Tall and lean with a light-brown goatee, my dad, Lawrence Everly, was a formidable man. “What kind of junk are you playing?” He narrowed his green eyes, enhancing the lines on his face. There was no question that he and I were related. “USC won’t take you if you play like that.”
Then don’t allow a fucking girl on the team.The words blared in my head, and I wanted to scream them at Coach.
I snarled. “Are you here to coach me? Because if you are, don’t bother. I have a coach.”
“I’m here to speak with Coach Holmes and you. I managed to get the USC scout out to the game tomorrow night.”
“You could’ve called me.” My tone was full of acid but quickly dissipated when it clicked that the USC scout would be at the game. “A scout, huh?”
“I thought you would be happy,” he said.
Over the fucking moon.“I am. Thank you.” I really had to get my head in the game. “Why haven’t you returned my call about the refrigeration guy for Montana Smith, the girl you were shaking hands with?”
He raised his eyebrow. “Son, she called me. I took care of that yesterday. I also sent someone out to her house this morning and then stopped by to make sure the AC was working.”
“Montana called you?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard him. Then again, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Montana wasn’t the type of girl to wait for anyone.
“Why is that a surprise?” he asked. “My company is listed on the Internet.”
Everly Architecture and Design was listed on the Internet and in big bold letters on the door of the building my dad owned in downtown Charleston.
“Never mind. Coach needs me.” He needed to squeeze my balls until I was keeling over. Or maybe Montana would do just that when she sashayed onto the field to show us what she had.
Dad walked with me. “We have dinner tonight at six at Dominic’s in Charleston. Our first-game-of-the-season tradition. Remember?”
Not really, thanks in part to my screwed-up life, compliments of girls. But we did have a tradition—the night before my first football game of the season, we would have dinner and chat about plays, the other teams, and anything related to football. But since my dad and mom had divorced, our tradition had been him talking and me tuning him out. Maybe tonight, I would listen since the scout would be at tomorrow night’s game. After all, my father knew the game well and had been the quarterback for USC in college. So he was an expert.
“I know. Mom gave me the message.”
Again, why he hadn’t texted me or called me had me scratching my head. I suspected he knew I would decline, but I wouldn’t and couldn’t say no to my mom. She had insisted that I at least try with my dad. After all, he was the one paying for college and everything else in my life.
“I might be a few minutes late. I have to stop by the bookstore and pick up a book for English.” I needed CliffsNotes.
Coach dropped his clipboard on a chair as he and my old man exchanged a handshake. “All right, Train. I want you to throw the ball to Montana.”
My dad’s eyes widened. “What’s going on?”
“Coach is letting a girl try out,” I said in a not-so-nice tone.
“Tryouts are over,” Dad said. “And she could get hurt.”
My thoughts exactly.
“We need a kicker. I’m giving her a shot.” Coach waved at Montana then turned to me. “Get the ball and get out there.”
The team settled around the field, while Montana ran toward me with a boner of a smile on her face.
I was screwed.
