Page 66 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

Unlike me, who wanted to be surrounded by people I could respect and who I wanted to be like someday, a “circle of trust,” so to speak. My father preferred his crowd to be the kind that tripped over themselves just to suck up to him—more like hyenas than anything else. The kind who’d laugh a little too hard at his jokes and nod a little too quickly at whatever stupid thing he decided to throw their way. His taste in friends was as deep as his taste in women. Hence his three divorces since my mom had left us.

He still looked good, though. A close reflection of the NFL star he’d been. Grant York kept himself up like he had something to prove, and even in this bar he was wearing a lean, polished suit, and his hair was perfectly styled. His smile flashed, all teeth and charm, and the group around him ate it up like they were starving for it. But I’d seen that smile too many times to be fooled.

As I made my way across the room, the anxious knot in my chest tightened. They never went well, these meetings. They always started with him throwing out some backhanded compliment, then spiraling into passive-aggressive remarks about my career or life choices. And I’d sit there, pretending it didn’t bother me, while his entourage looked on like they were watching the main act at some twisted theater.

I stepped closer, feeling the weight of his presence before I'd even reached him. His head turned, eyes locking onto me. The smile didn’t falter, but there was something in his gaze—a flicker of something unreadable, maybe disappointment, maybe indifference. I couldn’t tell, and at this point, it didn’t really matter.

“Well, well,” Dad said, his voice dripping with smooth confidence as his arm lifted in that too-casual gesture, like we were just catching up after a round of golf instead of walking into another verbal sparring match. “Look who decided to join us.”

I forced a smile, already bracing myself. “Hey, Dad.”

The eyes around him shifted toward me, the piranhas recognizing me as someone else they could potentially leech from. Unfortunately for them, I had a no-leech policy.

Dad didn’t hug me. Didn’t even pretend to. Instead he leaned back in his chair, hands gesturing dramatically as he dove into a story that was so tired, I could recite it in my sleep. “So there we were, fourth quarter, two minutes left on the clock, down by six. The whole stadium was on its feet. You could feel the tension, you know? Everyone was holding their breath.” He paused, like he always did, soaking in the admiration from the guys around him.

I mouthed the words as he continued, eyes lighting up like this wasn’t the millionth time he’d told the story. “Coach calls a timeout, pulls us all in. Everyone’s looking at me—everyone. It was like they knew who the ball was going to.”

The group around him leaned in, nodding along like this was some new revelation.

“So we line up,” he said, his voice lowering like he was building suspense. “And the ball snaps. The defense comes at me hard, but I spin right past them. The crowd goesnuts. I can still hear the roar.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Healwaysacted like he could still hear that roar.

“Then…” Dad said, leaning forward as if he was actually saying something important. “I see it—the gap. I go for it, full speed. Thirty yards. Twenty. Ten. Touchdown! Game over. I won the Super Bowl for them.”

The guys around him exploded into applause, laughing and slapping him on the back like he was still the star of the night. “Hell of a play, man,” one of them said. “Best I’ve ever seen.”

I could even do the dramatic pause he always used right before the big moment—that was how many times he’d told that story. His friends leaned in, though, hanging on every exaggerated detail like they hadn’t heard it a million times too. But that’s what they were there for—to worship at the altar of Dad’s past.

I sat there, fading into the background, just part of the scenery. I could have been anyone, really. He’d glance my way once or twice, just enough to acknowledge my presence without ever actually speaking to me. The conversation flowed around me, the spotlight firmly on him, while I became the invisible son at the edge of the table. I couldn’t decide if it was better or worse that he’d decided to ignore me today instead of insulting me.

Probably better.

It went on like that for at least thirty minutes. Him talking, them nodding and laughing in all the right places, while I sat there pretending I wasn’t counting down the seconds until I could leave. My foot tapped under the table, a slow, growing beat of impatience.

Until I finally was sick of his shit. I stood up, pushing my chair back a little too hard, the legs scraping against the floor. “I’ve got to get to the arena,” I said, the lie easily slipping out.

Dad barely looked up. “That’s all you can spare for your old man?” he said sarcastically, like I’d been the one ignoring him this entire time.

I felt the burn of the comment, harsh and familiar. But I swallowed it down and said nothing. What was the point of arguing? It was always the same with him. He was always right.

Without another word, I turned and walked out.

I had much better things to do than sit through a recitation of Grant York’s glory days. I needed to continue to work on how to get my girl.

CHAPTER16

SLOANE

The sharp buzz of the intercom made me jump, pulling me out of my thoughts. I pushed away from the bathroom vanity where I’d been finishing my makeup, and I walked over to the panel on the wall, pressing the button to answer.

“Your car is waiting, ma’am,” a calm, detached voice informed me.

I sighed, leaning my head against the cool wall for a second before responding. “Thanks, I’ll be right down.”

Logan had asked me to go to the game tonight and arranged for a car to pick me up, and I’d been stressing all afternoon about it. “This is just work. That’s all this is. He’s paying you,” I muttered to myself as I stared into the mirror one more time. I let the words settle, a small knot twisting in my stomach. That was the only reason I was wearing his jersey—because it was a client asking me to do something.

Shaking my head because I was a liar, I walked out into the hallway, grabbing a light jacket from the coat closet as I made my way to the elevator. It might be boiling hot outside, but it was freezing in the arena.

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