Annoyance because it’s one more person who’s made a mention of my performance today aside from my father, who supposedly drove over a thousand miles to see it. Appreciation because the surprised expression on his face every time someone does makes it pretty clear he had no semblance of an idea this is what my life here is like.

I know part of it is my appearance and my identity outside of athletics, but I’m also a damn good soccer player. It feels good to have student after student say that to me in front of my father.

We finish our early dinner and then start walking back to the soccer field’s parking lot. We’ve just reached the edge of campus when my father finally addresses me directly.

“Saylor, could I talk to you for a moment?”

Proficient in social cues, all three of my friends keep walking toward the parking lot.

“Sure.” I halt, noticing Sandra has hung back to read the plaque on the side of the English building.

“I…” He clears his throat, and I drag my gaze up from the leaves beginning to coat the brick pathway to his face. “I just wanted to tell you how fantastic you were today. Truly. I can’t believe—I can’t believe I’d never seen you play before. I’ve never been so proud in my entire life.”

There was a time—a very recent time—when I would have lashed out in response to that admission, because there wasn’t anything keeping him from attending one of the hundreds of games I’ve played in the past fifteen years.

He hasn’t recently returned from an overseas deployment.

He wasn’t working three jobs to support Hallie and me.

I’m bitter about it. Maybe I always will be.

But looking at his hopeful, tentative expression, I can’t say any of that.

“Thanks, Dad.” I scuff the toe of my sneaker against some dead leaves, causing them to crinkle. “And, uh, thanks for coming.”

“Of course,” he replies.

There’s no ‘of course’ about it, but I don’t say that.

Sandra comes up and smiles at the two of us. “It’s such a beautiful campus. You must love it here, Saylor.”

“Yeah, it’s nice,” I respond. “I should…” I jerk my thumb in the direction of the parking lot, where my friends are waiting for me. “Are you guys staying for long?”

All my conversations with my father were about arrival logistics. I never asked when they were leaving. “No,” Sandra answers. “I’ve got school on Monday.” She’s a teacher, I recently learned. “We’ll drive back tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, okay,” I respond. The roundtrip drive will last longer than the time they’ve spent here.

“We can stop by in the morning before we leave?” my father suggests. “Hallie gave me your address.”