I’m fuming as I stalk between the buildings. If anyone is paying attention to me, I don’t notice. I’m furious that Spencer had to grow up in the shadow of such an awful man. That instead of a loving, supportive parent like he deserves, he got a world-class prick for a father.
It’s not fair. Douglas Wilchins doesn’t deserve a son like Spencer.
The sun shining brightly at high noon above me, I stop in my tracks, suddenly face-to-face with Douglas Wilchins.
He’s wearing a baseball cap and an old NHL T-shirt that’s tight on his bulky frame. The man has Spencer’s features, but I don’t see any beauty when I look at him. Heading the opposite direction, he’s alone, just like me, although there’s a substantial crowd passing around us.
Adrenaline pumps through my veins. My muscles all go taut. He’s clearly as surprised to run into me as I am to run into him, and from the snarl that forms on his face, I have no doubt he knows I’m the man who married his son.
Don’t make a scene. Don’t make a scene. Spencer wouldn’t want that.
Douglas Wilchins grinds his jaw. “Out of my way,” he says and pushes past me so hard, I stumble backward.
“Fuck! Pathetic, insecure fucking men!” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
He turns, glaring down at me. The man is a giant, but I’m not about to cower.
“You can tell my son my only regret is that I didn’t disown him before he had a chance to embarrass me like this.”
My brain breaks. “Your son,” I say, my voice growing louder, “is an amazing fucking person and a good, honorable man. Not only is he agloballyimportant athlete, he’s a trailblazer.” I’m on my toes, yelling. "You, on the other hand, are a miserable old piece of shit, and you’ll never be half the athlete your son has become.”
Douglas Wilchins rises up to full height. He pulls his arm back, and in shock, I realize he’s about to punch me out. I throw my arms up to defend myself, and when he lunges and growls, I sidestep and try to shove him down, although my hands land on his torso like I’m pushing a brick wall.
Security guards are suddenly everywhere, pulling us apart. I’m sweating, and my heart is pounding as I turn and see the sea of people and cameras, staring at our confrontation.
Oh shit.
And then I see Spencer. He’s standing there like he was just hit by a truck. There’s pain and anger in his expression, but when he turns and locks my eyes, I just see disappointment.
“Come on,” one of the security guards says, pulling me. “You need to come with us.”
I try to object, but they’re not having it. Douglas Wilchins is being led in the opposite direction. I catch Spencer’s eye again and try to tell him I’m sorry, but there’s no time.
I start to panic. What if he loses his game because of this? What’s going to happen when the video goes viral? This is the worst. A million times worse than Zel. Spencer never would have wanted me to act like I did. He’d have the decency and common sense to walk away if the roles were reversed, but I had to go and act out.
I hurt him and ruined everything. I feel sick.
A voice in my head screams that he’s going to leave me. He should. Dumping me would be best for him.
The security leads me to a small room in the back. They just want to take a statement from me and give me a warning, but it takes forever. Through a window in the wall, I can see a television set to the match. Spencer is playing like nothing happened, except for the fact that he keeps losing easy points.
The security guards talk in French, only occasionally translating for me, but I can barely listen. All I can do is watch as Spencer’s game stretches on, every lead soon evaporating with another unforced error.
When he scratches out a win in a tie-breaker, I’m so relieved, I collapse back in the chair. Finally, someone comes and explains that I’m going to be released, but they’re asking me not to return to the French Open this year.
I try to argue, but it gets me nowhere. Embarrassed and deflated, I finally leave.
A single text comes in from Spencer.I’m at the hotel.
Ignoring everyone staring at me, I jog through the stadium and grab the first car I see. My thoughts spiral out of control, and I try to think of a way to apologize.
“Babe, Spencer,” I say as I rush into the room. “I am so sorry.”
He’s sitting on the bed, head in his hands, still dressed for his match. “Are you okay?” he asks immediately, voice tense.
I nod. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
“I walked around the corner,” he says, “and you were yelling at him. And then you two were fighting.”
