This behavior from my father isn’t healthy, I know this. But until the bastard leaves, I deal with it the best I can so he doesn’t lay me out in my own house.

My career, my life. My career, my life…

More of my friends have arrived since this argument started, but—bless them—they’ve cleared the room, giving us our privacy. Besides, they’re just as embarrassed hearing the shit spewing from Pop’s mouth as I am listening to it. No one wants to stand by and watch their friend get railroaded by a parent, but sometimes, it’s best to step aside and excuse yourself.

I know for a fact, any other day, Rodrigo or Tyson or Greg—or anyone else on the team—would have stood up for me. They’re doing me a favor by leaving, and I’ll thank them for it later.

I don’t have any more time to wonder where Charlie is, because my father gets confrontational.

“When’s the last time you spoke to Brock?” He’s asking about my agent, the one I called last week to discuss removing my name from the draft.

“I’m supposed to talk to him this week.” It’s a lie that won’t get me in any more trouble then I already am, and what Pops doesn’t know yet won’t get us into another fight.

“Good. I’m going to call him—I want to talk numbers. He’s getting too much as far as I’m concerned, and I want to renegotiate his salary.”

What? No.

Hell no.

No one is renegotiating my agent’s salary, least of all my father. Brock is the only adult male looking out for me right now besides my teammates and coaches. Not only that, he’s been dealing with my father’s bullshit from the time I was a junior in high school—the dude deserves his fair cut. I’m not a kid anymore, and Pops can’t touch my contracts now that I’m legally an adult.

Thank God.

“Anything else you want me to tell him?” Not that I’m going to.

“No.” My father is agitated to the point of an impending blowup. “Didn’t I just tell you I was going to call him?”

Jesus, sorry.

Why is being in this room with him making me so damn nervous? I have the upper hand here; he’s living through me, not the other way around. He needs me—I no longer need him.

I straighten to my full height. “Glad you made it today.”

My father nods importantly, pompous and full of importance. “Fucking embarrassment is what it was.”

Wow. Okay.

“Anyway.” I cross my arms and stare at him, nothing more to add.

Pops tilts his head to study me. “You gonna break up with that girl? I want an answer.”

“You already told me I was.”

“Don’t get smart with me.”

“Fine.” I huff, petulant. “No, I’m not.”

“Jackson, I’m warning you…”

“Warning me about what? What are you gonna do about it, Daddy? Whoop me?” I spread my arms wide. “I’m bigger than you. Ain’t much you can do about it, but you can sure try.”

My father’s face turns ten shades of maroon, heat rising from the collar of his blue, plaid, button-down shirt. It’s tucked into a pair of Wranglers, brown leather belt pulled through all the loops, a championship football belt buckle front and center, almost the size of a dinner plate. He earned it as a child—in high school—after winning the state title and has reveled in it since.

In my opinion, those days are gone. He’s a miserable sod of a man, living in the past, and if I let him, he’ll make me miserable, too.

“Think you’re tough shit, do ya?”

“No. I just think it’s time for you to lay off.”

Jackson Jennings Senior’s nostrils flare in my direction. “Everything you see around you, I helped build.”

A laugh escapes my throat. “Really? You helped build this house you didn’t want me livin’ in? Weird.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Then stop pissin’ down my back and tellin’ me it’s rainin’,” I smart back.

I expect him to hit me—or at least lash out, but he doesn’t. “If your mother could see you now, she’d be beside herself.”

I laugh again. “Like Mama gives a shit. She hasn’t been here not once, and do you know why? She’d have to sit in a car with you for sixteen hours, and we all know she can’t stand you.” I smirk.

He can’t even deny it. “Who raised you to talk to your betters like this?”

I raise a shoulder and shrug. “You did.”

My father stands and stares at me a good, hard minute before grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair and heading toward the front door, one last glance over his shoulder before storming out the door.

It slams, damn near shaking off its hinges.

Silently, I wait for the wake to settle from his thunder, alone in the kitchen, red faced and mortified. I hate this part of my family; resent the part that was never normal. Never nurturing. Always mercenary and greedy.

I often wonder if my life had been different had I not been talented at sports; what would Pops have done with me then? Made me miserable anyway? Drilled me and trained me regardless, hoping I’d improve?

Life would have been worse, I muse.

It’s cold as balls outside, but I don’t grab a sweatshirt when I walk out of the house, my truck parked on the road facing main street. Without thinking twice, I climb behind the wheel and start the engine, determined to clear my head.

After The Fight With His Dad

Charlie

It takes barely any time to find Jackson once I discover he’s missing from the football house after I return a bit later—when the coast is clear of his father—his truck no longer in his parking spot. No one saw him leave; he texted not a single soul.

I know, though.

Because I know him.

I turn down Jock Row, easing it along the shoulder, letting the few cars on the road pass so I can stay loitering in the general area, expecting my boyfriend to come along. Hoping he comes along.

Patiently, I wait him out, wondering where the hell he could possibly be. Our college town isn’t large, but it’s in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by cornfields and silos, with plenty of places for a guy to get lost in if he didn’t want to be found. All he’d have to do is hit the city limit and keep going…

Jackson wouldn’t do that.

I don’t think.

I drive up and down the same road four times before I catch sight of that familiar black truck and pull onto the same shoulder of the road where I first laid eyes on him. Well, the second time I laid eyes on him—the first was in the cafeteria, when he took my food and pissed me off.

At first I don’t think Jackson is going to notice my car; after all, it’s gotten dark out, and the street lamps aren’t that bright. Plus, why would he expect me to be parked on the side of the road?

The black truck passes; in my rear-view mirror, I watch his brake lights go on. Watch his truck stop. Then…he does a three-point turnaround in the road, pulling up behind my car and killing his headlights.

They’re just as bright and blinding as I remember them.

I watch him in my side mirror, sitting behind the steering wheel, a frown on his face. Shoulders slouched, defeated.