I’m morbidly curious how her conversation with Ezra went down. If he was an asshole to her, he and I will have words.
Then again, maybe he had a change of heart and wants to be with her.
My jaw tightens. I hope Roxy doesn’t take him back. That pencil dick doesn’t deserve her, but I know what women sometimes do for the sake of their children, so nothing would surprise me at this point.
After I jam my phone in my back pocket, I take a deep breath and head inside my house. Second semester starts in two days, and I promised my mom I’d visit. I sure as hell didn’t drag myself to Austin to see my father.
He’s camped out in the living room with his designer coffee in hand, ESPN on the flatscreen, and theWall Street Journalin his lap.
“Hey.”
He barely glances at me. “Nice of you to finally come home.”
We haven’t spoken in weeks, and that’s what he says? “Did you watch the game?” Ididjust play football on national television.
“You missed a pass in the third quarter that you should’ve intercepted, and you really need to do more footwork drills. You got tangled up with Markowitz more than once.”
No mention of my interception, the forty-one-yard return, or the ten tackles.
My hands clench at my side. I know I’m a disappointment to him, but you’d think he’d say something nice for once. I don’t know, like maybe “congratulations” or “good game?” I don’t have the grades for law school like my two older brothers, and I don’t play quarterback like he did in college. That means I don’t land on his radar anymore except to criticize.
He finally turns my way. “I spoke to Randolph Klein last week. He said he’d rep you if you got your shit together. I told him you’d be on board if he thought he could get you drafted.”
Randolph Klein. As in one of the most sought-after agents in the country?
I can’t deny the excitement that zips through me. Fuck yes, I wanna get drafted. I’ve had to switch positions twice since I became a Bronco, which doesn’t help my odds of making it to the NFL.
The guys who go pro have been playing those positions for years. They didn’t just hop over from offense to defense last year like I did. Sure, I had a good game last week, but I need a stellar senior year to really stand out, and with Coach Santos on my ass every two seconds, what are the odds that’ll happen?
“Isn’t it illegal to verbally commit to an agent?” If I get busted for making a verbal agreement, it’ll make me ineligible to play next year. Coach might be an asshole, but he’s given us several lectures about this.
My father rolls his eyes. “You do know I’m an attorney, right? What the school doesn’t know won’t hurt you. Klein says you need to clean up your rep. To cut the parties and the women. Maybe get a nice girlfriend. Someone the media will like. Doesn’t mean you can’t have some fun on the side. Just don’t do it publicly.”
Did my father just encourage me to get a girlfriend and cheat on her? What the hell?
Reaching for his coffee, he adds, “And for fuck’s sake, don’t switch positions again.” He says it so nonchalantly, like I have any say in what I play.
But the Broncos have had several coaching turnovers since I’ve been at Lone Star, and every coach has his own philosophy about how he wants shit done, which usually means I get the short end of the stick.
They say things like,Babcock, you’re versatile and have good hands. Play wide receiver. Babcock, you’re big and fast on your feet. We need you on defense.None of them give a damn that I wanted to stay at quarterback, which is what Coach Sullivan recruited me for. But since he retired, and his replacement, Coach Krud, was a huge asshole, I got screwed.
My father shakes open hisWall Street Journalagain, and just like that, I’m dismissed.
“Where’s Mom?” I ask, knowing how much he hates talking while he’s reading up on the stock market.
He shoots me a look of irritation. “Brenda’s in the kitchen.”
When I turn away, I smile. There’s nothing I love more than getting under his skin, but he’s a cutthroat bastard, and I’d rather not incite his wrath. So I can’t really live up to my full asshole potential with him.
“Billy,” he barks behind me. “Figure out your shit. Because once you graduate, I’m done paying for your crap. You’re on your own.”
He’s just pissed I won’t go to law school and become one of his minions.
Graduation always seemed so far away. I thought I had time to figure it out, but I guess I don’t. I have one more season of eligibility, and then I’m done. Who the hell knows what I’ll do if I don’t get drafted?
My parents are one of those perfect couples on the outside with expensive cars, an enormous house, and generous bank accounts. But my mother is a functioning alcoholic, and my father is a ruthless litigator who’d rather hang out with his colleagues than spend time at home.
There’s no pleasing him, so I stopped trying, which makes me the black sheep of the family.
