Page 97 of His Jersey

“Where are we going? Monaco, please say Monaco,” Aston says excitedly.

My father scrubs his hand down his face. “Evergreen Gardens.”

Aston wrinkles her nose because that’s the cemetery where Mom is buried.

“Son, we’re not done with this conversation.”

I’m about to tell him that we are done when my phone lights up like a Christmas tree. It’s Carlos again. I scan the text and then another video appears of the dimly lit Club Luna at the same time someone bangs on the door.

38

JACK

Bark Wahlburger barksas I open the door to find Carlos bracing himself and breathing heavily. “I did the digging you asked me to do.”

“I saw the video. I was just about to show Ella.”

“No, the other digging.”

“Slater?”

“No, the other one.”

I rack my brain.

He tips his head toward my father.

My stomach lurches, bracing for what I’m about to hear. “What did you find?”

“You were right. Remy loves the smell of money. There’s another video.” He passes me his phone and I watch my former coach confess to being bribed by my father to get me to retire. I listen, waiting for an explanation, but instead, Remy says that he knew Badaszek had been interested in trading me for a long time and was waiting out my contract. He put out the word because, and I quote,I still had a few good goals to make.

The fire in my veins turns to iron as I glare at my father.“What is the meaning of this?”

“This is boring. I’m going shopping,” Aston says, leaving.

My father, rarely one to look even slightly bashful, says, “I knew about the impending sale of the Storm to a new owner. Would’ve lost a lot of money if you’d stayed on the team.”

This confirms that my father wasn’t satisfied with the regular financial markets and went dark to the shadow markets based on sports betting. “So you pushed for me to quit?” I shake my head, not wanting to believe it.

“It’s time you get serious with your life and stop playing games.”

Carlos winces and then also sneaks out the door. I’ll thank him profusely later and buy his parents whichever house is Ella’s runner-up. If I still have Ella.

I say, “I’ll tell you what’s serious, that you deceived me. That you’d think you know what’s best for my career or love life or future.”

“I don’t want you to throw it away.” My father’s mouth puckers.

“It’s more like you don’t want me to make you look bad or throw away your money. I’d flush it all down the drain if you’d—” But I can’t say it without my voice breaking. Now I feel cheap, used.

He starts, “Son, listen, you don’t understand.”

Squaring my shoulders, I’m not sure where the words come from, but instead of shouting at him, as I’d like to, I say, “You have a plane to catch. I recommend you use that time to think about what Mom would say or do right now …” I close my eyes, forcing back the emotion. “She’d be disappointed.”

Without so much as putting up a fight or saying another word, he exits, leaving just Ella and me along with the dog and what feels like an endless sheet of ice between us.

“Ella, I am sorry?—”

“Save it?—”

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