Hate the Game

by Renshaw, Winter

  Mark took one look at my mother, at my lonely, grief-stricken, shell of a woman mother, and an opportunity was born. I was young then but I still remember the day he moved in with us. How happy my mother was. How much life was in her eyes again. She told me I was going to be a big brother, that I was going to have a dad again.

  Over the first few years, Mark was the very definition of a doting father. He taught me how to throw a football, swing a golf club, and cast a fishing reel. But the fun and games ended as soon as he realized how naturally athletic I was and decided he wanted me to fulfill his dream of playing pro football.

  At first, it was nice—the special coaches and clinics, all the accolades and glory and attention—but after a while, it got old.

  All my friends were living it up, running around being stupid teenagers and doing stupid teenage shit.

  Me? I was in bed by eight every night so I could meet up with my trainer by five the next morning. God forbid I didn’t get an hour in every morning before school with the guy that was going to “help make our dreams come true.”

  After a while, I was in too deep.

  I was too damn good.

  The attention was insane and it became my identity.

  High school blurred into football, and soon I was leading the PVU Tigers as their starting quarterback, which came with a whole new level of attention and accolades.

  But I’ll never forget sitting down with Mark my senior year of high school, telling him I wanted to be done with football. I thanked him for everything, told him I appreciated everything he’d done, but I wanted to enjoy my college experience without the stress of always having to be number one.

  I thought he’d be cool about it.

  He’d always been cool about everything …

  But I swear to God, the man’s eyes turned pitch black and he hooked a hand on my shoulder, squeezing until a shock of pain flooded my muscles, and he told me, point blank, that if I didn’t play football, he’d leave my mother.

  I laughed at first.

  I thought he was joking.

  What would me playing football have to do with his marriage?

  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized, he didn’t need her any more. With the help of my father’s life insurance money, he’d grown his little real estate business into a multi-million-dollar corporation—and his daughters weren’t babies any more.

  He didn’t need my mother.

  He could walk away a rich man, find someone younger, more exciting, less Xanax and wine flooding her system at any given moment.

  It was me.

  I was the reason he stuck around.

  He wanted to live his shattered football dreams through me, and nothing was going to keep that from happening.

  The bastard knew I loved my mother, that I didn’t want to see her alone and devastated from losing yet another husband. So I shut my mouth. I kept up with the coaching and the clinics and the practices. And I took my spot as the PVU Tigers starting quarterback the following fall without so much as a complaint.

  “Can you believe it?” Mom says, sipping from her flute. “Richmond. Who’d have thought? Mark, we might have to buy a second place in Virginia. Maybe a little condo we can use during home games?”

  Mark scoffs, his bulbous belly jiggling. “Condo? Hell, I think Talon here can drop a million or two on a place for Mom and Dad, don’t you?”

  She chuckles, like he’s the funniest fucker on the planet, and brushes her hand along his arm. “Oh, stop.”

  “I’m not kidding. We’ve probably invested half a million dollars into this kid’s career,” Mark says. His eyes twinkle like he’s trying to keep it lighthearted for Mom’s sake, but I know he’s as serious as the heart attack that ripped my father’s life from this world.

  I ignore their bullshit banter and slide my phone from my pocket, checking my email.

  Yesterday I asked Irie for one date. She told me she’d think about it, which I’m ninety-nine percent sure means she’s going to say yes—she just had to tamp down her excitement. God forbid she owns the fact that she wants me just as badly as I want her.

  I press the ‘refresh’ button and watch the screen populate, mostly with junk emails and various campus alerts.

  And then I see it.

  An email from Irie.

  “One date,” the subject line reads. In the body of the email she’s written, “Pick me up Saturday at seven. 472 Calle Blanco.”

  “Talon, what are you over there grinning about, huh?” Mom asks with a wink, her words half-slurred. “Did Richmond decide to sweeten the pot? I bet it drives them crazy that you haven’t signed yet.”

  I rise, tossing my cloth napkin on my plate before rounding the table.

  “Nah,” I say when I get to Mom. “Nothing like that.”

  “Well then what is it?” she asks.

  I don’t tell her about Irie. Girlfriends were never a thing growing up. Mark didn’t allow them. He thought they’d be too distracting and he was probably right. After a while, Mom began to echo Mark’s sentiments because she believed he could do no wrong and therefore was never wrong about anything. My only taste of the finer sex was limited to house party hook-ups while Mark and Mom were on their monthly trips.

  Despite the fact that I’m almost twenty-three, I’ve still yet to bring a girl home to meet either of them.

  I might be a cruel bastard.

  But I’m not that fucking cruel.

  “Going to head back,” I say, kissing my mom’s glass-like forehead. “Thanks for … this.”

  I glance at my stepsisters who haven’t said more than two words this entire night and then to Mark, who’s shooting me a look that suggests I’m an asshole for leaving his celebration early.

  But fuck that guy.

  Making my way to the valet stand, I give the kid in the red jacket my ticket and read Irie’s email one more time while I wait for them to bring my car around, and when he pulls up, I tip him a twenty—partly because I’m in a fan-fucking-tastic mood and partly because Mark’s only going to tip the poor soul a couple of bucks when he fetches his Rolls Royce SUV an hour from now.

  “Thanks, man,” the kid says as he hands me my keys.

  I climb in my car, set the music for the two-hour drive ahead, and veer toward the freeway, cruising on gasoline and adrenaline.

  This time tomorrow, I’m going on a date with Irie Davenport.

  Chapter 15

  Irie

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you curl your hair,” Brynn says from my bed as I stand in front of my dresser mirror, a long-barrel curling iron in hand.

  “Is it too much?” I ask.

  I still can’t believe I agreed to a date with Talon.

  “Too much?” Brynn scoffs. “Honey, you’re going on a date with Talon freaking Gold. It might not be enough. Where’s the push up bra and the fuck-me heels?”

  I shoot her a look from the mirror.

  “I’m teasing. But seriously. Do you know how many girls would kill to be you right now?” she asks. “I mean, everyone knows he doesn’t date so the fact that he wants to take you out …”

  I roll my eyes. “Lucky me, right?”

  “I don’t know why you’re acting like you’re doing this as some kind of favor to him. You’re allowed to be excited. And you should be. You’re going to have an amazing time tonight.”

  “Hopefully.” I give her a wink as I curl the last section.

  “Are you going to let him kiss you again?” she asks.

  I shrug. “If it happens, it happens.”

  “What if he wants more than a kiss this time?”

  I run my hand through my cooled curls to loosen them up before reaching for a tube of juicy pink lip gloss. “Then he’ll be sorely disappointed.”

  A couple spritzes of perfume later, I examine myself in the full-length mirror in the corner. I opted for high-waisted jeans, strappy heels, and a white sweater. Definitely going for a casual look that’s a touch above my no
rmal style yet doesn’t scream that I’m trying too hard.

  The doorbell rings.

  I gather a deep breath, grab my purse, and give myself one last once-over in the mirror before heading for the hallway.

  “All right, babe. It’s your time to shine,” Brynn says, following behind me. “And I’m going to expect a full report first thing tomorrow.”

  By the time I round the corner, I can hear Aunt Bette talking near the front door. She’s already let him in. Knowing her, she was probably waiting by the front window, watching for him to pull up.

  “I’d tell you to bring her back the way you found her, but I’d almost rather you didn’t,” I hear Aunt Bette saying. “Show our girl a good time.”

  “Aunt Bette,” I say, clearing my throat.

  Talon’s weighty stare lifts to mine and Aunt Bette turns on her house-slippered feet.

  “Irie.” Talon’s lips slip into a small smile. “Wow. Look at you.”

  Who knew a few curls and some lip gloss would be all it takes to impress this man?

  “You ready?” I ask. If we stand here any longer, Bette and Brynn are going to be popping popcorn. From the way they’re gawking, you’d think they were watching a real-life Nicholas Sparks movie playing out.

  Talon gets the door, giving Aunt Bette and Brynn a quick nod goodbye, and within seconds he’s escorting me to an idling black BMW, every square inch of which is polished, shined, and waxed.

  “I’ll get that,” he says, stepping around me to grab the passenger door.

  I’ve never had a guy open a car door for me. It’s strange and old-fashioned and yet … kind of nice.

  I slide into the warm, buttery leather and he makes his way to the driver’s side. The radio plays some indie rock station on low and the car smells like new leather with a hint of clean soap and aftershave.

  “What’s the plan?” I ask when he climbs in.

  “You’ll find out in about fifteen minutes,” he says, buckling in and checking his mirrors. “You warm enough? Music okay?”

  “I am. And it is.” I study him from my periphery as we drive south. If I had to guess, we’re headed downtown.

  The fabric of his navy cashmere sweater strains against his muscles as he drives and the silver watch on his left hand glints with each passing streetlamp. The car glides from street to street, the ride easy and smooth, and he drives like a man who isn’t in any kind of rush—a man who has the entire night ahead of him and wants to savor every moment.

  “What’d you do last night?” I ask.

  “Had to go to Laguna Cove for a family dinner,” he says.

  “Is that where you’re from?”

  “It is.” He studies the road ahead, coming to a gentle stop at the next light.

  “Isn’t that a couple hours from here?”

  Talon nods.

  “You didn’t want to stay the weekend?” I ask.

  He laughs through his nose. “You don’t know my family. An hour-long dinner with them is about as much as I can take.”

  I have to admit, I’m surprised.

  Talon has always projected a certain image to me and that image isn’t the kind I typically associate with dysfunctional families. Everything about him screams privilege and familial support.

  “What’d you do last night?” he asks.

  “Went to this spoken word poetry slam thing at Café Baudelaire with a couple girls from my Interior Lighting class,” I say. “First time going to one of those and I have to say … it’ll probably be my last.”

  He laughs.

  “I’m all about the art scene, but how do people keep a straight face when they’re up there? This guy had this whole poem about losing his beloved … stick bug.”

  “Stick bug?”

  “Yes. Stick bug,” I say. “He had tears in his eyes and everything. I mean, I don’t mean to judge. I’m just saying I can’t relate and it’s not my thing.”

  “It’s good to try new things,” Talon says, glancing at me as he flicks on his turn signal.

  A few minutes later, he pulls into a parallel parking spot in front of a massive downtown building, one I’ve never seen in my life since I rarely venture off campus.

  “We’re here,” he says before climbing out.

  I don’t wait for him to get my door, though I’m sure he would. I meet him on the sidewalk.

  “What’s this?” I ask as we head to a series of glass doors so dark you can’t see in.

  “It’s an art exhibit,” he says, placing his hand on the small of my back and guiding me inside.

  We step into a wide-open space, nothing but white walls and white pillars and patrons from all walks of life making their way between stationed exhibits. Talon hands two tickets to a woman dressed in black standing behind a small podium, and then he swipes a couple of champagne glasses from a passing server’s tray.

  “For you.” He hands me one of the flutes before scanning the room. “They hold this every year. Most of the time I come alone.”

  I’m confused.

  And also impressed.

  “I never thought of you as an art guy,” I say. Taking a closer look around, I realize this isn’t just art. This is some kind of architecture-art hybrid exhibit. Everything around us has to do with buildings and living spaces.

  We pass a hanging banner and I stop in my tracks when I read the words: WELCOME TO THE 20th ANNUAL GOLD-HARRIS EXHIBIT.

  Gold-Harris is a world-renowned local architectural firm, one we studied extensively a couple of years back in one of my design classes.

  “Are you related to Theodore Gold?” I ask.

  Talon takes a sip, his lips pressing flat. “Was. Was related.”

  I don’t understand.

  “He was my father,” he says. “He died when I was six.”

  For a moment, I’m not sure I heard him correctly, so I replay his words in my head. I’m sure to anyone else, this revelation would be no big deal, but he might as well have just told me he’s architecture royalty.

  “Oh, my goodness.” I close my gaping mouth and try to show some respect. “I had no idea.”

  I didn’t even know Gold had passed. They talked about his work in my class—but they never talked about his life.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say. “But for the record, your father’s work is some of my favorite. I admire his talent immensely.”

  “Thank you,” he says before extending his arm. “Mind if I show you around?”

  I slip my hand into his, the cashmere of his sleeve soft beneath my palm, and he leads me to a wall on the left. It’s a black and white photograph of a beautiful home, white and stately and symmetrical but also welcoming with its picket fence and double front doors. I lean in to take a better look and find a little boy sitting on the front steps, a calico kitten in his lap. He’s grinning ear to ear, his hair wavy and hanging in his face.

  The plaque beneath the image reads: “HOME.” Photography by Camilla Gold-Masterson.

  “Is that you?” I ask.

  “It is. That was the home my father designed and had built for my mother when they got married. She’s the one who took the picture.” He points to a window on the top level. “That was my room.”

  “You had a cat.”

  He smiles. “We did. Her name was Turtle—because she looked like a turtle sundae.”

  My hand is still curled around his bicep and he leads me to the next photo. It’s another image taken by Camilla Gold-Masterson. His mother must have remarried after his father’s death. I try to think of Talon as a child, what that must have been like for him. Given the fact that he claimed he could hardly spend more than an hour with his family nowadays, I can only imagine it wasn’t always ideal.

  “Was your mom a photographer?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “She dabbled. Mostly she was into interior design, remodeling, that sort of thing.”

  I glance around the room. “Is she here?”

  “Nah.” He leave sit as that and I don’t pry because nothing abo
ut him gives me the impression that he wants to elaborate on it.

  Talon leads me to the next image and the next, all of them photographs his mother took from various homes and projects his father had designed over the years. Some of them are familiar—I swear these images have been used in textbooks of mine.

  We make our way to the next section—mostly 3D renderings of various world-famous buildings, some of which have been reimagined in the style of Picasso or Dali.

  “I can’t believe I’ve never heard of this exhibition before,” I say when we get to the next section—oil paintings of local bungalows. “You’d think somewhere along the lines, one of my professors would’ve mentioned it.”

  “They hold it every year. Same place. Same week.”

  “And you always go?”

  “Always.” He tosses back the final sip of his champagne and I realize I’ve been so entranced with my surroundings I’ve barely touched mine. “I don’t remember much about my father. In a way, this makes me feel closer to him.”

  “Did you ever think about getting into architecture?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “It wasn’t an option for me. The architecture program at PVU is pretty intense. It wouldn’t have worked with my football schedule.”

  “Talon?” An older woman with cherry red lipstick and thick glasses strides up to us. “I thought that was you!” She embraces him in a hug before reaching to cup his face in her hands. “It’s so wonderful to see you. Gosh, you look more and more like your father every year.”

  “Irie, this is Lindee Harris. She was my father’s partner at Gold-Harris,” he says. “Lindee, this is Irie Davenport. She’s an interior design student at PVU.”

  My jaw drops as she extends her hand toward mine.

  “Oh, my goodness. I’m a huge fan of your work,” I tell her. “The conceptual city hall design you did for the Stockton project blew my mind. And your residential work is incredible, the way you brought timeless style and modern edge to new construction was lightyears ahead of its time.”

  “Why, thank you, Irie. You’re far too kind,” she says, clasping her fingers around the diamond pendant on her neck and gifting me a humble smile. Turning to Talon, she adds, “Theodore was a major inspiration in my early days. My work wouldn’t be what it is without his brutally honest guidance. Interning with him completely changed the way I approached my work and being able to start a firm with him completely changed the course of my career.” Her attention skips past our shoulders and from behind, I hear someone calling for her. “Anyway, it was so good seeing you Talon, and Irie, a pleasure to meet you. If you ever want to talk shop, Talon can give you my number. Shaping young minds is a bit of a pet passion of mine.”