Page 9 of His Jersey

“The recap.”

“Then you saw the highlights.”

“Lowlights. Anyway, your time hanging around those puck bunnies, or whatever you call them, is over.”

I blink a few times. He’s right, but not for the reasons he thinks. I’m well aware that all the women who pursue me are after my money. Sometimes I feel like a drive-through ATM: show them a good time, buy them things, next! I learned to create boundaries and set clear expectations because I’m notlooking for long-term love. We’d have a good time for a night, maybe a week. Then I lose their numbers. End of story.

Lately, it’s like I summoned a perfumed and hair-sprayed Hydra and can’t seem to shake it. Perhaps they’re replicating.

My father’s new wife is no different than the rest of the treasure-hunting females. “If I recall, Aston had a previous career as a fan girl.”

My father owns a football team and I’ve gleaned they met at an event for the Bucks, which I could not care less about … nor do I care about his relationship with the woman masquerading as my stepmother.

He forces a smile. “Speaking of, there’s the light of my life now.”

She breezes in, flouncing into my father’s lap and kissing him on his silver-stubbled cheek. He shifts her into the booth beside him. She gives him a puppy dog-eyed look and pouts a little.

Clearing his throat, he says, “Son, I believe an apology is in order.”

I’m not sure if it’s because I told her she’s not my mother or ordered she put on some clothing the last time I was at Dad’s. But my entire body internally convulses and gags.

Aston innocently bats her eyelashes at me. I was an only child, and this is what I imagine psychologists describe as sibling rivalry. She’s fighting for my father’s attention and, when all is said and done, his wealth.

“An apology? Sure. Aston, I’m sorry that you think that I don’t see right through you.”

“Jack,” my father warns.

I glare at them in turn. “The guard dog comes to your defense. Down, boy.”

“You will speak to me with respect or?—”

I say, “Then act like a man.”

My father lowers his voice, “Is this about your mother?”

“If we’re going to discuss the topic of respect, how about respecting her memory?”

Palming her phone, Aston admires the top of her right hand—not the one with the giant golf ball of an engagement ring and the wedding band also encrusted with diamonds. A glint catches my eye and instead of going cold, heat rises through me like liquid magma burning through a volcano.

She flashes her hand. “I just got it resized, isn’t it lovely? It’s our first-month married anniversary gift.”

“That’s not the red diamond, is it?” I ask.

He flushes. “No. It’s a ruby.”

If my father dared give Aston the red diamond, Mom’s favorite of the gemstones in her collection, I would burn this place to the ground … right here. Right now.

Aston wraps herself around my father’s arm. “You said I could try it on soon, didn’t you, baby?”

“He’s old enough to be your father. Don’t call him baby. Though he is behaving like one,” I mutter.

My father’s fist pounds the table. “Jack. I thought our family could share a pleasant meal together. Discuss your career and future.”

I make a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a squawk. “Our family? Is she?—?”

Aston laughs. “No way am I having kids. If we want one of those things, we’ll adopt it or something. Oooh. Maybe a ferret.” She claps the tips of her hands together.

I can’t see my expression, but if I were to ask someone what it looks like, the best description would be grossly appalled.

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