Nope.Not him.Because it’s never enough.I’m never enough.
He leaves the sentence hanging there.
Collins shifts in his seat, trying not to react.Coach doesn’t bother hiding his annoyance.His shoulders stiffen, and he shoots my dad a look so sharp it could cut glass.
“Mayfair is giving him a full scholarship,” Coach says.“That’s not nothing.”
My dad shrugs.“I’m not saying it’s nothing.”
I clench my teeth.
Collins clears his throat and turns back to me.“It’s a strong program.And you’ll be a cornerstone in their new lineup.They’re banking on you, Reece.”
My dad scoffs softly, amused.“Let’s hope he delivers.”
The room falls silent.
I stare at the paper in front of me, seeing my name printed in bold at the space waiting for my signature.
This is mine.No matter what crap my dad throws at it or how many jabs he takes.
Coach hands me the pen, and I sign my fucking name.This is my decision, not my father’s.
That’s it.I’m heading to Mayfair.
I set the pen down.This is the first time in my entire life that I’ve done something this big.This one’s mine.
I glance up when I hear Coach’s voice.
“Proud of you, kid.”
That one hits harder than I expected.I nod, swallowing past the lump forming in my throat.My eyes burn slightly, and fuck, I wasn’t ready for that—not from him.Not today.
“Big day,” Collins says, sliding the signed papers into his briefcase.He stands, smooths down his expensive jacket, and smiles.“Congratulations, Reece.We’re excited to have you.”
He pulls out a Mayfair cap and hands it to me.The weight of it feels unreal.He turns to Coach and shakes his hand.It’s a firm grip and a respectful nod.
He turns to my dad.
“Mr.Wilson,” he says, extending his hand.
My dad takes his fucking time.Simply leaves Collins hanging there like an idiot before finally lifting his arm and giving him the coldest, limp handshake I’ve ever seen.
“You better keep him in check,” he mutters.
Collins doesn’t bite.“I’ll be in touch, Reece.”He nods, turns, glances at Coach, and then he’s gone.
The door closes, and silence falls over the room.
Coach leans back, arms crossed, jaw clenched.My dad avoids looking at him, just taps his fingers on the chair as if he has somewhere else to be.
“You could’ve dialed it back,” Coach says after a second.
My dad snorts.“I don’t coddle.”
Coach raises an eyebrow.“No.You don’t.”
That silence returns, thicker now.
