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“Dude, if you do that, it’ll never be enough for him. He’ll keep coming back when what you give him runs out.”
Exactly what I had thought. If I give in now, Dad will realize he has me by the balls. He’ll keep doing this little song and dance every time he wants something because he knows I want him to shut up.
This is fucked.
“You worked for that money. Your talent speaks for itself, and correct me if I’m wrong, but none of that had anything to do with your father.”
Some could even say it’s in spite of my father. There were so many times I could’ve given up. But I didn’t. I persevered, even when I had the shittiest gear or no gear at all. I was constantly telling my coaches I forgot it, or that I lost it. Suddenly, they would show up with second-hand pads or gloves or fucking jockstraps that were either a little too big or small. Nothing ever quite fit right until it was just me and football. Me and the guy standing across from me. Then nothing else seemed to matter.
“Trust me, I don’t want to give him a penny.”
“Then don’t.”
The decision clicks into place and feels right. I’d been agonizing all day about what I was going to do, but he doesn’t deserve anything, and I’m not going to let him win. To pay him off would’ve been the easy way out—at least it would’ve made the problem disappear for tomorrow. But sometimes the easy paths aren’t the ones we should choose.
“Okay, I won’t. As long as you don’t go to Hamilton and act stupid.”
He tilts his head. “Dude.”
I hold my hands up. “You know it’s a stupid move. We need your head right for tomorrow. Go read the playbook or something. Our play will be enough.”
Aidan sighs in frustration and throws himself back on the bed. “I hate it when you make sense.”
“Tell everyone else not to do anything either.”
“Like they’ll listen to me.”
“You’re the goddamn QB. They better listen to you.”
Aidan takes out his phone and starts to type. Next to me, mine starts to ring. My stomach squeezes. I’ve been avoiding it all day. I even changed Coach’s ringer so I’d know when to answer it. My mother has been calling since the news broke. She asked if I’ve really made three million. Luckily, I only listened to her voicemail and didn’t have to answer.
The phone rings a couple more times while I stare at it, and Aidan finally peeks up. “You gonna get that?”
“Probably not.”
He frowns, then stands until he can see who it is. “It’s Kenna. Pick it up.”
My heart constricts. The more she’s away from me, the better she is. My life is a toxic bomb that’s bound to go off, and I don’t need to mar her perfection.
“She’s probably worried about you.”
“I’ll text her.”
He stares at me doubtfully. “I don’t like the look on your face.”
“I’m fucked up, okay? My whole life is fucked up. I don’t need to bring her into this.”
Aidan drops his phone to his side. “You’ve been pining over this girl for months. Are you telling me that you’re going to let your father ruin this, too? I haven’t seen you ever look at a girl like you do her.”
“Which is why I just can’t right now.”
It’s as if I’ve built a wall around her. I want to keep her in a sweet, serene cage of oblivion. She doesn’t need to step over here. Not that she wants to. She hates football.
“This is stupid,” Aidan deadpans. He reaches for my phone, and I finally pop up to my feet to block him. Behind me, the last ring sounds. Aidan and I come face-to-face with each other. “This is a mistake.”
“I’m just not ready,” I tell him. “There’s so much going on, and she doesn’t even like football.”
“This isn’t about football,” Aidan snaps. “This is personal.”