Page 82 of Home Game

“Your father wouldn’t be proud of your direction this year, Emmett.”

A chill ran through me where hot rage had been before.

For a moment, I was numb. Frozen in place, in disbelief about what I’d just heard.

A tightness wound itself around my chest, like my heart itself was being constricted.

“My dad,” I finally managed to say, not knowing how to even finish the statement.

Something wasn’t right.

Something that had been wrong for far too long, actually.

“Your father—”

“Don’t ever speak to me about my father again,” I heard myself say, like it was coming from somewhere deep within.

His eyes widened. “Emmett?”

My throat was tight. Part of me was in disbelief that I was even able to talk like this to him, but I was watching myself do it. Unable to stop myself, really.

All I could think about was my father. The love he had for me, and for this company. How could it feel like it was ages ago, when it had only been two years? How could Cutmore have taken over this office and made such a familiar place into something so hostile?

“Don’t ever tell me what Dad would or wouldn’t be proud of,” I said.

Because he hated you, too, after how you changed over the years.

How you became this monster.

Focused on only profit. Committed to tearing other communities down.

“I think you’re out of line,” he said, narrowing his gaze at me. “And I think that’s something that could be reflected in your performance evaluation.”

“You’ve wanted me gone since the moment Dad died, haven’t you?” I asked.

My throat was constricted and tight. I was saying things now that I usually wouldn’t even have let myselfthinkinside the walls of this office building.

But something had been kicked loose inside me.

And I was pretty sure there was no going back now.

“You’re not what your father was, but you’ve always been a dutiful worker,” Cutmore said, shifting on his leather seat. “But I’m not sure that’s what’s being demonstrated here today.”

“And you’re not what my father was, either,” I said. “I—I can’t work for someone who is bigoted, Cutmore.”

He puffed out a laugh. “Bigoted,” he said, as if it were a joke.

“Homophobic,” I said pointedly. “And hostile to anyone who isn’t like you.”

There was nothing left for me to hide, now. A stray tear fell down my cheek that had been threatening ever since he’d brought up my dad.

“There will be serious repercussions for what you’re saying to me,” he said, but he made no attempt to deny what I’d called him. Deny what hewas.

I swallowed past the tightness in my throat.

“I’ll have my resignation letter ready within the hour,” I said. “I won’t work here anymore. And I do feel that I deserve better.”

Cutmore just laughed again

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