by Ney, Sara
“You don’t seem upset,” he criticizes.
“There’s nothin’ I can do ’bout it now.” What’s done is done— the game’s been over for hours.
“Have you watched the tapes back yet?”
He knows we won’t watch those until practice this week. “Not yet. But I will.”
“Send them to me.”
Not likely, but, “Sure. I’ll see what I can do.” The air is filled with silence, and I rack my brain for a way to change the subject. “Where’s Ma?”
“Home.”
Well no duh. Why didn’t she come along? “Oh.”
“She had to work.”
Right. Because her job at the craft store is so goddamn important she couldn’t make it to one of her son’s football games. I try not to begrudge her, but it’s fucking impossible; Ma should have been my saving grace against my father, but she didn’t have the spine to stand up to him, either, letting him ‘have’ me instead. Our relationship isn’t normal, and I’m just now realizing it.
Depressing.
“I’m gonna need two tickets for my friends Daryl and Patsy for the game against Ohio in October. They’ll be in town visiting her cousins that weekend.”
No please. No thank you. “Sure.”
“Send ’em to the house so they don’t have to get them at will call.” He talks at me like I’m his employee.
God forbid his friends retrieve their free tickets themselves. Or actually pay for them.
“You hungry?” he finally asks. “Got any food in this place?”
Yes, but I didn’t pay for it and I’m not going to let him root around in the fridge and eat shit on someone’s else’s dime.
“No. We’d have to go out.”
He grunts, unsatisfied with that answer. Pops could easily lean forward and pry open the fridge, but he’s too lazy to make the effort.
We regard each other a bit longer, letting the strain mount. It’s always present when he visits; no amount of time in the other’s company has ever bridged the gap that’s been widening over the years. Not since I realized my independence regarding attending a college of my own choosing and living in housing with my friends.
My pops is chewing gum, and he gnaws on it with his mouth open, filling the air with his smacking gums.
My ass cheeks clench, eyes hitting the staircase when Charlie appears, barefooted and sleepy-eyed, her tentative smile growing shy when she lays eyes on Pops.
Fades, unsure, especially when his speculative scrutiny lands on her. There is nothing welcoming about him, nothing friendly, every sign he’s throwing out a warning.
Charlie sidles up next to me, bumping our hips in an attempt to be cute.
“Who’s this?” He silently judges her, mouth slipping into a frown, lips finally closing in distaste around his spearmint gum.
“This is Charlotte.” Tentatively, I slip an arm around her waist. Pop’s eyes don’t miss any detail—how my fingers loop inside the waistband of her jeans, how close she’s pressed into my side.
He’s aggravated. “Fine. Can you tell your friend this is a private conversation?”
“Pops.” I try to slip a warning into my voice, but it comes out weak instead. Like a boy still intimidated by his father.
“Pops, what? I want to talk to my son—I don’t need no jock chaser standin’ here while I do it.” He flicks his gaze at Charlie. “No offense, sweetheart. I’m sure you’re a great girl.”
Did my father just imply that my girlfriend is a slut who sleeps with anyone who’s an athlete? Yeah. I think he did.
“Charlotte isn’t a cleat chaser.” I feel the need to explain, though it’s pointless—he’s going to believe what he wants to believe, because he doesn’t want me dating. Charlie could be standing here in a nun’s habit and he’d still hate her on sight. Nothing I say is going to resonate with him. “We’re datin’.”
Pops leans back in the chair, balancing on two legs. Releases his hold so they crash back to the ground with a loud thud of his weight and metal.
“Since when are you allowed to date?” The arrogant asshole looks smug.
“I’m twenty-two.”
“I’m twenty-two,” he mocks in a placating voice. “You think you have it all figured out, do ya? Are you sleepin’ with her?”
Why is he doing this in front of Charlie, where everyone else in the house can hear us? Not many guys are back from the game yet, but they will be, and the last thing I want is them walking in on this argument.
It makes me look like a pussy with no control over his life, a boy whose father tells him what to do.
Because I’ve always allowed my father to tell me what to do.
“I asked you a question, son. Are you sleepin’ with her?”
Beside me, Charlie’s fingers dig into my hips—a warning squeeze I can’t translate. Does she want me to be honest, or does she want me to lie? Or, does she want me to say nothing at all? I can’t fucking tell.
“Charlie’s my girlfriend.”
“You’re datin’ a girl with a boy’s name?” He studies her crudely, as only my father can do. “You ain’t one of them alternative girls, are ya?”
Jesus Christ. Could it get any worse?
“My son is not allowed to date. I hope the ride was worth it, because the fun is over.” Pops shoots me a look over the top of her head. “Grab your bags—we’re movin’ you out of here. If you can’t focus, we’ll find ya somewhere you can.”
It’s official; Pops is nuts. “I’m not leavin’.”
“I’ll call in a favor. We’ll get you in an apartment.”
“I’m not moving into an apartment.” Then I do something I’ve never done before: I roll my eyes at my father.
Pops stands. Rises to his full height and attempts to look me in the eye.
Charlie grips my waist harder.
Shit, she’s anxious. I can feel the stiffness in her grasp, even without looking down at her. I squeeze her back, offering up some reassurance; it can’t possibly be comforting, but it’s the best I can do if she wants to stay standing next to me. I actually have no damn idea how this is going to end, but one thing’s for damn sure: it’s not going to end well.
“If this is the behavior you’re goin’ to exhibit while having a goddamn girlfriend, then you won’t fuckin’ have one.”
I pull a face; is he seriously trying to tell me to dump Charlie? With her standing two feet away? My father is officially off his rocker. “You’re out of your damn mind if you think I’m breakin’ up with my girlfriend because you’re tellin’ me to.”
“You’ll not only do it, you’ll do it today, before I leave this house.”
I tip my head back and laugh. “Whatever.”
Jackson Jennings Senior’s nostrils flare, pure contempt shining in his blue eyes. He looks like me—or rather, I look like him—and it’s freaky as fuck watching him as his blood boils. It used to scare the shit out of me as a kid, but now that I’m taller and bulkier, it’s not so scary.
“Pops, you should probably go.”
“What did you just say to me?”
I swallow, choking down the fear rising in my throat. I’ve never so much as spoken down to my father, let alone kicked him out of my house. The thought of it makes me want to vomit all over the fucking kitchen floor, nerves destroying my stomach.
“I said, you should probably go.”
He laughs, tipping his head back like I just did. “You keep talkin’ to me that way and I’ll knock your teeth so far down your throat you’ll be spittin’ ’em out single file.”
Jesus Christ—does he have to talk like this in front of my friends? Rodrigo’s sister materializes in the corner of the living room, eyes wide as she pops a potato chip in her mouth, totally watching the action with interest. Horrified.
I mean, Rodrigo’s been in some loud fights with his family in the main rooms of our house, but his parents have never threatened to bash his teeth in in front of his friends.
I’m so f
ucking embarrassed, the flush on my chest rises to my cheeks, burning my skin along the way.
Shit.
Charlie’s hands rub my back, but I just need her gone.
Want my dad gone.
Want to disa-fucking-ppear into myself, the drama too much for me to handle.
This is not what I signed up for when I started dating her. Not what I wanted to happen the first time she met my family—not that I expected it to go well, but I thought it would be at least slightly better than this shit show.
“Dad.” I’ve never used that word to address him a day in my life, and it has his full attention now. “Would you calm down?”
“No, Jackson, I won’t calm down. I rode halfway across the damn country to watch you fuck up half your plays, and now I’m standin’ here starin’ at the reason why.” His eyes rake up and down critically, starting at her feet. “She don’t even look worth it.”
That’s not true; I had a great game, and he’s just being a salty motherfucker. She is worth it, and I can’t believe he’d say something like that in front of her.
I’ve never been so humiliated in my entire life. “Pops, tone it down. People can hear you.”
He laughs. “You mean the idiots who lost you the game? Are you forgetting you’re the only one on this team entering the draft this year?”
Not this year, next year—I want to graduate with a degree first. But I haven’t told him that, and I’m not going to do it now.
I’ve never seen Charlie’s eyes so wide. She’s one part terrified, another part disgusted, and fully ready to flee.
“Jesus, Pops, keep it down,” I hiss, desperate to diffuse the growing argument.
“Don’t fuckin’ tell me what to do.”
“Maybe I should go.” Charlie sighs beside me, speaking barely loud enough for me to hear as she slips away. I can’t catch a breath or turn my head to watch her go because my father is in my face, breathing fire.
I throw my arm out to stop her, but my father stops me instead.
“Let her walk away, Jackson. You’ll let her go if you know what’s good for your career.”
Exactly—it’s my career. My life.
Not yours, old man.
I don’t know where Charlie runs off to, if she left out the front door or the back, if she returned to my room and will be there when I finally return—if I return. I have to clear my head. Maybe I should just get the fuck out of here…
This behavior from my father isn’t healthy, I know this. But until the bastard leaves, I deal with it the best I can so he doesn’t lay me out in my own house.
My career, my life. My career, my life…
More of my friends have arrived since this argument started, but—bless them—they’ve cleared the room, giving us our privacy. Besides, they’re just as embarrassed hearing the shit spewing from Pop’s mouth as I am listening to it. No one wants to stand by and watch their friend get railroaded by a parent, but sometimes, it’s best to step aside and excuse yourself.
I know for a fact, any other day, Rodrigo or Tyson or Greg— or anyone else on the team—would have stood up for me.
They’re doing me a favor by leaving, and I’ll thank them for it later.
I don’t have any more time to wonder where Charlie is, because my father gets confrontational.
“When’s the last time you spoke to Brock?” He’s asking about my agent, the one I called last week to discuss removing my name from the draft.
“I’m supposed to talk to him this week.” It’s a lie that won’t get me in any more trouble than I already am, and what Pops doesn’t know yet won’t get us into another fight.
“Good. I’m going to call him—I want to talk numbers. He’s getting too much as far as I’m concerned, and I want to renegotiate his salary.”
What? No.
Hell no.
No one is renegotiating my agent’s salary, least of all my father. Brock is the only adult male looking out for me right now besides my teammates and coaches. Not only that, he’s been dealing with my father’s bullshit from the time I was a junior in high school—the dude deserves his fair cut. I’m not a kid anymore, and Pops can’t touch my contracts now that I’m legally an adult.
Thank God.
“Anything else you want me to tell him?” Not that I’m going to.
“No.” My father is agitated to the point of an impending blowup. “Didn’t I just tell you I was going to call him?”
Jesus, sorry.
Why is being in this room with him making me so damn nervous? I have the upper hand here; he’s living through me, not the other way around. He needs me—I no longer need him.
I straighten to my full height. “Glad you made it today.”
My father nods importantly, pompous and full of importance. “Fucking embarrassment is what it was.”
Wow. Okay.
“Anyway.” I cross my arms and stare at him, nothing more to add.
Pops tilts his head to study me. “You gonna break up with that girl? I want an answer.”
“You already told me I was.”
“Don’t get smart with me.”
“Fine.” I huff, petulant. “No, I’m not.”
“Jackson, I’m warning you…”
“Warning me about what? What are you gonna do about it, Daddy? Whoop me?” I spread my arms wide. “I’m bigger than you. Ain’t much you can do about it, but you can sure try.”
My father’s face turns ten shades of maroon, heat rising from the collar of his blue, plaid, button-down shirt. It’s tucked into a pair of Wranglers, brown leather belt pulled through all the loops, a championship football belt buckle front and center, almost the size of a dinner plate. He earned it as a child—in high school—after winning the state title and has reveled in it since.
In my opinion, those days are gone. He’s a miserable sod of a man, living in the past, and if I let him, he’ll make me miserable, too.
“Think you’re tough shit, do ya?”
“No. I just think it’s time for you to lay off.”
Jackson Jennings Senior’s nostrils flare in my direction. “Everything you see around you, I helped build.”
A laugh escapes my throat. “Really? You helped build this house you didn’t want me livin’ in? Weird.”
“Watch your mouth.”
“Then stop pissin’ down my back and tellin’ me it’s rainin’,” I smart back.
I expect him to hit me—or at least lash out, but he doesn’t. “If your mother could see you now, she’d be beside herself.”
I laugh again. “Like Mama gives a shit. She hasn’t been here not once, and do you know why? She’d have to sit in a car with you for sixteen hours, and we all know she can’t stand you.” I smirk.
He can’t even deny it. “Who raised you to talk to your elders like this?”
I raise a shoulder and shrug. “You did.”
My father stands and stares at me a good, hard minute before grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair and heading toward the front door, one last glance over his shoulder before storming out the door.
It slams, damn near shaking off its hinges.
Silently, I wait for the wake to settle from his thunder, alone in the kitchen, red faced and mortified. I hate this part of my family; resent the part that was never normal. Never nurturing. Always mercenary and greedy.
I often wonder if my life had been different had I not been talented at sports; what would Pops have done with me then? Made me miserable anyway? Drilled me and trained me regardless, hoping I’d improve?
Life would have been worse, I muse.
It’s cold as balls outside, but I don’t grab a sweatshirt when I walk out of the house, my truck parked on the road facing main street. Without thinking twice, I climb behind the wheel and start the engine, determined to clear my head.
AFTER THE FIGHT WITH HIS DAD
CHARLIE
It takes barely any time to find Jackson once I discover he’s missing from the foo
tball house after I return a bit later— when the coast is clear of his father—his truck no longer in his parking spot. No one saw him leave; he texted not a single soul.
I know, though. Because I know him.
I turn down Jock Row, easing it along the shoulder, letting the few cars on the road pass so I can stay loitering in the general area, expecting my boyfriend to come along. Hoping he comes along.
Patiently, I wait him out, wondering where the hell he could possibly be. Our college town isn’t large, but it’s in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by cornfields and silos, with plenty of places for a guy to get lost in if he didn’t want to be found. All he’d have to do is hit the city limit and keep going…
Jackson wouldn’t do that. I don’t think.
I drive up and down the same road four times before I catch sight of that familiar black truck and pull onto the same shoulder of the road where I first laid eyes on him. Well, the second time I laid eyes on him—the first was in the cafeteria, when he took my food and pissed me off.
At first I don’t think Jackson is going to notice my car; after all, it’s gotten dark out, and the street lamps aren’t that bright. Plus, why would he expect me to be parked on the side of the road?
The black truck passes; in my rear-view mirror, I watch his brake lights go on. Watch his truck stop. Then…he does a three-point turnaround in the road, pulling up behind my car and killing his headlights.
They’re just as bright and blinding as I remember them.
I watch him in my side mirror, sitting behind the steering wheel, a frown on his face. Shoulders slouched, defeated.
My hand grapples with the handle of my door, and I shove, pushing it open, stepping out onto the street, one foot hitting the pavement at a time. Slam my door shut, hit the remote to lock it, and mosey toward Jackson’s truck.
His window rolls open. Head hits the seatback as he regards me. “What are ya doin’ on the side of the road?”
I fumble with my key fob. “Waiting for you.”
“How’d you know I’d swing by?”
Swing by? What an odd way to put it—like the side of this road is a destination he frequents.