Tell Me You're Sorry by Kevin O'Brien

Flick. He was about to tell him to go into the end zone for a pass, but he hesitated. “Listen up,” he said, his mouth suddenly dry. “I’m faking a handoff to Dan, then I’m making a run for it along the right sideline . . .”
    When they got into formation, he tried to block out his dad’s voice calling to him over the roar of the crowd. “You heard what I said, Ryan! Want to win this game? Ryan, are you listening to me?”
    The ball was snapped into his hands, triggering the sounds of grunts and groans, and bodies slamming into each other. Ryan pulled back and faked a pass. Then his friend Dan darted around toward him. Ryan faked the handoff. All at once, three Patriot defensemen lunged toward Dan. Ryan saw an opening to the right—just as Coach Annear had predicted.
    â€œPass it! Goddamn it, pass it!” he heard his father bellow over all the noise.
    Ryan ran.
    He was so angry. All of his humiliation and rage were channeled into a fearless determination to win. He poured on the speed and ran right toward the Patriot tacklers. He just wanted to hurt somebody, most of all himself. But his blockers were looking out for him—and one by one, they cleared a path for him to the end zone.
    The home team crowd erupted into a chorus of cheers and howls as Ryan ran past the goalposts. He hurled the football down on the ground, and it ricocheted off the turf. He didn’t do the usual victory dance. Instead, he paced around, trying to catch his breath until his teammates closed in around him. They were all high-fiving each other and slapping him on the back. But Ryan was looking over at his father on the sidelines.
    The old man stood there with his hands in the pockets of his Notre Dame jacket. He had a strange smile on his face.
    After they scored with the extra-point kick, there were three seconds left in the game, not enough time for Stevenson High School to regain its lead. So while the Scouts’ fans started gathering at the sidelines to storm the field, the players went through the formalities. The ref’s whistle signaled the end of the game, aborting a last-ditch effort by the Patriots to score. The Lake Forest fans and cheerleaders swarmed over the field like locusts.
    The throng merged with his teammates, and suddenly Ryan felt all these hands on him. They grabbed hold of his arms, shoulders, and legs. Then they lifted him in the air. Immediately, he started looking for his dad again. But he only caught a fleeting glimpse of him through the crowd. He was still there on the sidelines, waiting.
    As he swayed from side to side on a throne made up of his classmates, Ryan imagined shaking his father’s hand. He might not have followed the old man’s instructions, but he wanted to tell his dad that he couldn’t have done it without him.
    Eventually, his friends set him down—amid more backslapping, cheers, and whistling. Ryan was making his way toward his dad. He took off his helmet and grinned at him.
    His father still had that same strange smile, and he was shaking his head.
    Ryan stepped up to him. “Dad, I—”
    That was all he got out before his father slapped him hard across the face.
    Startled, Ryan dropped his helmet. Several people in the crowd gasped.
    â€œWhen I tell you to do something, you do it!” his father barked.
    Ryan stared at him for a moment. The whole left side of his face throbbed, and tears filled his eyes. All of a sudden, he flew into a rage. “Fuck you!” he shouted, shoving his dad back toward the bleachers. The old man toppled to the ground and almost banged his head against a post. Ryan must have knocked the wind out of him, because for several moments he sat on the ground, stunned.
    After that, it was just a blur. Ryan hardly remembered breaking away from the crowd and retreating to the varsity locker room for his clothes. At some point, he phoned his mother and said he wasn’t coming home. Part of