“He’s not your client yet. You’re not even NCAA-authorized.”
“Are we being recorded? No. Chill out, Denny. Everyone in this room knows I’ll represent Zach when he gets signed. All the paperwork will be sorted by that point.
“The scouts are already talking up a storm about you, son. You’re putting in the effort and it shows. I’ve no doubt you’ll get drafted when the time comes.”
“Shut up, Dad. You’ll jinx it!”
He pshaws. “I should be there for the pre-Thanksgiving game too, by the way. Can’t wait to see how you’re playing.”
“Well, I play better when Dyers’s not around.”
The simple answer has Dad’s shoulders sagging.
“You seriously want to be his agent with the rep he’s cultivating?” I prod.
The nasty look he shoots me is confirmation that he doesn’t care about Dyers’s rep, just $$$.
“I won’t work with him.” Zach cracks his knuckles. “I don’t get why everyone’s so intent on his future when they give no shits about who he hurts.”
Taking note of Dad’s expression, I jibe, “You’re only calling because he’s a Rho too.”
“That has nothing to do with this, Denver.”
“Doesn’t it? Makes sense to me,” Zach inserts.
“Yeah, of course you’d protect a brother over your own daughter.”
“Denver!” For the first time, Dad sounds shocked. “Why would you even say that?”
“Maybe because it’s the truth?”
“This is why I hate frats,” Zach declares magnanimously. “If you watched Dyers play, you wouldn’t be trying to convince me that he’s good for the team. If anything, he’s a soul sucker. Pecan’s goal save average tanks when Dyers starts, and never mind how poorly the defense reacts when he’s on the ice?—”
And so it continues…
Five minutes of Zach forcibly stuffing stats down Dad’s throat later, he heaves an impatient sigh I know’s the cue for this conversation to be over.
“We can talk about this another time—” Zach scoffs but Dad ignores him to continue: “I’ll drive you down to the city after the game, Denny.”
“We’re staying here for Thanksgiving.”
He frowns. “No. You’re coming to the apartment. Logan and Paul will be there?—”
“I don’t care. I’m in college now, Dad. I have responsibilities and finals are looming.”
“It’s Thanksgiving!”
“Do you want me to pass these classes or not? You know I struggle with the course material,” I tack on pointedly.
He wants to argue, but how can he? He’s the one who chose my damn major!Sports management—gag.
“It’s two days, Denver. Surely you can make an effort for family.”
“Exams are more important. You told me so yourself when you saw my grades at the end of last year.”
Anger has his face scrunching up like a dry, crusty beet. “If your mother was hosting, you’d be in Florida like a shot!”
“Maybe. But then I wouldn’t be coming face-to-face with the proofthat marriage is a lie, most men are cheaters, and that midlife crises involve thinking you’ll be a good dad the second time around when you sucked the first.” With a sweet smile, I finish, “Tell Francesca that what I’m thankful for is not having to share a table with either of you two.”
