He shuffles some papers into an envelope with too much force, and the sidelong glance he shoots me makes me feel like I’m five years old again, receiving a dressing-down for leaving crayon marks on the kitchen floor.
“Shut the door behind you.” He points at a chair.
I do as he asks and take a seat, my pulse quickening. There are tears in the brown leather chair where yellow foam peeks out, and I wonder how many team owners this office has seen in the franchise’s sixty year history. A history I suspect may be coming to a swift close. I fidget with my hands while I wait for him to speak.
While he’s well-dressed as usual in tailored slacks and a dress shirt that hug his fit form, my father looks wrung out. His blue eyes are bloodshot and his posture is uncharacteristically slumped. Still, his thinning salt-and-pepper hair is neatly combed and his heirloom watch shines in the fluorescent office light.
“I didn’t see any feds outside,” I say, a feeble attempt at a joke. I hate sitting here, letting the bad blood between us coagulate.
“They have everything they need from me for the time being,” he snaps, like I’ve insulted him by merely suggesting that he might be in trouble. It doesn’t help that his Boston accent adds an extra sprinkle of aggression. “I’m more worried about the league.”
“Oh?” I feign interest. Truth is, I couldn’t give less of a shit, and if my father loses some money on this investment, well, good. He and his brother deserve it. I know how they run their businesses, paying the bare minimum while expecting blind loyalty and complete subservience from their employees.
“The league will be conducting their own separate investigation, making sure everything is above board and up to standard. I imagine they’ll start sniffing around here any day now.” He doesn’t try to hide his disdain.
I wonder how much sleep he’s losing. There are few things he values more than his reputation. Honestly, I’m kind of glad my uncle slipped up, if only so the public can catch a glimpse behind the curtain and see what kind of people the Hearst brothers really are. They’re not tech geniuses, they just know how to scam people on an industrial level.
“Do you have full ownership now?” I ask. I didn’t doze through the entirety of business school—or what I experienced of it. I know a thing or two about succession of ownership. Usually, companies have a plan in place should the principal owner die or another emergency unfold. This situation probably constitutes an emergency.
“For the time being. The feds have to finish their investigation of course, and conclude the transfer of ownership satisfactory, which will take a few weeks. Just in time for the season,” he mutters.
“The season is still happening?”
He looks at me like he can’t believe I just asked that—like he thinks I’m an idiot. It’s a look I’m intimately familiar with, that still makes me feel small. “Well, it has to. Training camp is just a few weeks out. The season schedule has already been released. Season tickets have sold.”
“I guess you don’t wanna sell at a discount anyway,” I say. God, I hate business talk.
“That’s exactly right. Which is what I’d like to discuss with you.”
I blink. “I don’t follow.”
“Fred, what are you doing with your life?” He laces his fingers over his stomach, like he didn’t just kick my legs out from under me.
My jaw clenches. I curse myself for letting my guard down during our brief rapport. “I’m building my director’s reel.”
“Not going very well, is it?”
Fuck him. We’ve barely spoken in two years. He has no idea what’s going on in my life, which only makes it more infuriating that he’sright. I bite down on my tongue before I say something I’ll regret, loathing the way my eyes suddenly feel hot.
“The entertainment industry’s coming apart at the seams. There’s no work in this town anymore. I think it’s time to grow up.”
“I have grown up,” I grit out. “That’s why I’m focusing on producing my own stuff.”
“With what money?”
My fingers curl in my lap. My father won’t allow me access to the trust fund he’s set up for me without a business degree, which is rich, considering he never went to grad school, and he failed his way through undergrad. It’s just another measure of him controlling the trajectory of my life. Admittedly, it was brash of me to drop out of business school when I did, but I really couldn’t stand it there. There’s no way in hell I’m going back. I’d rather scrub toilets for a living. At least that would be ethical. Besides, I don’t want his money. I can’t stomach the thought of feeling like I owe him my livelihood for the rest of my existence.
“I’ll find funding,” I say curtly.
“What about marketing? Everybody needs a marketing team, especially these days. There’s a lot of opportunity. Marketing’s respectable, and it’s artistic. Best of both worlds.”
I can’t stop my upper lip from curling in disgust. As much as I’d love to feel like I’ve earned something in my life, I’d rather move to Kansas and flip burgers than work in marketing. Marketing is not artsy. Marketing is about selling things. Salesmanship is the antithesis of art, but my father would never understand that.
What I want is to make horror movies, but he won’t hear it.
“I don’t think so, Dad. Not for me,” I say.
“So what, you’re just gonna burn out like every other wannabe in this town?”
