Page 161 of Hard Pass

“That was probably the worst revelation of all of them because I knew then that my dad and his actions weren’t normal.”

“That had to have been brutal.”

He nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I tried to keep him away after that. High school especially. Most kids look in the stands to make sure their parents are there. I looked hoping that they weren’t,” he says. “I told him not to come to games because I played better when he wasn’t there.”

“Did he listen?”

“Of course not.” He glances my way. It’s fleeting but enough for me to see the pain in his eyes. “He’d show up anyway. Sit where I couldn’t see him—or where he thought I couldn’t. Fuck.” He leans his head back and stares at the sky for a beat.

“I can’t imagine.”

“He called it his ‘critique.’ It came after every game. After every practice. Just this constant barrage of . . . well, you saw what it was.” He looks down at our linked hands and stares for a few seconds.

“That’s a lot of pressure for anyone, let alone a kid to have to deal with.”

“I grew numb to it. I guess. I think. I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair and then stands up, nervous energy owning his body. “It was just a part of my life I kept hidden from everyone. A little part I was ashamed to admit happened.”

“And your mom?” I ask gently. “Where was she in all of this?”

His expression shifts—almost as if his opinion of her is as complicated as the emotions playing over his face.

“She did what he said,” he says, voice even. “That’s just how it worked in our house.”

“That doesn’t bother you?”

“What, that she picked her husband over her own kid?” He barks out a disbelieving laugh. “It used to.” He pauses. “Still does sometimes.”

“Understandably.”

“She tried in her own way. Notes in my lunch telling me I had a good game. A thumbs-up when he turned his head. Sitting on my bed after she thought I’d fallen asleep, telling me I was going to be great one day. Little things here and there that said what she couldn’t say out loud.”

Scraps aren’t enough to help a kid thrive.

“That wasn’t enough though,” I say.

“No.” I hate the defeat in his tone. “It wasn’t. She knows it. I know it. And as complicated as my relationship with my dad is, mine with her is even more so because of it.”

“I know you don’t want to hear it, but I’m sorry that you had to go through that.”

That you still go through that.

“As I got older, I was mortified and pissed and so fucking embarrassed that I let him talk to me that way but . . . I kept letting it happen. Kept telling myself it was because they were just words and they didn’t matter as long as I played better in the next game and the one after that. Perfection would make him proud. Perfection would make him stop. Well guess what, I got as close as I could to it—college MVP, NCAA champs, first round pick . . . and he still fucking does it.”

There are tears in his eyes that he blinks away.

Tears that I can tell feel just as shameful to him as his father’s words.

“The guys tell me to shrug it off. Or at least shrug off the part they know—that he’s tough on me. They witnessed the end of one of his ‘critiques’ after a college game. I played it off.” He shrugs. “Self-preservation, I guess. When the appearances at games shifted to calls before the games, it was easier to sell as being just that—a dad who’s hard on his son because he wants the best for him.”

“Then why do you pick up the phone when he calls?” I ask as his eyes meet mine. “Why do you let him mess with your head like that before a game?”

His jaw tightens and he shifts on his feet. “Because if I don’t, he just keeps calling, and I’d much rather have the phone call than knowing he’s here in person.”

“And?”

His exhale is slow and controlled. “And because there’s still a part of me who thinks that maybe this time it’ll be different. That maybe he’ll say something . . . I don’t know. Proud. Normal. Like I did something right for once.”

“And every time he doesn’t?”