Page 120 of Holding On

"I talked to him before I got here. He said you're more than ready. You just haven't shown up to practice, which is why I'm here." He leans down to me, his finger in my face. "Listen to me. You're going to get your lazy ass off this couch and get to the training facility and work until Coach tells you you're done. Then you're going to come home, lift weights, go to bed, and do it all over again tomorrow."

I feel his stare and look away as he rises back to standing. There's nothing to say. Arguing with him is pointless. Ever try to argue with a lawyer? If not, I'll tell you now, don't bother. It's a complete waste of time. Their goal is to win and they'll wear you down until they do. Having grown up with two lawyers for parents, I know this better than anyone.

I sit there in silence, chewing the inside of my lip so hard I taste blood.

"Get changed," he orders. "We're going. Coach is waiting."

He's lying. Coach would've told me if he were expecting me to show up there today.

"I'm not going," I say. "My shoulder hurts. I overdid it on weights this morning. If I toss the ball, I may end up doing more damage."

"What did I just say about playing through the pain?"

"It's not just the pain. I told you, I could damage my shoulder."

"Your shoulder is fine. You're just making up lies to avoid training."

He's right. It was a lie, and as usual, my dad didn't buy it. He knows when people are lying because he's an expert liar himself, and he lives in a world where people lie constantly to get the upper hand in negotiations, which never works with my dad. If they even attempt to lie to him, he retaliates. Big time. He goes after them with tactics that are most likely illegal but he knows his way around the law so he gets away with it and ends up getting an even better deal for his clients.

He breathes in and out, loudly, as his hand runs over his dark, slicked-back hair. "We're not arguing about this. You're going to the college to train with your coach."

He says it like I'm a child and I suddenly feel like I'm ten years old again, back home in my room, being scolded by my father. I hate feeling like this. Like I'm a child with no control over my own damn life. My own damn body.

Beyond pissed, I blurt out, "I'm not going. I'm a fucking adult and if I say I'm not going, I'm not going."

I prepare for him to yell at me. Maybe pick up a lamp and throw it against the wall. That's his style. Make a scene. Put a scare into people. He does it all the time during client negotiations but I hate it when he does it to me. As a kid, it used to scare me.

Oddly, this time, he remains calm and says, "Ethan." He takes a deep breath. "You DO want to play again, correct?"

He stares at me, and I can't read his expression. His face is blank, but his jaw is still tight and I can feel his anger.

I should keep quiet. Or lie again. But instead, for some stupid reason, I say, "I don't know."

He's silent for a very long second, then lets out a harsh laugh. "You don't KNOW?" He huffs. "You don't know if you want to make millions of dollars? Have beautiful women fall at your feet, begging to be with you? Have children idolize you? Grown men chant your name when you walk on the field?" He shakes his head. "You must be joking. Either that or you suffered a head injury in that car accident."

"I've just been thinking that—"

"It's not your job to think," he says, leaning down and getting in my face, his eyes fixed on mine. "I'm your manager and I will do the thinking for you. That's how this fucking works. You've been around this business long enough to know that. You play ball and I do the rest. Are we clear?"

Again, I should keep quiet but I've come this far, so what the hell? I might as well keep going. "You're not my manager. And just so you know..." I pause, knowing I shouldn't say this, but then the words spill out. "I might do something else...instead of football." I mutter it under my breath like a fucking coward. If I'm going to tell him this, I need to just say it, loud and clear, with conviction. I need to stand up to him.

"What did you say?" he asks.

I straighten up and force my eyes to his. "I said I might do something else."

He pauses, then laughs again, this time in a humorous way. He thinks I'm joking. Or delirious. Or both.

"I'm not kidding, Dad. I'm not sure football is what I want to do. I've been giving this some thought and—"

"And what exactly would you do?" There's a grin on his face. He still sees this as a joke, which pisses me off. Before I can answer his question, he says, "You're not smart enough to do anything else."

I stare at him in disbelief, shocked that he would say something so cruel to his own son. I could ignore it but I don't.

"Who the fuck says that? To their own damn kid?"

"A parent who cares enough to tell his son the truth." He crosses his arms over his chest.

I work my jaw back and forth, my hands clenched in fists, wishing I could punch him. He's said bad things to me in the past but not this bad.

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