Page 117 of Playboy Pitcher
Huey is my parents’ Australian Black Palm Cockatoo. Normal by all accounts until he opens his mouth. I’m not clear on the details of the lobotomy, but apparently, my dad took him to the vet one day, and he came home thinking he was a goat.
I find it better not to ask questions.
“Who’s there?” a soft voice calls out. I open my mouth to answer, when a high-pitched squeal shatters my eardrums. “Ben!” A flash of light blonde hair catches my eye moments before my mother leaps from two feet away straight into my arms. Her feet dangle off the floor as I hug her, a stupid smile spreading across my face.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, slowly detangling her from around my neck. “Sorry I didn’t call, I—”
Her toes barely hit the floor before she’s yelling over her shoulder. “Hollis! Hurry!”
Shit.
I tense, waiting for the inevitable—the whole reason I’m here. I thought I was prepared, but when my father appears in the hallway, my heart skips several beats.
“Everything okay, Elodie?” The smile fades from his face as he sees me, and his gaze narrows, the lines around his sharp eyes tightening. “Son.”
“Dad.”
He doesn’t move, choosing instead to stand stock still with his arms folded across his chest. “Where’s that new bride of yours?”
Classic Hollis LaCroix. Straight and to the point. Why waste time with small talk when you can cut to the chase?
“That was a mistake.” I shake my head, avoiding my mother’s inquisitive stare. “It was just a publicity stunt.”
“That interview didn’t look like a publicity stunt.”
I know I should say something, but the immediate cross-examination puts me on the defensive. So instead, I turn and stare at Huey, his dark gray beak tilting from side to side as he watches everything unfold from his perch.
“Baaaa! Fuck you, Huey!”
Asshole bird.
My father turns toward my mother, a gentle smile replacing his stern frown. “Elodie, would you mind giving us a few moments alone?”
“Of course.” Passing a warm look between us, she lifts onto her toes and cups my cheeks “I’ve missed you, Benson.”
I nod because any words I might have had are lodged in my throat.
Dad motions for me to follow him, and just like when I was a kid, my feet obey. He sits in his favorite chair, watching and waiting as I drop like a dead weight onto the leather couch. “Your mother is out of the room now.”
I glance up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
A low chuckle rumbles in his throat. “You can’t play a player, son. Maybe that act works in Florida but not on me. You think I haven’t seen through this Playboy Pitcher persona of yours from the beginning?”
“It’s not a—”
He holds up his hand, and again, just like a kid, my mouth snaps shut. “Give me a little credit, Ben. This conversation is a long time overdue, so why don’t you go ahead and ask me?”
“Ask what?” My voice is flat as I lie straight through my teeth.
“Ask me, Benson,” he says, shifting forward, a familiar deep vertical line sinking between his eyes. “Ask me the question you’ve always wanted to, but never had the balls.”
This isn’t the way I envisioned this going, but, as usual, everything happens on Hollis LaCroix’s terms. However, if it’s raw honesty he wants, then it’s raw honesty he’ll get.
Holding his stare, I lift my chin and speak the words that have haunted me for four years. “Did you ask Roger Mays to pull me straight from the draft onto the Storm?”
The muscles in his arms contract as he clasps his hands together. “I’m a powerful man, son. I own a lot of places and a lot of people in New York. When I say jump, people ask how high.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
