"You're looking good, Troy," Dad says, his voice hoarse. "Added some muscle."
"It wasn't that hard when I wasn't starving half the time," I say, and I'm surprised at the amount of rancor that is still in my heart. I thought I'd burned away the hurt a long time ago. "After Coach Jackson took me in, I put on weight easy. Hell, I had to be careful I wasn't putting it on too fast, actually."
"I've heard," Dad says. We reach the outside of the facility. "Troy, after I went to jail, I had a lot of time to think about things. Son—"
"Don't call me that," I growl in warning. "You lost the right to that term five years ago."
He swallows and nods, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Troy . . . I'm sorry. I screwed up my life, and I nearly screwed up yours as well."
"That you did. Is that all you came here for, to apologize? If it is, I need to get going. I've got a meeting."
He shook his head, wiping at his mouth. "I was going to stay away, I swear. When I saw how good you were doing at Clement, and then you signed here, I was so damn proud, even if that means nothing to you. But, all those years of me ruining my life . . . I'm paying the piper now, Troy. The alcohol, it tore me up something bad inside."
"Outside too," I noted. "Can you even feel that nose with all those exploded veins? You look like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Or just another alky on the streets."
"No, I got me a job," Dad says, and I see that he at least has a little bit of self-respect left. "But it's not a good one. It's here in town, cleaning up at a senior center, actually. But . . . the booze is biting back now. I need your help."
"What is it?" I ask, and despite myself, I feel concerned. Maybe Dad has changed. Maybe if fate, or God, as Laurie puts it, brought Whitney back into my life with my beautiful daughter as well, then maybe fate is bringing my father back into my life.
"The liver," Dad sighs, rubbing at his side. "I need treatment, but the cost . . . my insurance won't cover it all."
I nod, suspicious but still concerned. "What do you need?"
"Anything you can help me with . . . it'd be appreciated. They say the cost is ten thousand, but I don't know what that means after insurance covers their portion, and the time off work—"
"Stop," I say. Sighing, I put my hand on his chest. "You stay right here. I'll go talk to the secretary, see what I can do."
I rush inside, finding Tiffany, the receptionist, still in the front office. "Hey, Tiff, can you help me out?"
"What do you need, Troy?"
"That guy was my Dad. I know the team does it sometimes, so is there maybe a way I can draw on Sunday's game check? He’s got an issue I'd like to help him out with."
Tiffany bites her lip, then nods. "All right. But I have to report this to the GM, you know that, right?"
The League has gotten a lot better at not letting players blow through their money like some of the eighties and nineties spectacular flameouts did. So as part of the agreement with the owners, players no longer get paid in yearly lump sums, but in game by game checks, and players get a certain percentage of each check set aside in a retirement account, although I already talked with Cory about taking that and more of my retirement planning over. Some teams still allow a player to draw on a future check on an occasional basis, and on the Hawks, that policy is three times a season, up to one full paycheck. Anything more than that and you had to approach the team with a business plan or a damn good reason and go through financial counseling. In any case, the GM would find out.
"I know. Thanks. Cut it for ten thousand, made out to Randall Wood. He can put it away in his account, and he can't use it right away, you know?"
Tiffany cuts the check quickly. Her printer can create the checks against the account, and I take it out to Dad, who is still shuffling side to side, his hands jammed into the pockets of his baggy pants. "Here," I say, handing it to him and hoping that I won’t regret it later. "I'm going to ask the team to put a tracer on this check. You cash it or sign it over to some check-writing place, and I'll find out."
He nods and tries to find the words. Finally, he rasps a reply. "Thank you, Troy. Um, I don't know if I'm overstepping my bounds, but would it be okay if sometime . . . well, if we can maybe get together? Just for a hamburger or something."
"We'll see. Next time you want to come by, make it a Thursday morning around eleven. I have some open time then. But I have work to do. Goodbye."
Chapter 21
Whitney