Page 51 of Hard to Score

“Sure could’ve fucking fooled me. You’re a ghost around here. The minute you stopped playing you became a shadow of yourself, and fuck if all I want is my old dad back.”

“I understand you’re disappointed, but there are other things in life than football, son,” he says evenly.

“Like what?” The pitch of my voice is such a contrast to his. “Because my old dad wouldn’t have uttered those words. He would have told me that I’m talented and that we’d move heaven and earth to give me a chance. He would have pushed me and encouraged me and told me to never give up until I get what I want. I would have been able to look up into those stands and see him there being proud of me, but instead, he’s hiding at home like a guilty coward I know he isn’t. He would have told me that he’s proud of me for following in his footsteps, so I could try to be just like him.” My voice breaks and I fucking hate that a tear has slid down my cheek in anger.

He doesn’t give me the fight I’m angling for. The same fight I’ve wanted since that day he stood in our house almost six months ago and told us he was walking away from the game our family had been built on. He just stands there staring at me with indiscernible emotions written all over his face.

His silence is almost as crippling as his complacency.

“Screw you, Dad. Screw. You.” My body vibrates with anger and I try to fathom how this is our life. How he became him and I became me, and how I’ve grown to resent him so damn much.

“Everything will work itself out. It will—”

“You’re damn right it will,” I shout and shove a finger in his direction. “Because I’m going to do this on my own.” I think of the form saved on my computer that will allow me to legally change my name. The one I’d filled out in a brash moment last week when I wondered if it was Bowman that was holding me back. If it was his name that people were seeing instead of my talent.

Now I know.

I turn to my dad and look him in the eyes—needing to see his reaction when I utter the words of betrayal. Hoping that they will spark a reaction that will give me an ounce of insight into what the truth really is.

“I’m going to do it without your name with its shame and stigma attached to me.”

But he doesn’t flinch. He simply nods and turns and walks away.

Because that’s all he’s good at now.

Walking away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

DREW

“I’M GLAD TO HEAR YOU’RE doing well.”

I walk to the other side of my hotel room, one arm tucked under the other one, and look out the window to the rainy sidewalk of Seattle down below.

Maggie inhales a shaky breath. “Well is kind of overshooting, but I’m doing what I can.”

I close my eyes for a beat and hate that I’m feeling like I’m on top of the fucking world while she’s suffering through withdrawal.

“I’m proud of you, Maggs.”

“I’m not.” There’s a brutal honesty to her voice. One I hate to hear—because I know she’s going through hell—yet love to hear because it means she’s sober.

“Have you talked to Charley?” I ask.

“No. I need—I need to be better before I can. It’s rough right now and she . . . Christ, she doesn’t fucking deserve this.”

“You’re right. She doesn’t. But neither do you.”

There is silence as she digests my words. “How am I ever going to beat this, Drew?” Her voice breaks and it kills me.

“With a lot of help.”

She sniffs and then I hear someone talking in the background. “I have to go. My time is up.”

“Okay.”

“Tell Charley I love her.”