Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

Daughter of victory. That’s me.
Turning to look at me—a few stray curls falling across his fore-
head—he says, “Yeah, wow.”
I tuck one of the curls behind his ear. “Well, I am the only one
who beat your tail on the racecourse.”
He throws back his head and laughs. “Oh Phoebe,” he says—I
still get shivers when he says my name—and hugs me close to his
side. “That’s the least of it. You just found out you’re Nike’s greatgranddaughter.
You can do—almost—whatever you want in the
entire world.”
I close my eyes. It’s the almost that brings sudden tears to my eyes.
All I can think is why did Dad choose football over staying with
us? He loved us, I know he did. I have enough memories of him to
know that without a doubt. Was football worth more than that?
More than us?
For six years I’ve thought he died in a freak accident, in some
bizarre act of nature. That if he had known about it beforehand,
he would have never played in that game. If he had only known, he
would still be with us.
But now I know he did know. Maybe not that he would be smoted
at that particular game, but eventually.
Everything I ever thought about my dad is wrong.
Like I never knew him at all.
Then again, when I’m running I can’t imagine giving that up for
anything. I don’t think I would ever cheat, but maybe the temptation
of greatness was more powerful than questionable ethics for
Dad. Or maybe, like how mine tried to come out during the race, he
hadn’t meant to use his powers.
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