Page 107 of Nothing Less Than Everything

As much as I wanted to storm into the reporter pool and out the fact that Wren and I were dating whether the team liked it or not, I couldn’t take that from her.

I strangled the doorknob. Coach was just trying to have my back, but I still didn’t like that someone was fucking with Wren’s happiness. “Understood.”

* * *

Wren wasoff working at a client’s house in Warwick when I got home. If I hauled ass out of the stadium tomorrow and was able to sneak into her building without being seen, I could steal forty-five minutes with her before she had to be at the stadium for on-field rehearsals. It would be the most time we got together all week.

This weekend’s game was at home. We’d be on the road for the next two, then back at the Reds’ stadium for the last game of the regular season.

Two more games of having her on the sidelines. Two more games with covert pinky promises in the tunnel. Two more games with secrets.

Wren was at a crossroads. The weight of life changes weighed heavily on her shoulders. She didn’t talk about it when we had stolen moments together, preferring to ease her mind with orgasms and quiet.

There was a deep intimacy that came from the ability to be silent and still with another person.

My phone rang, probably Wren calling me on her drive back to Providence. Lately, we had been doing most of our shop talk while she drove. It wasn’t ideal, but it was private. She would update me on the projects she was doing with the firm, what she was going to be doing at rehearsal, or what local event the Red Cocks had her doing, and I’d tell her about practice. Just two people, catching up about work and their days.

Fishing my phone out of my pocket, I swiped the screen and pressed it to my ear. “Hey, beautiful.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line. “So it’s true.”

“Dad,” I spat. My fist clenched and I spat a curse at the fact that I hadn’t bothered to look at the name on the screen. Why hadn’t I blocked his number yet? “What do you want?”

“Is that any way to speak to the man who handed you a career on a silver platter?” His rough voice was grizzled with age. “What is this I’m hearing about you getting involved with one of those—those—exotic dancers?”

“Cheerleaders,” I hissed. There was no use beating around the bush. I knew exactly who had tipped off Coach Tyson.

Dad snorted. “I’ve seen strippers wear more than those girls.”

“Is there a point to this phone call or can I hang up now?” I was two seconds from opening the penthouse window and chucking my phone across the city.

“I know about the girl, T.J.”

“You don’t know a damn thing.”

“Wanna try me? I’ve got a PI on my payroll who just got back from a great vacation in Antigua last week. We had coffee this morning.”

My body went numb. Fizzles of electricity pricked at my spine.

“I should mention, he’s a great photographer. You know, they’ve got these long-distance telephoto lenses now? Friggin’ A. They can take photos from miles away.”

“So that’s what this has come down to. You’re blackmailing your own son?”

My dad laughed as if he didn’t have a care in the world. “We’re family, T.J. Why would I do a thing like that?”

“What do you want?” I hissed.

“I want us to be family again, Son.” He was placating me, playing the role of a devoted father. It was a crock of shit. “I’ll be at your game this Sunday. Got seats on the fifty-yard line, which is a step down from the box, but you know me. Anything to cheer on my boy.”

Fucking lies. All lies. He was playing an angle; I just didn’t know what it was.

“They’re doing this piece on me. A, uh, special of sorts. We’ve been filming for weeks—interviews about my career, watching old game tapes. They think it’d be nice to get you involved.”

“So that’s what you want,” I scoffed. “You want me to sing your fucking praises for a profile about a has-been?”

“I’m a fucking hall-of-famer!” he roared.

“You were a sorry excuse for a parent. You sent your own kid off to play a fucking game instead of doing your job. You were so preoccupied with reliving your glory days and controlling my life that you failed where it mattered.”

“I was a championship MVP. I gave you everything to be great—to be just like me. And you’re throwing it away for a piece of ass.”

“Don’t you dare talk about Wren that way!” I bellowed.

“I’ll see you on the field, Son.” His words were dripping with disdain. “So, when you’re running into the end zone, scoring touchdowns and having millions of people worship the ground you walk on, remember who put you there. Because when the lights go out, that’s all they’ll remember you for. If you want to write your own legacy, remember that only the victors get a say in how history is told. Get rid of the distractions or my version of the history books will be the only one that matters. I gave you the talent it takes to be great. I was the one who made you. You owe me the same devotion.”

---