Page 35 of The Proposal
Me: Great.
Dad: He’s interested in getting in on the rugby expansion. Thinking about trying to get the pieces together for a team in Cincinnati. Wondered if you were interested in talking about it with him.
Me: I can’t own a team and play. Against league ethics. You know that.
Dad: You won’t play forever.
I study the words on the screen … and the ones he meant without typing them.
You won’t play forever. You’ll probably blow your contract like the fuckup you are, and then what will you do with your life?
Dad’s lack of faith in me is never surprising. He’s there for every photo opportunity, willing to give statements when pressed by the media. He was too happy to sign the consent form to be videoed for a documentary about my life for an Australian news agency. But behind the scenes, the veneer wears thin fast. Ever the businessman, rarely a dad.For me, anyway.
It’s always been this way.
He questioned my love for rugby as a child. He second-guessed my ability to play at the collegiate level, despite being scouted by every top school in the country. He insisted that I have a backup plan and was livid when I chose to go pro.
When I signed with my first international contract? It sent a fracture through our family. Dad and Gannon on one side. Mom, Ripley, and me on the other. Tate and Bianca stayed out of it. Our brother Jason tried to mediate, thinking his ability to land airplanes for a living would translate into landing a resolution to our family conflict.
It did not.
Just like Dad’s attempt at subtlety doesn’t translate tonight.
Rain pours onto the stage, dousing the first few rows with water. The performers stomp and splash, fucking chairs and grinding against poles.
Me: I’m not retiring for years.
Dad: You need to be pragmatic.
Blakely leans against the rail again, her dress sliding up the backs of her thighs. I reach up and hook a finger under the fabric, and tug.
My fingers rub along the smooth skin just beneath her ass. Her head whips to mine. A slow, seductive smile slides across her lips as I trail my fingers down her legs.
The contact is dangerous. I’m toeing a line we’ve worked hard to maintain over the years.I know it. And she knows it.
She lifts her drink to her mouth and downs the rest of it. Her lips around the rim of the glass. Her neck bare, exposed. Her eyes looking at me, begging me to touch her again.
There’s nowhere to go. No one to interrupt. No one to remind us thatthisisn’t supposed to happen.
I glance down.
Dad: Can we jump on a call right now?
No, we cannot. I turn off my phone.
Blakely grips the rail behind her with both hands. A voice booms through the venue, asking women about their fantasies. The rain shuts off, and a song plays that repeats the question.
Men begin to descend from the ceiling, and others march onto the stage as firemen and construction crews. Blakely doesn’t notice.
“So,” I ask, smirking. “What’s your fantasy?”
I think she’s going to laugh or turn around to the show. Instead, she puts one hand on each of my armrests and leans forward.
The front of her dress hangs, giving me a full view of her chest. Her mouth is inches away from mine.
I hold my breath, keeping my hands glued to the chair. “Yeah.”
She grins. “Yeah, what?”
