A childhood accident, perhaps? Kids are always falling out of trees or tumbling off trampolines.
“Have you ever had any animals?” she suddenly asks me, and I release a deep breath, running my tongue along the front of my teeth.
“No.”
There’s a tense pause before she huffs, narrowing her eyes and shaking her head. “Are you always this grumpy?”
The question catches me off guard, and I cock my head at her, pursing my lips.
“I’m not grumpy,” I respond, but she tilts her head and raises her eyebrows at me. “I’m sorry if spending time with the daughter of the woman who has it out for me doesn’t benefit me.” My tone is calm—monotone, even. I rarely ever lose my temper—unless it’s out on the field.
My comment causes her molars to clamp down, and a scowl takes over her usually harmonious features before she curses. “Look, I don’t know what’s gone on between the two of you, but I’m trying to make the best out of a shitty situation here. I don’t particularly like football, so I’m not jumping for joy either. But we’re partners, and you can either get over it or sulk for the rest of the season. Either is fine by me.”
There’s a howl from the kennel next to us, and Mae huffs, piercing hazel eyes boring into mine before she steps out of the small kennel to tend to the other lonesome pup.
I don’t know how to react. I understand she’s frustrated with me, and I understand I haven’t exactly been welcoming, but this woman is stirring thoughts within me that I don’t need. Or want.
I run a hand down my face.
God, this would be so much easier if she was a bitch to me.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I yank it out, huffing as my father’s name flashes on the screen. I debate declining his call, but he’ll only persist and make whatever he has to say to me an even bigger deal than necessary if he knows I’m ignoring him. Moving on autopilot, I push the emergency exit door open and step out into the cool breeze.
“What?” I say through gritted teeth.
I hear his agitated chuckle on the other end of the line. “Hello to you too, son.”
“You’ve never been one for pleasantries.”
I imagine him smiling—the type of smile that could curdle cream. The cocky bastard. “Are you ready for the game on Thursday?”
Football. Always football. We haven’t spoken about anything else for years.
“Yes,” I bite out.
“Are you going to win?”
“Do I look like a fortune teller?”
Some could mistake Kevin Slater’s questioning for passion, but it’s so much more than that. He’s always used pressure to get to me. Even at the age of thirty-three, he still treats me like I’m an easily mouldable child—using the same techniques to make me feel like a failure.
It's a shame he taints the sport I had the potential to enjoy.
I try to talk to him as little as possible, but he loves to play the role of the doting father for the tabloids, attending my games when he can and wrapping his arms around me in a spine-crushing hug when we win, posing for the cameras.
Journalists would have a field day if they found out I hate him, and he hates me just as much. I don’t want to give them anything more to talk about, so I allow my father to fake his devotion to me. It’s just easier.
“Clear your head, Nathan,” he spits. “You can’t let this slip through your fingers. You don’t want to disappoint everyone all over again, do you?”
I clench my jaw.
“Make your mother proud.”
With that, I hang up the phone, crushing the metal between my fingertips, wanting nothing more than to see it crack just like my inner child does whenever he brings up the woman who deserved better.
The woman I wish I could have saved.
7: Mae
