The Deal

My father is already halfway down the parking lot. He doesn’t even turn around to check if I’m following him. Because he’s Phil fucking Graham, and he can’t imagine someone not wanting to be around him.

Somehow my stiff legs carry me in his direction. I notice several of my teammates lingering at the door of the bus, watching us curiously. A few of them are visibly envious. Jesus. If they only knew what they were jealous of.

When I reach him, I don’t bother with pleasantries. I just scowl and speak in a terse voice. “What do you want?”

Like me, he gets right to the point. “I expect you to come home for Thanksgiving this year.”

My shock manifests itself in the form of a sharp laugh. “No, thanks. I’ll pass.”

“No, what you will do is come home.” A dark look hardens his features. “Or I will drag you home.”

I genuinely don’t know what’s happening right now. Since when does he give a shit whether I come home or not? I haven’t been back once since I left for Briar. I’m in Hastings during the school year, and I spend my summers working sixty-hour weeks for a construction company in Boston and saving every last penny, which I then use to pay for rent and groceries because I don’t want to take any more of my father’s money than I absolutely have to.

“Why the hell do you care what I do for the holidays?” I mutter.

“You’re needed at home this year.” He’s speaking through clenched teeth, as if he’s enjoying this even less than I am. “My girlfriend is cooking dinner, and she requested your presence.”

His girlfriend? I didn’t even realize he had a girlfriend. And how fucking sad is it that I know nothing about my own father’s life?

The way he phrased it doesn’t escape me, either. She requested my presence. Not him.

I meet his eyes, the same shade of gray as my own. “Tell her I’m sick. Or hell, tell her I died.”

“Don’t test me, boy.”

Oh, he’s busting out the boy, huh? That’s what he always called me right before his fists pummeled my gut, or smashed my face, or broke my nose for the hundredth fucking time.

“I’m not coming,” I say coldly. “Deal with it.”

He moves in closer, his eyes gleaming beneath the low brim of his Bruins cap as his voice lowers to a hiss. “Listen up, you ungrateful little shit. I don’t ask much of you. In fact, I don’t ask anything of you. I let you do whatever the fuck you want, I pay for your tuition, your books, your equipment.”

The reminder makes my stomach seethe with anger. I keep a spreadsheet on my computer that documents everything he’s ever paid for so that when I gain access to my trust, I’ll know the precise amount to write on the check I plan on handing him before I tell him good riddance.

But tuition for next term needs to be paid in December, the month before my trust comes in. And I don’t have enough in my savings account to cover the full amount.

Which means I’m stuck being indebted to him for a little while longer.

“All I expect in return,” he finishes, “is that you play like the champion you are. The champion I made you.” An ugly sneer twists his mouth. “Well, it’s time to pay up, son. You will come home for Thanksgiving. Understood?”

Our eyes lock.

I could kill this man. If I knew I could get away with it? I would actually kill him.

“Understood?” he repeats.

I give a curt nod, and then I stalk away without looking back.

Hannah waits for me near the bus, worry clouding her green eyes. “Is everything okay?” she asks quietly.

I draw in a ragged breath. “Yeah. It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s fine, babe. I promise.”

“Graham, get your ass on the bus!” Coach shouts from behind me. “You’re holding everyone up.”

Somehow I manage to force a smile. “I’ve gotta go. Maybe we can hang out tomorrow after my game?”

“Call me when you’re done. I’ll see where I’m at.”

“Sounds good.” I drop a kiss on her cheek, then head for the bus, where Coach is impatiently tapping his foot.

He watches Hannah as she makes her way back to her friends, then shoots me a wry smile. “She’s cute. Girlfriend?”

“No idea,” I confess.

“Yeah, that’s how it usually is with women. They hold all the cards and we’re just clueless.” Coach slaps me on the arm. “Come on, kid. Time to hustle.”

I take my usual seat next to Logan near the front of the bus, and he gives me a funny look as I unzip my jacket and lean my head back.

“What?” I mumble.

“Nothing,” he says lightly.

I’ve known the guy long enough to figure out that a “nothing” from Logan means something entirely different, but he pops in his iPod earbuds and proceeds to ignore me for most of the ride. It isn’t until we’re ten minutes from Briar that he abruptly yanks out his earphones and turns to look at me.