Page 87 of Be Your Anything
“Good. Busy with the new job.”
“That’s right, you’re working for your mom.”
“No, I’m working for The Roth Foundation.”
He tilts his head to the side. “Same thing.”
I clench my jaw then force myself to release it.
“So you’re doing stuff with money? Like finance and all that?”
I don’t let my shoulders drop with disappointment, even though I feel it lance through me. I’ve told him at least a handful of times that I’m an event planner. I’ve given him information about the big productions I’ve coordinated and the work I’ve done in college and for Événements Magnifiques.
I guess that doesn’t really matter, though.
“How’s work for you?” I say, redirecting the conversation. “Are you still coaching?”
He laughs. “Nah, I’ve moved on from that. It was a nice little thing to do for a while between jobs, but I’m back working with pro ballers,” he says. “I’m an agent now.”
I nod my head, my lips pursed. “That must be fun.”
My dad smiles. “It’s amazing. I love spending time with these guys. You know, back in my day…”
And then he starts talking about his time playing for the team in LA, his five minutes of fame—he spent most of the time on the bench.
I feel like an asshole with the way I think about my dad. I mean, for most people, I’d be willing to applaud their accomplishment. Playing professional sports is no joke and takes tons of dedication.
But I hate listening to him talk about it because he sounds like an absolute prick.
He got drafted and primarily sat on the bench before his team released him two years later. He was never picked up by another team in the NBA again.
Should he spend his life bragging about that? Reminding people how amazing he is—was? Talking shit about everyone currently playing?
He’s a guy who dropped the ball when he got to the big time, and he can’t let it go, can’t move on, can’t find another dream.
It’s sad, really.
Thankfully, the waitress takes our food order, and I spot a chance to interrupt his story about what it was like when he played in college and spent time in the girls’ locker room.
“So, how come you’re in town?” I ask, taking a big sip of my beer. “Is it work related?”
He clears his throat. The first tell.
“You could say that. I’m here pursuing business opportunities.”
I nod my head. “Doing what? I thought you were an agent. Are you here recruiting?”
I hate how this feels, being here with him, knowing he’s just waiting for a chance to ask me for something he wants.
My mom’s comment about Lucas and friendship comes back to me. It makes sense, what she said, because she and my dad were friends, once. They went to college together, and, against her parents’ recommendations, she married him—a no-name salesman from North Carolina, a sexy basketball player who won her over and married her before her family could object.
And what did he do? He cheated on her.
On aRoth.
I think she was almost more incensed on behalf of her family name than she was actually upset about the dissolution of her marriage.
“I’m actually here because I’d love to have you get involved with my business, sweetheart.”
