Page 56 of Roughing the Player
Chapter 15
Brock
“THE GM WANTS TO SEE YOU,”the assistant coach says after Wednesday’s practice ends. I don’t have to guess what he wants to talk about. It’s all over the internet. The kinder posts refer to me as an absentee father. The harsher ones brand me a deadbeat dad who abandoned his kid to party his way through the NFL, all while his child lived in abject poverty. A bit extreme, but they have a point.
I did party my way through the NFL. My child may not have grown up poor, but she and Ellie lived through hard times. More than likely, Ellie had to borrow money for law school. At least that’s one thing I can take off her plate. I can pay off her student debt. If she’ll let me. Right now, that doesn’t seem likely. She won’t even return my calls.
I’ve phoned her at least ten times in the last two days. Not once did she pick up. I left message after message. Demanding at first, then threatening her with a lawsuit. The last few times, I downright begged. But just like before, she ignored them all. Damn it. I want to see my daughter. That’s not too much to ask, is it? I want to talk to her. Get to know what she’s like. It won’t be easy, I know. But I need to make some kind of a connection with her. I don’t want to miss any more years of her life than I already have.
I trudge my way to the GM’s office and knock on the glass panel. When he yells enter, I stick my head in the door. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, come in. Close the door, Brock.” Not only is he present, but so is Coach and Oliver Lyons, the Outlaws’ owner. I’m truly in deep shit.
The GM slides a copy of some sports gossip rag across his desk. The headline reads ‘Brock Parker, Deadbeat Dad.’ “Is it true?”
Not wanting to miss a word, I carefully read the article. The last thing I want to do is lie. The situation is bad enough as it is.
“Kaylee Adams is my child,” I admit.
One of them hisses a breath. Don’t know who since I’m reading the article again. I got the gist first time around, but I want to know how far the slanderous rag has gone.
Once I’ve caught all the salacious innuendos, I glance up. “I didn’t know. Eleanor never told me.”
“How could that be?” The GM’s lip curls in disdain. “This thing happened while you were both in high school, didn’t it?”
“This thing?” I spit out. “You mean Eleanor’s pregnancy?”
“Yes. Sorry.” He waves his hand in the air in an apparent apologetic gesture. “Didn’t mean it as an insult.”
The coach stares at me stone-faced. Oliver Lyon’s expression is easier to understand. Disgust covers it nicely. He doesn’t have to say a word for me to understand my position on the team is on the line.
Damn it. I’m not at fault here. I’m not the bad guy. But I’ve got to get my temper under control if I’m to come out unscathed. I breathe deep in an attempt to calm down. “She left midway through her senior year. She wasn’t showing yet.” A logical explanation which just happens to be true.
“Well, that’s something.” The GM leans back into his chair, as the tension eases out of him. “We can spin this. Blame it on the mother.”
I pound his desk. “The hell we are.” There goes my calm.
“Care to rephrase that, Brock,” Coach Grohowski says, in a quiet tone. That’s not good. Everyone knows it’s better when he yells at you.
I count to ten to regain command over my temper. Once I’m reasonably sure I won’t bite off somebody’s head, I say, “You’re not blaming Ellie. And neither am I.”
“Brock, you’re in serious trouble here,” Coach says, not unkindly. “The notoriety can hurt the team, end your career. We need to do something.”
“We?” I scoff. “You don’t need to do anything. This is mine to fix. I’ll handle it. I’ll make it right.”
“You want to come out of this smelling like a rose,” he says. “Otherwise . . .”
He doesn’t have to say it. The look on the owner’s face says it all. If I don’t fix this, I’ll no longer have a place on the team.
