Page 123 of Only in Your Dreams

I could do without working for him and I’d jump ship without another glance, after the way he’s publicly humiliated me on more than one occasion.

When he sees me looking, Harry touches the brim of his cap and turns to stride through the tunnel under the stands leading to the offices. Dick.

“Mike Irving,” Brooks repeats beside me. “Noah’s dad? Why does he look like he’s about to light the place on fire?”

I see him now. A burly, red-faced Mike Irving marching past Harry in the direction of the field. If Brooks hadn’t named him off the bat, it would have taken me a second to place him. The Irvings have lived in this town for years, and growing up, Mike had been a common fixture along the main strip.

Back then he’d been a charming, almost jovial man, the kind that you’d figure would raise a good kid like Noah. And then he got caught up in an accident on a fishing charter that left him with a permanent limp. He’s never been the same. Stopped showing his face around town. Started hitting the liquor. Tormenting his wife and kid.

And by the looks of it, perfecting that nasty grimace as he moves toward the field at an impressive clip despite the limp. Brooks is right. Maybe he’s not looking to light the place on fire. But the fists at his sides, one holding badly crumpled papers, tell me this isn’t a casual visit checking out his son’s practice.

And then Mike pauses, sweeps the field before him, zones in on what he’s looking for. “Get your dumb ass over here, you little shit!”

Oh, fuck.

The sounds from the field die off. I turn to watch Noah slowly remove his helmet, staring in the direction of his father like he’s seeing a ghost.

“What the fuck is going on?” Brooks mutters.

“Get Noah,” I say quietly, heart hammering in my chest.

He looks around incredulously. “You want me to bring Noah over to this guy?”

I stand perfectly still, frozen in dread as I watch Mike Irving stand only a few feet away. He’s fisting the papers in his hand, glaring in positive fury at the field.

“No. Get to Noah and keep him away. I don’t care how. Do whatever you have to do to get him out.”

“Are you deaf or stupid, boy?” Mike Irving roars now. “I said,get your ass over here!”

“Should we call security?”

“Go,” I tell Brooks. “Get to Noah.”

The moment the words leave my mouth also appears to be the moment Mike decides he’s had enough of waiting. He starts charging onto the field. Brooks takes off toward Noah as I throw myself into his father’s path so abruptly that he slams into me, driving me back a few steps before coming to a halt.

“Mr. Irving, why don’t we go talk in my office?”

Mike fixes his mutinous gaze on me. “And why the fuck would I want to talk to you? Get the fuck out of my way—”

“It’s a closed practice. I can’t let you onto the field, but if you want to wait inside while we—”

The next sound out of me is a hard grunt as Mike’s hands collide with my chest to send me staggering back. And I’m suddenly glaringly aware of my mistake. Any thought of talking the man down was clearly a stupid one. He’s here for blood, and considering I never fought a day in my life—

Mike Irving closes the gap he created between us and shoves me again.

“Look, this doesn’t have to get physical. We can talk it out—”

“Talk it out?Talk it out? Tell that to my bitch wife who served me divorce papers this morning, spinning some bullshit about my being a shitty father—”

Noah appears at my side, flanked by Brooks, who grips his jersey in an attempt to move him. “Dad—”

I grab Noah’s shoulders, walking him back and away from his father with Brooks’s help. “Get out of here, Noah—”

“Is that what I am, you ungrateful shit? A shitty father?” Mike claws at the back of my shirt before taking a fistful and tugging so violently I hear it start to rip. “Get the fuck out of my way.”

“Dad, stop—”

“Noah,get the hell out of here—”

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