Guess my mind wandered for a minute or somethin’.”
“It’s like you were in slow motion.” Charles rubbed his chin, deliberating. “You know, the weather’s nice enough now that we could start jogging together. Time I got off the treadmill. Treadmills are for sissies anyway, eh?” He scoffed, reached out and gave Charlie a quick punch in the arm. “When this tournament’s over tomorrow—and you boys take home the trophy—how ’bout we hit the road together?”
“Sure thing, Dad.”
“We’ll do some celebrating first, of course. No doubt about it: You’ll be on your game tomorrow, right? The Flames are going to win.”
Charlie’s mom arrived, giving him a quick hug. “How’s my favorite player?” Francine was fully cognizant that any obvious display of affection by a mom in front of peers wasn’t considered cool, so a brief hug would have to do. Charlie usually didn’t appear to be bothered by his mom’s hugs—he had even been known to hug her in front of his friends—but she wasn’t about to abuse that privilege. “That last-minute goal was fantastic, Charlie. Boy, what an exciting game.”
“Jason set me up, Mom. His pass was awesome.”
“I’m sure it was. Your goal was awesome too.”
Charlie opened the back door of the car, feeling a sharp pain in his knee when he bent it to climb in, but he controlled his reaction. Bit his lip to keep from the yelp that threatened. After his mom had settled in and buckled her seatbelt, she turned to him.
“Hungry?” she asked, and then looked at her husband’s profile. “What about you, Charles? Shall we stop at the drive-in? It opened for the season a couple days ago.”
In answer, Charles peeled out of the parking place, squealing the tires. Turned to Fran and grinned. She couldn’t help but smile back, noticing the look on his face was that of a mischievous youngster.
Fran hadn’t met Charles until they were in college, but she could imagine what he had looked like at age twelve. All she had to do was look at their son; Charlie was the spitting image of his dad. The promise of the equally broad shoulders, long legs, coloring, the same unruly curls, square jaw, and broad forehead. Only their eyes were different, for Charlie had inherited his mom’s hazel tones with unusual dark flecks. In relation to temperaments, however, father and son greatly diverged; Charlie wasn’t driven like Charles, causing the father to question his son’s desire and fire.
It became an endless source of contention between the two parents. Charles accusing Fran of coddling their only child. Fran’s response that Charles pushed Charlie too hard, pressuring him, no matter what sport or activity or even pastime he undertook. It was the point-counterpoint rhythm of their lives.
Fran knew Charles was the constant instigator, the one most likely to throw out the challenge, “Bet you can’t …” Which turned everything father and son did into a contest. Riding bikes became a question of who could beat the other up the hill. And who was the fastest down it. Snow and water skiing became daredevil games. Even a family hike could turn into a race in a heartbeat. She also recognized that, as the parent, it was Charles’s job to stop working out his ego issues through their son. The tension felt endless to Fran. And sometimes, hopeless.
“The drive-in sounds great to me. How about you, sport?” Charles glanced at Charlie in the rearview mirror, raising his eyebrows questioningly.
“A cheeseburger and fries. And a milkshake.”
“Think he’s earned a milkshake, Mom?” Charles teased.
“After how hard he