Page 118 of Rebel Romeo

“Then why do you care so much that I play this season?” Not only play, but play well, I wanted to add, but decided against it.

Dad grew silent, chewing the inside of his cheek.

While I waited for his answer, I shoved my hands into my pocket and found a single cigarette in there. Even just pinching the cigarette between my fingers calmed my nerves.

After several long seconds, Dad said, “I care because whatever you do, I want you to be the best at it. Whatever you invest your time in, I want to see you crush the competition. No son of mine will walk through life as a failure. Or even worse, as mediocre.”

I sucked in a sharp breath. It was maybe the most honest thing I’d heard my dad say in a while.

I rolled the cigarette between my fingers, the satisfying crunch of tobacco a balm for my frustration. “Being mediocre is worse than failing?”

“Yes,” Dad answered without hesitation. “Failing results in one of two things: you either move on from something you’re not good at, or you learn from it. Pick yourself up and try harder. Failing teaches you an important lesson about whether or not you’re truly passionate enough to keep going. But mediocrity?” He snorted the word. “People live their whole lives comfortable in mediocrity. They get lost in it and settle. I’m not going to let you settle. No son of mine will ever be mediocre. So, if you want to do this theater thing as well as football? Fine. But you better be Tom Fucking Hanks on that stage as well as Tom Brady on the field.”

I glanced down at my grandfather’s spinner ring. Why the hell did my Dad’s speech piss me off so much?

“And what if I’m not Tom Hanks?” I asked. “What if I’m just a guy who finds this theater thing kind of fun and needs to get an A in this class in order to graduate?”

“You could get an A by being in the ensemble, kid. So, if you’re going to play the lead in a show, then you need to blow them away. Because trust me, the papers will be reporting on the senator’s son suddenly converting to the stage.”

Ah. That was what that was about. It actually had nothing to do with my mediocrity, and everything to do with how my mediocrity would be perceived by the public.

How my mediocrity would affect his polls.

“Does this mean you’re coming to see it?”

Dad’s phone chimed and he yanked it free from his pocket, looking down at the screen while absent-mindedly answering, “Of course. How would it look if I didn’t come see my only son in a show?”

Using both thumbs, he texted a reply to whoever he was chatting with and I examined him closely. Was it just in my mind or was Dad smiling a little while he texted?

His voice shifted, suddenly softer. Even a little cheery when he finally looked up from his screen. “From what I heard from your professor, she says you’re actually really talented.”

“Yeah,” I said carefully, straining to search his face for any more clues. Could Mom be right? Was Dad back at it again… only this time, not just a sexual affair, but one of the heart? You’d think for a politician so concerned with what the papers thought of him, he’d be a bit more fucking discreet. “Katherine’s the real star. If I’m Tom Hanks, then she’s definitely Meryl Streep.”

“Oh, yeah?” Dad grunted. “Just don’t let her steal your spotlight. It’s Romeo and Juliet… with Romeo being top billing for a reason.”

From within the locker room, Addison’s giggle pierced through the other white noise and I cringed as Dad’s attention jerked up toward the door. “Dad, do you still have that private investigator on your payroll?”

My father tilts his head, examining me carefully before sliding his phone back into his pocket. “You know I do.”

“Could I get his number?”

“What’s going on, Holden?”

Not answering him, I pull the cigarette from my pocket and place it between my lips, lighting it, not caring that we’re still inside and it’s against policy. Fucking hell, it’s against policy for Addison to be in our locker room, but there she is.

“Son,” Dad says, the weight of his palm heavy as it comes down on my shoulder. “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

“My therapist has me keeping a journal,” I start. “And I’m worried someone might have read it.”

Heat burns my cheeks as I admit this out loud. I hate asking my dad for any help, let alone for something that could ruin us both. And Katherine.

Right on cue, his gaze darkens. His brown eyes flash with anger I’ve seen only a few times in my life. “Text me her name and I’ll take care of it.”

Spinning on the heel of his polished Armani shoes, he turns to leave. “What are you going to do?” I asked.

He paused, turning profile over his shoulder, not quite looking back at me. “What I always do. Protect this family… at all costs.”

“I need you to protect Katherine, too. It involves her.” This time, he does slowly turn to face me. “I mean it, Dad. Promise me.”

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