It Won't Be Like This For Long

[Cactus]

The clattering of fingers on a keyboard was virtually the only noise that echoed through the bedroom, the muted sound of music through a set of earbuds the only accompaniment. It was a normal Thursday evening in the large mansion that housed the Lorenzen family of Chattanooga, Tennessee, and in this particular bedroom, Connor Lorenzen was hard at work. The country stylings of Darius Rucker kept him company as his fingers flew all over the keys on his laptop computer, helping Connor formulate the conclusion to the English essay he'd been doing for Ms. Prescott's class - the second-last one of the year. Once this paper was complete, there'd be very little in the way of work for him to catch up on before the game on Sunday. He liked to be ahead of the curve when it came to his studies, as it gave him a lot more time to concentrate on what really mattered.

Football.

((Connor Lorenzen memories continued from Mystery of Love))

Finishing one of his sentences, Connor absently unwrapped the hair elastic that held his hair back in a ponytail and shook it out a few times, before gathering his hair back up and rewrapping it. His hair was perhaps one of the few eccentricities that he allowed himself, as he loved the feeling of his hair blowing in the breeze as he peeled down an open road in his truck, his father's Corvette, or any of the other high-end cars that happened to accumulate in the family's massive garage. His father Steven was, among other things, a collector of high-end antique roadsters, and both he and his son would figure to take the vehicles out from time-to-time, both to keep them in solid working order, and for the appearance.

Appearance; that was a concept that was incredibly important to the entire Lorenzen family. Connor looked over his essay as a whole and frowned. While Ms. Prescott had asked that the essays be double-spaced (likely for ease of marking), Connor liked to get away with spacing his papers to be a line-and-a-half, as he felt it looked cleaner. It didn't reduce the number of pages by a significant amount, but it set his paper apart from the others. His teacher had unconsciously remarked to him several times on things she liked about the content of his essays, and while he wasn't blowing anyone away with how capable a writer he was, he knew that it was likely his subtle trick that was allowing his papers to stay firmly in mind.

Like he always stressed: appearances were everything. People often forgot about what you said, but always remembered how you made them feel as you said it. The same, he supposed, was true of English essays.

Selecting the entire text of his paper, he adjusted the spacing to his standard and smiled as the text felt more in-line with what he usually output. Rereading his conclusion again, he nodded to himself as he mashed one final sentence down on the keyboard. One final, small revision, and he pushed the chair back from his desk in triumph. There it was: one more essay down. Connor saved the document and took the earbuds from his ears, unlocking his phone and stopping the playback of the music. Having seen the time as he turned off his music, he stood up and stretched his arms out. At his full 6'5", he towered over the desk. It was a little after 9:30pm, and that gave him a ton of time for a workout, and maybe even an hour or two of television. The house was fairly quiet, but for a house of this size, that wasn't surprising. All of the kitchen staff and housekeepers had likely left for the day, and his parents were undoubtedly somewhere else in the house, probably in their offices, or in the garage.

The garage.

Connor's face went pale, and he immediately remembered the one thing he hadn't accounted for.

"Oh, no! No, no, NO! Fuck!"

Flinging the door to his room open, he bounded down the hallway, using his socks to slide the last meter towards the long, winding staircase, grabbing the railing with his left hand and using his long legs to bound down, taking the stairs two at a time. There had been a very important, very meaningful chore that he had intended to do before diving into the essay, but he'd been distracted by a brief phone call with Bret regarding their upcoming match-up and a tip he'd had about the upcoming game against Farragut. Their defence was giving quarterbacks fits, but Bret had identified a weak spot on their line while he went over some tape. Naturally, Connor had bounded up to his room to write it down and had managed to forget.

But when your father's Corvette -- that he lent you on good faith -- had a dent in the side of the door the size of a horseshoe, well - that was something you made damn sure not to forget.

Clearing the length of the long hallway at the bottom of the stairs, Connor virtually sprinted to the door to the garage. Flinging it open, he traipsed down the next set of stairs that lead to the large room at the foot of the house. The garage was that only in the basest of senses - the Lorenzen family was incredibly well-off, and so when having his house built, Steven Lorenzen ensured that the garage would have enough room for many vehicles - to the point that it was almost a personal showroom, of sorts. It was well-lit, heated, and had virtually every tool that one could think of. Any service needed to the vehicles could be done in-house, and anything Steven didn't want to do himself, he had a mechanic on-call to do for him.

Connor had picked up many clever pointers from his father on how to care for a vehicle and how to fix problems, and had he not forgotten about this particular issue, he was certain that he'd have been able to fix the dent up, no problem. The paint would be another story and he'd have to explain that to his father, but Steven was usually understanding enough if Connor cleaned up his own messes. As he bounded toward the back of the garage, near to one of the exits, Connor held a silent prayer in his head that his father hadn't taken that particular evening to do some work on his prized vehicle.

Tonight, luck was not on Connor Lorenzen's side.

As he neared the vehicle, a man stood up from the driver's side of the Corvette, a scowl on his face. The look stopped Connor dead in his tracks. The man held a buffing tool in his hands, and as he saw the tall teenager approach, the scowl only deepened. For his part, Connor tried to put on a casual smile, betrayed almost entirely by his guilt-ridden body language. He'd screwed up, and both he and the man in front of him knew it.

"Aw, hey there, pop. Workin' away on the Corvette?"

Barely acknowledging his son's query, Steven Lorenzen bent down and switched on the buffing tool, focusing on buffing out the side of the vehicle. Connor grimaced a bit as the buffer did its job, the loud whirring noise irritating his ears as he came closer.

This was bad.

Connor tended to tower over most people that he met - at nearly six and a half feet tall, he rarely met anyone who was his equal. Wyatt was one, and some of the basketball players were around his height if not taller, and so it was incredibly rare that anyone was able to use height as an intimidation factor for him. But the man in front of him needed no such tool. Steven Lorenzen was a practiced businessman who'd made his fortune in the oil trade, and as such was a man who cast a formidable shadow. With a strong cleft chin, greying black hair and blue eyes, his father was built like a linebacker himself, standing just a hair over six feet even. In the business world, he was known as a man who stuck to his principles, and who was ruthless when the time called for it.

He was a man who was both respected and feared and expected nothing less than perfection out of those who worked with him. Simply put, Steven Lorenzen was a titan -- if not necessarily in stature, in presence -- and at this particular moment, Connor felt two feet tall.

Switching the buffer off, Steven stood up once more, eyes going up and down the car door. Seemingly satisfied, he turned around and replaced the buffer on the tool chest that stood to the side of the wall. His eyes then looked up at Connor, the scowl seemingly pasted upon his face. He looked at the side of the door, and then expectantly back up at his son.

"Well?"

Connor opened his mouth to start an explanation but stopped himself short. Throwing out a meek excuse would be the last thing that his father would want; it would have gone against everything that he'd ever been taught about responsibility. While he'd certainly screwed up, that would have only dug him an even further grave in his father's eyes. So instead, he stalled.

"Ahh, well, I... I didn't see anything when I came in."

His father saw right through that sorry excuse and folded his arms in front of his chest. His voice was sharp and no-nonsense, and as he spoke Connor felt as though he were shrinking by the minute.

"No? Nothing? By the grace of God, the dent just up and appeared after you got home?"

As a businessman, Steven Lorenzen knew when to play up his Tennessee roots, and had practiced over the years to thicken his accent in situations where he might need to play it up. In this particular instance, Connor knew that he was in trouble because his father had started the conversation at a fairly even keel, but as he said more, his accent slipped a little and he could hear the drawl.

This was really bad.

"I, ahh..." Connor tried to compose himself and straightened up a bit. His father's glare burned a hole right through him and slapped him right back down. Before Connor could stumble over himself any more, Steven verbally mowed him down.

"This," he emphasized the vehicle standing between them with a carefully pointed finger, "is a 1966 Chevrolet Corvette, that as you well know I have spent years restoring by hand." His words were measured, the hostility evident.

"This is something that I am proud to own. Ordinarily, when one is proud of a possession, one takes care of that possession. Which I do. So can you imagine how it feels when someone that you trusted with that possession borrows it to impress some girl," Steven spat the words at his son, his feelings towards that particular female rather clear, "and returns it with serious damage to the side? Do y'all understand how frustrating that might be?"

Connor swallowed and nodded, staying silent.

"Once is an accident. Twice is bad luck. Anything more and it's a pattern. Do you have any idea how disappointed I am in you?"

There it was. Connor had been bracing himself through the tongue-lashing for the magic word, and it had finally appeared. Even though he knew that it was probably more of something that his father was saying to make a point, it didn't hurt any less. For as long as he could remember, everything that he had ever done had been in search of a goal. In the betterment of himself. When he had struggled in school, he had been set up to succeed with tutors and extra help. When the extraordinary natural talent that he had for playing football had made itself apparent, it was honed and practiced. His parents had invested in him, not just time, but money as well. For Connor, it had never been a matter of 'if' he would succeed, but simply 'how' successful he would be.

So to even hear the word 'disappointment' aimed in his direction from one of his parents... it stung. Connor visibly slouched a little as he tried to explain.

"I'm sorry, pop, it just- I don't know when it happened, and then when I got home, I just... Bret called, and-"

His father cut him off.

"You know what the worst thing is, Connor? I would have expected that at this point; hell, you're eighteen years old - I would have expected that you would have at least had the courtesy, the respect for me to come and tell me about it." Steven shook his head. "I suppose your mother and I didn't teach you well enough. First with college, and now this?"

Ohhh. That snapped Connor right back to attention. That made perfect sense. This was about far more than just a bump on a car door. This was about his choice of college. He straightened up a bit. If there was a particular hill to die on, he knew this was going to be the one. There had been much discourse in the Lorenzen household when it came to his commitment to college, and somewhat naturally, his father had placed ample pressure upon him to attend the University of Tennessee. With an impressive football program, the college was not only located within Tennessee, but it also happened to be Steven Lorenzen's alma mater. It was the natural choice for his legacy. The Lorenzen name carried some weight at UT, not the least of which was due to Steven being a generous financial backer at the school.

Which probably made it sting that much more when Connor, after carefully weighing out all of his options, had elected to commit to Notre Dame, instead.

He hadn't made a snap choice, in fact, it had been the opposite. Both of his parents had been eager to help him lay out his options, and while his father had naturally pointed him in the direction of UT, his mother Karen had also urged him to consider all of the options, to make a measured decision. Steven had assumed that Connor would survey the options and elect to take the path that he had. But for Connor, that didn't appeal to him. He loved his parents, he knew that he wouldn't be half the man that he was had it not been for them, but when it came to choosing his future?

Connor Lorenzen wanted to walk his own path. He wanted to forge his own identity. He would be a success. He would play football (the scholarship was impressive either which way, truth be told), and he would carve out a successful professional career.

But he would do it on his terms. Not those of his father.

"Stop."

Straightening up, Connor held up a hand to stop his father, whose eyes went wide. There were very few people in the entire world that Steven would be shushed by, and his arms fell from their crossed position, mouth wide. He said nothing, more out of shock than any particular obedience to his son.

"I'm sorry, sir." He stressed the honorific but spoke carefully. His father was right. He was eighteen years old - he was a young man, but he was a man.

"I honestly don't know when the dent happened. It could have been before dinner, or maybe in the parking lot of the restaurant. Y'all know how people get when they park next to an old car. I wish I knew. I would never knowingly damage your property. My parents raised me better than that."

It was a trick that Connor had seen his father use before; referring to the person he was speaking to in the third person. It took Steven slight aback as he processed the information, and opened his mouth to speak again. This time it was the younger Lorenzen that delivered the verbal tackle.

"I'm sorry that I forgot to tell you about the damage, sir. It won't happen again, you have my God's honest word on that. But I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't use this as an opportunity to get mad at me for a choice that wasn't yours to make in the first place!"

Steven Lorenzen closed his gaping mouth and his face reddened. He'd been called out on what was truly bothering him, and he didn't like it one bit. Stepping towards his son, words accompanied the jabs of his finger.

"Not mine? Fine, Connor. You're absolutely goddamn right that I'm upset. Y'all could have attended the premier school in the nation, and you wouldn't have had a care in the world. There are buildings at that school with your name on it!" Steven held his hands out in front of him, incredulous.

"Your name. Literally! The business studies building is the Lorenzen building. You would want for nothing at UT. But instead, my son - he's Mr. Big-Time now, he decides to go north - and for what? To make 'your own decision'?"

Steven had a bit of a flair for the dramatic, and he certainly had the 'bombastic Tennessee businessman' voice down pat, but Connor dismissed the implication and fired back at his father like he never had before.

"How dare you. My entire life-"

Steven cut him off. "Your entire life you have been at my beck and call. You have gone where I tell you and when I say jump you say how high! I have tried to teach you how to be disciplined, how to be a success. So don't you-"

This time, it was Connor's turn to interrupt.

"No! I don't want to fuckin' hear any more about how you raised me! I know, Pop. I was there. All I ever heard, over, and fucking over again was that I needed to make informed choices. Be smart, Connor! You only get one chance to make a first impression, Connor! Your future is important, Connor!" His own face was getting redder now. "No shit it's important! All you care about is the family legacy, that I go on and follow in your footsteps; that I attend class in a building with my name on it! I don't really care what the hell the building is called!"

Steven opened his mouth to interrupt, taken aback by the cursing, but Connor held his hand up and cut him off.

"I'm not done. You know if you'd asked me why I chose Notre Dame instead of throwin' a passive-aggressive tantrum, I'd have told you. But you never gave me a chance. Yeah, Pop. UT is a great school. Top-notch. But they've already committed to Jesse Franklin and Pablo Ruiz, not to mention they're loaded at QB on both the sophomore and senior level. I'd never play! It'd be years before I saw a meaningful snap."

The older man blinked as he fell off the anger pedestal. Those had been facts that he was unaware of, but he squinted at his son and slowly shook his head.

"So what? You wouldn't redshirt for long, if at all. You're too good for that. Not to mention, you're a Lorenze-"

"That's just it, Pop." Connor interrupted once more, but not as forcefully this time. "I don't want to get pushed through because of my name. Look, y'all know how good I am. Hell, I know how good I am. But what good am I to my team if I'm using my family name to get a chance over someone else who deserves it? What kind of a man does that make me?"

Steven was deflated but tried again.

"Son... sometimes it's not a bad thing to use the connections you have to get a foot in the yard. You could be the next Peyton Manning at UT."

Connor shut his eyes and clenched the bridge of his nose before meeting his father's gaze once more.

He no longer felt like a small child. He felt every inch of his 6'5" frame now.

He felt like a man.

"Pop, it wouldn't be fair. All it would take is for one person to make the connection, and then it follows me around forever. That's the kind of thing that makes the scouts start asking questions about 'character' and 'commitment level'. It's exactly the kind of bullshit that I don't need. I don't want to be the next Peyton Manning; I want to be the first Connor Lorenzen."

While surprised and still a mite upset, Steven couldn't help but look at his son with a touch more admiration. At first, the older man had assumed that his son had chosen to go to another college as a form of teenage rebellion, but it was simply the opposite. This was a well-thought-through, educated decision. He couldn't deny that. It stung, of course, but his son was doing what he had to in order to be the biggest possible success that he could be. Connor was both gifted and incredibly driven and it had never occurred to Steven that while the family legacy was crucial to his own sense of pride, it meant a whole different thing to his son. Different - yet still important. He wanted to blaze his own trail, and he wanted to do it with a wrecking ball, but without the pressures that a family name brought along with it.

How could he fault him for that? It reminded him of a young businessman that he'd once seen in the mirror, hungry to make a name for himself and unwilling to make compromises to do it.

He simply nodded as he looked down at the floor, so Connor continued.

"Look, Pop... y'all know I could never begin to repay you and Ma for everything you've done for me. I never wanted to hurt your feelings. It just... it was the right choice for me. I get to blaze my own trail, see another part of the country. Their biggest weakness was primed to be at the quarterback spot, and now... it ain't. I could backup - or heck, even start as a freshman. Where else do I get that chance?" He shrugged. "I just need to go and prove myself, and you've made sure I'm more than ready for that. "

Steven finally broke his silence, throwing his hands up in the air, signifying his acceptance and defeat. He was a proud man though, so he grasped at straws to gain at least a small foothold over the conversation.

"Fine. We can talk this over more later after I finish dealing with the mess you made of the Corvette. You ain't taking it out anymore for a while, you understand?"

Connor let him have the victory and smiled at his father.

"I do. I'm sorry I cursed at you, Pop. I just want to make you and Ma proud. No shortcuts."

His father gave him a curt nod and turned back towards the car. Connor took this as his cue to leave. His father wasn't overly 'in touch with his feelings', but he knew that he'd gotten through to him. The toughest part about the decision had been what he knew it would lead to, and as far as difficult conversations went, he gathered it went about as well as it could have. As he headed up the stairs, his thoughts went back to the essay that he'd finished before coming down to the garage. Perhaps he'd give it another once-over. Something told him that it would do his mind well to focus on fixing something up, rather than letting his mind wander in front of the television. After all, writing an essay was like a workout - there was always a way to make it better if you looked at it really closely. He let his mind wander through the various bits of his paper as he left the garage and headed back up to his bedroom, taking his time and allowing the tension to ease off of him as he went.

((CONNOR LORENZEN MEMORIES CONCLUDED))

---

Behind him, Steven Lorenzen watched his son go, leaning on the Corvette almost as support. As the door shut to the garage and he listened to the footfalls get softer and softer, he shook his head and sighed.

"Dipshit son doesn't realize. Dipshit father doesn't know how to say it."

The businessman leaned against the side of the Corvette and scratched his greying temples as he surveyed the garage. All of his wealth, all of the possessions, everything he'd worked for and there were still some things that he couldn't buy.

"I am proud of you. Always have been, and always will be."

At his soft declaration, the Corvette stayed quiet, and the rest of the garage looked on in silent judgement; Steven felt every bit.