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“Oh, I missed you,” Mom says. “You haven’t been to visit in far too long! You didn’t even come see us after Mei’s wedding.”
“He had a lot of other things to worry about, it would seem,” my father adds, forcing me to acknowledge him.
Bradley Chase and I look a lot alike; his dark red hair is almost identical to my own, save for streaks of silver at the temples, and his gray eyes are the same as mine, but with a hardness to them, a calculating gleam that has always put me on edge.
I nod my head. “Dad.”
“Good to see you, son,” my father says. “I wish it were in better circumstances.”
My mother smacks his chest. “None of that, Bradley. We said we weren’t going to mention it.”
“You said,” my father responds gruffly. “We have to think about the backlash to the team. I advised him not to go to that wedding, and it looks like I was right, as usual.”
Forbid me to go is more like it—I’m sure that’s why his eyes look harder than usual; I’m sure he wishes we were alone so he could tear into me. I’m grateful that with Jack and my mother around he will choose to hold off for appearance’s sake, but I know it’s coming. He’s already had a go at me via text when I wouldn’t answer his calls, but he’s always preferred to look me in the eye when he’s cutting me down.
“He can’t live his life worried about what the internet might think,” Jack chimes in, his voice lacking its usual cheerfulness. “It’s not his fault.”
Jack is the only person who knows the more sordid details of the complicated relationship between my father and me, something that I am almost positive my father suspects, but nothing he can prove, thankfully. I know if he could, he would have had Jack off the team years ago, if for no other reason than he’s never really liked the way Jack says whatever thought pops into his head, and it is only because of my mother’s much kinder heart that he hasn’t interfered.
“Whether or not he’s at fault is debatable,” my father snaps coldly. “Now we just have to deal with the consequences.”
“And you’re good at that,” I snort. “Aren’t you, Dad?”
My father narrows his eyes, and for a moment, I feel like a little boy again, being scolded for doing whatever I’d done that day to disappoint him. I have to remind myself that it doesn’t matter now, that it doesn’t affect my decisions. Well, any more than it has to.
“Please don’t fight,” my mother sighs. “Can we just be happy that we’re all back in the same city? We have people to handle this sort of thing. That Leilani we hired is a real shark. She’s got gumption, that one. I’m sure she’ll figure out a solution.”
“She’d better,” my father mutters.
“Christine,” Jack says, touching my mother’s shoulder with his good hand. “Have you seen the new practice jerseys yet? They just came in the other day. The stitching on them is fucking awesome.”
“Language,” my mother chides.
“Right,” Jack replies sheepishly. “The stitching is…cool? Anyway, come see while Ian deals with scary old Leilani.”
I give Jack an appreciative look, and he winks back at me as he loops his good arm through my mother’s and starts to lead her away. I notice my agent then, Molly, waving at me from the hall that leads further into the building, and I throw one back her way before she disappears, indicating I’ll be right behind her.
“We’ll catch up later!” my mother calls from over her shoulder. “We’ll have dinner soon, okay?”
“Sure,” I tell her, glancing at my father, who is still eyeing me sternly.
“We will talk later,” he says, his tone not allowing any argument. “Call me tonight. And you do whatever Leilani says to make this right, okay?”
“Okay,” I answer, my jaw clenching.
“Bradley!”
My father turns his head to my mother, who is gesturing that he follow her and Jack, shooting me one last look that promises a headache-inducing conversation later—but that is later me’s problem. I watch him follow after Jack and Mom, making a mental note to buy Jack dinner as thanks after we’re done here.
I take a deep breath to steady myself as I head toward the entry that leads to the locker room, making the same path that I remember even after all these years that leads to Coach Daniels’s office. I knock at it twice before letting myself in, Coach waving me inside as he finishes up a conversation with a petite woman with golden skin, long black hair, and a pantsuit that screams don’t fuck with me.
I notice Molly already seated on the other side of Coach’s desk, and she tips her chin at me, her hair that is only a few shades darker than mine pulled up tight in her signature bun and only just beginning to gray. She’s also a tiny thing, but like the PR agent, she has the “don’t fuck with me” vibe down pat. It’s why I’ve stuck with her all these years even from a distance.
“Ian,” she says in that throaty tone that comes from years of the menthols she’s partial to. “Good to see you.”
“You too,” I tell her. I haven’t seen her in person since last season. “Thanks for coming.”
She waves me off. “Of course.”
