Page 16

Rhythm. Routine.

Ice in the veins.

This position was ninety percent mental. One bad thought could shank a season.

But if I could handle the pressure of the state championship in high school coming down to a fifty-nine-yard field goal—wind in my face, student section screaming, the snap feeling like it took a year to get there—I could handle one jackass, redneck roommate.

The key was to block out the noise. Compartmentalize. Put it out of my head completely.

Ignore my body’s reaction last night to his words. The way his girlfriend—hookup, whatever—knelt naked at his feet to service him and his big fucking cock.

Not that I’d looked. Because I hadn’t.

I had no interest in Elliot Vaughn’s nasty dick. None whatsoever.

Or anyone else’s dick for that matter.

Fuck.

I showered, brushed my teeth, and ran through my visualization reps—steps back, steps over, plant foot, contact, follow-through. See the ball splitting the uprights. Feel the ref’s arms go up. Embody the calm. Reset the breathing for the next big play.

Today, we were up against East Mercier. A solid team. Veteran roster. Didn’t lose many impact seniors. Ranked for a reason. Their special teams would be disciplined, their edge rush fast. Demere was favored, but this wouldn’t be a gimme. It’d be a grind-it-out, field-position game.

Which meant I had to be in the zone.

But before I even set foot out of Whitman, my phone was lighting up with texts.

The first few were from Arden, probably reminding me that she’d be cheering in the crowd, or making plans for after the game, or complaining about how hot she’d be in the stands.

I dismissed those notifications without reading them. I’d told her about my pregame mental ritual a million times. She had to know by now that I wouldn’t reply until later.

My father’s texts were harder to ignore.

The Senator

Tailgating with the Sylvesters and Norrisons before heading to the box. Come find us after the win and your media shit. Ted Davenport will be there from Henner, Craig, and Davenport. Good connection for you.

Janine says to wear the Brioni to the game, whatever the fuck that means.

And remember to smile in front of the cameras this time instead of looking like you’re going to shit your pants on national television. The election’s in ten weeks, Bett. Everyone’s watching.

My heart rate sped up, and my mindset went to hell.

This was my father behind closed doors. In reality, he was a complete asshole. Controlling and vindictive. Punishing and manipulative. Completely different from the charming, charismatic, powerful, faithful man in front of the camera.

The worst always came during an election season, where I became the prodigal son, trotted out as one of Senator McNeely’s qualifications. He comes with a built-in replacement and expansion plan in the form of the son he’s grooming to be just like him, folks.

My father had already mapped out my path into politics, correcting for any little mistakes he and my grandfather had made in theirs. Harvard Law, if I could swing it. Georgia, if I couldn’t, because local connections and in-state loyalty were powerful in their own way. No ridiculous side quests into playing pro football, because even if I managed to get drafted—the kicker equivalent of winning the lottery—“the salary on a kicker contract would be a rounding error compared to what you’d earn in private practice.”

As much as it sucked, my father was right about pro football being a pipe dream. And conveniently, I enjoyed the law. But that was about all I had in common with the guy my father wanted me to be.

I loved the idea of fairness, of defending those who needed it. Whereas my father wanted me to be someone who took advantage of others. Of loopholes. Of opportunities.

Sometimes it felt like he and I were locked in a battle for my future. Sometimes it seemed like he thought he’d already won.

But just like Vaughn, he was wrong.

I was playing along, for now, but I wouldn’t fall in line with my father’s plans for me.