Page 57 of Duke
“Who knows? That fucker hates me. But I can text him about it.” My jaw twitches violently at the idea of asking that dickhead for anything. Especially now.
Lennon’s brow furrows. “It sounds like that journal was what set this in motion. Like maybe Murdock finally had evidence that made it clear Lily had this affair with his friend—and you were the result of that.”
“They must have threatened him to help get Murdock out of prison,” Duke mutters.
Lennon’s jaw drops open. “Wait. What are the chances the journal discovery and proof that Mason was Isaac’s is what made the OGs back off Elliot? Wouldn’t that mean she was somehow caught in this entire scenario?”
“That’s an interesting thought. But how would we figure it out without directly asking?” Duke frowns.
“Leave that to me. I’m actually already on it… I just hadn’t realized it.” Lennon gives me a confused look, rubbing her temple.
I give her the side eye. “What?”
“Your librarian. Turns out she’s a genealogy freak. I asked her if she would look at some of the family trees of the people involved in Murdock’s case. I’ll have her focus on Isaac and Elliot and see if there’s some sort of connection.” She sucks in a breath. “I don’t know. I could be barking up the wrong tree entirely.”
Bear’s been studiously staring at his hands, and finally he looks up. “No. I actually think it’s worth a shot to have outside eyes on this. Maybe the librarian can help us figure out what the link is… if there is one.”
I scratch my head, taking a deep breath, because my mind isn’t with the current vein of conversation—I’m stuck on Isaac being my father. “When I was reading news articles about the case, one said I wasn’t put on the stand for some reason, which matches up with what Murdock—I refuse to call him my father—said. He was counting on me being questioned. It unnerves me to think what would have happened if this Isaac guy, my father”—I stop to swallow—“hadn’t kept me from being called as a witness. He protected me in the only way he knew how.” Is it too much to hope that someone out there was looking out for me after my mother was gone?
TWENTY-NINE
BEAR
The bench.A place no football player wants to be. Especially not mid-season of their senior year. This makes things really fucking difficult as far as my future career goes, but I keep reminding myself that it doesn’t do me any good to play injured either—or doped up—and risk it all. Still, it feels fuckin’ weird to be out on the sidelines in my jersey. No helmet. No pads. No athletic tape holding me together. Just a damn jersey.
As our offense comes off the field and the defense takes their place, I glance back into the enormous stands behind us. This stadium may be huge, but my eyes immediately locate Lennon, Duke, and Mason in the same section and seats they’d watched the game from last time. It’s a shame I’m not playing, because Lennon looks so damn cute wearing the jersey I got for her. When she walked out of my bathroom with a bold 86 scrawled on her cheek, it’d made my heart thump double time in my chest. It’s good to see all three of them up there. I lift my hand and plaster a smile on my face that they know better than to believe, but that’s okay. They understand the pressure I’m under, and that’s why they’re here.
I have plenty of friends who support me by coming to watch me play tight end for the Kingston Lions. But the real, true ones are those who show up for me even while I’m riding the bench. Duke and Mason have been by my side for years. Through thick and thin. That’s maybe the only reason why I’m grateful Murdock didn’t know without a doubt Mason wasn’t his. If he had, he would have disowned him, and I’d never have known Mason the way I do. I chew on my cheek, contemplating what that would have been like—for both me and Duke to not have Mason in our lives. Unfathomable. And Lennon. He never would have gotten a chance to know her either… because he wouldn’t have been at fucking Bainbridge Hall at all. That realization has me frowning hard. I guess the fact that Lily hid Mason’s parentage worked in our favor. But then she’d died, taking that secret with her. Until now. Until the journal I’m certain she had no intention of anyone ever seeing, surfaced, revealing her affair with her husband’s friend.
I take a deep breath, blinking as Lennon smiles and gives me a little wave, a red lollipop clutched in her hand that she’s yet to eat. That girl.Fuck.No doubt she’ll taste like cinnamon and sunshine later.
At halftime, I stay with my team, jogging up through the tunnel to the locker room, but get waylaid before I can make it there by none other than one fuming Derek Pierce.
He fiercely grips me by the arm, just above my left elbow, but I don’t even flinch, which only serves to piss him off. “Get the fuck over here,” he grumbles. A moment later, his expression completely changes as Coach approaches. My father clears his throat. “Mind if I have a word with Bear?”
“Not at all.” Coach jerks his head toward the locker room. “You’ve got five minutes. I want you in there when I talk to the team.”
“Got it.” I nod and turn my attention to my father. I can only assume this is about the fact that I’m not playing today, but who the hell knows? I’d love to ask the asshole what the deal is with using our damn grunts to fucking spy on us, but we agreed as a group that we absolutely weren’t bringing it up yet. Let them wonder where the hell those two have fucked off to.
The reality is we can’t keep them tied up like that for very much longer. Hopefully, they’re learning part one of a very tough lesson. Part two I think we’ll be taking care of tonight.
While my brain has been whirring and the team has been filing into the locker room, my father and I have engaged in an epic stare down. The second my teammates are inside the locker room and the heavy door shuts behind them, my old man takes a menacing step in my direction. It’s kind of amusing since he hasn't physically intimidated me in years. Even injured, he must know I’d kick his ass. One strategically thrown punch, and it’s lights fucking out. But I allow it. Why? Because I simply don’t care anymore what he thinks.
“Something you want to tell me, Bear? This is bullshit.” He glances around to make sure we’re alone. “I had the oxy sent over specifically so you could pull through the game.”
I wet my lips. “Let’s get really fucking honest here. I never know what your intentions are. One minute you play nice, the next you don’t. And… actually, I’ll say this—I don’t think you ever have done any of this to help me. Every move you make is about the mighty Derek Pierce and what he can get me to do for him. To further his own agenda. Not mine.”
He ignores what I’ve said, because clearly it means nothing to him. He doesn’t care about me one fuckin’ bit. Looking incensed, he grits out, “Why didn’t you inform me that you wouldn’t be playing today? It’s a goddamn embarrassment.”
I shrug, resting my hands on my hips. “Ask Coach. It was his decision.” A calm washes over me like I haven’t felt ever where my dad is concerned. I’ve finally begun to see that while my father could tell everyone I’ve been abusing prescription medication, he likely won’t. That threat he held over my head worked well before this—it’d been effective because I used to be scared of him. But I’m no longer afraid. Because if he tells my coach or anyone else about the medication that he’s supplied for me, and I get booted from the team? If that’s what keeps me from playing pro? I’ll go full public with all of it. Going through the withdrawals again, not to mention being at my father’s mercy—or lack thereof—I’m simply no longer interested in playing that game. I don’t care about the things my father could potentially do for me or the connections he has, because they all come with a price tag. And that’s not how I want to build my career, my future. I can do it without him.
Over the years, there’s been one thing that had given me cause for concern—the one thing my father was never entirely clear about—and that was whether or not he had Coach Cambridge in his back pocket or not. But I’ll be damned, it’s apparent from the irritation on my old man’s face that he most likely doesnot.He doesn’t dare question my coach why I’m not playing. And for that, I’m so fucking grateful.
He jabs his finger just below my bad shoulder. “This is fucking ridiculous. We’re Pierces. We play sick, injured, or otherwise. We don’t let our team down.”
“I’m not letting anyone down.” I don’t know what he’s bet on this game, but I’d wager it’s big from the mottled-red look on his face.
“The fuck you’re not. You’re letting me down!” he seethes, his quiet anger something that used to keep me under his thumb.
