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“Fuck off,” I mutter.
Sanchez crosses his arms. “So, beers?”
“Yeah, yeah, fine,” I relent. “Let me shower and see where Jack is at.”
“Oh, he’s already there,” Olsson says. “Saving us a table.”
“We’ll wait for you outside, yeah?”
I nod at Jankowski. “Sounds good.”
They all start to file out, and I peel my base layer over my head before rolling my shoulders as the cool air touches my sweat-drenched skin. A shower sounds fucking fantastic, actually.
I’m just peeling off the last of my layers when my phone starts to chime in the pile of my discarded clothes. I riffle through the fabric, trying to find the trilling device, my thumb swiping across the answer button before I actually see who it is.
“Shit.”
I considered hanging up for a second and claiming it was an accident, but I know I can’t avoid him forever.
“Hello?”
My father’s voice is exactly as it always is—gruff and laced with irritation. Probably aimed at something I did, most likely. “How was practice?”
“It was…practice. Same as always.”
“Don’t get smart with me,” he scoffs. “How is the team treating you? Anyone giving you shit?”
“No? And what if they were?”
“Well, we’d take care of it, obviously.”
“I don’t need you to take care of anything,” I huff. “I do just fine on my own.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to your piss-poor point average last year,” he laughs scornfully. “You could be on the all-star team if you just applied yourself.”
I shut my eyes, my jaw clenching. I don’t tell him that I don’t give a shit about that, because I know from experience it would fall on deaf ears. My opinion has never really mattered to him, not when I was a child and certainly not now, so I let him rant for a moment about all the things I could do to be a better player, only speaking again when he seems to tire himself out.
“How’s Mom?” I say, ignoring everything he’s just said.
He makes a disgruntled sound. “What the hell do you mean? She’s the same as she always is. Maybe if you came and visited her once in a while, you’d know that.”
I also don’t comment on the fact that I would visit a lot more if every single instance didn’t end in him berating me for every perceived slight he can think of in regard to “his game.” I know there’s no point in arguing with him. You can’t argue with someone who won’t entertain the idea of being wrong. Even if I did make the all-star team, even if I visited every other day—I’d still be a disappointment somehow.
“I’ll try to come visit soon,” I say instead. “I gotta get in the shower. The guys are waiting on me.”
“Just make sure to keep your nose clean, you hear? I’ve been filled in on the details of this scheme with you and the Baker girl, and I can’t say I’m a huge fan of it, but if it gets the vultures talking about something other than you and those damned pictures, I’ll allow it.”
I’ll allow it. His echoed words in my head make my face heat. As if he isn’t just as complicit in this mess as I am. As if every step I’ve made in the last six years hasn’t kept his ass out of the spotlight. I would love to say that his concern is of the fatherly sort, but it would be a lie. It’s his reputation he cares about. The fact that the only problems that plague me in this town are the ones he created for me. Not that he’ll ever admit it.
“It will blow over,” I manage tightly, praying that it’s true.
“It had better,” Dad scoffs. “Don’t make me regret letting you come back.”
Letting me come back. I have to actually bite my tongue.
“Sure, Dad,” I force out. “I’ll do my best.”
I hang up with my father, feeling the same as I always do after we talk. Tired, mostly. Tired and simmering with a sort of anger that feels like old coals. Hot, but also died down, just waiting to be stoked by the next jab.
