Page 8 of The Trouble with Players

I turned away from them and found Gina and the ball player at the bar.

“You want a drink?” he offered, though I sensed he only did it to gain brownie points with Gina.

“No. I’m fine,” I said.

“You know Crew?” he asked, clearly having seen us talking.

“My family’s hosting him,” I explained.

“Your dad’s Marty Richmond?” Excitement radiated off him like all of my father’s fans.

“The one and only,” I said, less than pleased to have to admit it.

“Dude’s a legend,” he said. “I cried when he retired.”

I didn’t respond.

“I asked Crew to get me an autograph,” he continued, “but he hasn’t yet.”

“Maybe Gina can bring you over to the house,” I offered.

Gina’s eyes got all big, knowing I was a true wingman—when I wasn’t being such a bitch. “Sure,” she said.

He smiled, and I knew I just assured Gina that she’d be seeing Mr. Ball Player again.

“I’m gonna head out,” I told her.

Her face dropped as if it was the last thing she wanted to do.

“You stay,” I assured her. “I need to walk.”

“You sure?” she asked, though I knew she didn’t want to leave with me.

“Have fun. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

CHAPTER FOUR

I left Gina and the ball player at the bar and made my way out front. It was a gorgeous night, and I hadn’t been lying when I said I needed to walk. I hadn’t realized how much anger I’d been harnessing since arriving to the Cape. I began the trek down the deserted coastal road—probably not my best decision. But then again, coming to the beach, after I’d sworn never to step foot back in the house again, had been even worse.

My mind traveled back to last summer. To the knock on the door. To the twenty-something woman standing there with a five-year-old little girl holding her hand. To the screams of my mother. To the apologies of my father. To the disgust in my mother’s eyes. To the slamming of doors. To the tears shed. To the silence in the house for the last month of summer. To the hatred I felt toward my father—the man who single-handedly destroyed our family. To the disappointment I felt toward my mother because she stayed with him.

I wondered all year how many other women he’d been with. How many other children existed because my father had cheated on my mother. I knew I’d never be able to look him in the eyes again and see the man I idolized. I knew I’d never be able to forgive him for the weak man he truly was.

When I left last August, I didn’t bother saying goodbye, but it had been goodbye. At least, I thought it had been. I never planned to be under the same roof as my father again. And, while it might’ve been unfair, I viewed my mother differently too. How could she ever forgive him? Trust him? Love him?

He’d betrayed her.

He’d betrayed us.

If it were me, I would’ve left his ass and taken all of his money.

But my mother wasn’t me.

Though, her distancing herself from him this summer told me something was going on with her. I hoped she knew that trying to force me to forgive him wouldn’t make it better. It wouldn’t make all the pain go away. Because, truth be told, I had no desire to forgive him. I hoped she divorced him. It was for the best.

When I reached the house, it was shrouded in darkness. I walked around to the back patio door. I slipped inside and crept upstairs, not wanting to run into my father. I twisted the knob on my door and slipped inside my room, closing the door behind me. Shit! I wasn’t staying in my room. I began to twist the doorknob to leave but stopped.

Crew wasn’t back yet.

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