Chapter 22 Vince
Vince
I walk back to my suite with fury coursing through my veins.
Adrian’s words keep replaying, each repetition carving deeper into my chest until I can barely breathe.
The image of him at eighteen, on his knees, scrambling to collect his scattered artwork while that predator watched, won’t stop flashing behind my eyes.
My hands shake with the need to destroy something, someone, anything to match the violence tearing through my insides.
By the time I reach my door, my shoulders feel like they’re carrying concrete blocks. Every muscle in my body is drawn tight, ready to explode.
I need answers, real ones, not the sanitized bullshit my father fed me for years about discipline and focus and staying on track. I need to know exactly how deep his manipulation goes, and I need to know now.
The door slams behind me harder than I intend. My phone is in my hands before I consciously decide to make the call. Victor Holloway answers on the second ring, his voice carrying that familiar edge of authority that used to make me stand straighter.
“Vincent. I was wondering when you’d call.”
“We need to talk about Adrian Callahan.”
A pause. “I figured this might come up eventually.”
Eventually? The flippant dismissal hits me like a slap. Ten years of burying this part of me, of us, and he reduces it to something that would just “eventually” surface.
“Did you know what Mitchell was going to do to him?”
“Mitchell’s a piece of shit, but that’s not news.” Victor’s voice remains steady, clinical. “What exactly are you asking me, son?”
“I’m asking if you knew he was going to proposition Adrian, if you set the whole thing up.”
“I set you up to see the truth, yes. Someone needed to open your eyes.”
The silence that follows stretches long enough that I can hear my own heartbeat.
My grip tightens on the phone. “What gives you the right to manipulate people like that?”
“Because you needed to learn discipline, to compartmentalize. That’s what champions do.
They don’t let personal complications derail their focus.
” His voice takes on the tone he used during my youth training sessions, matter-of-fact and uncompromising.
“Look at your career, Vincent. Six years in the NFL. Endorsement deals. Financial security. You think any of that happens if you’d gotten distracted by some art boy at eighteen? ”
“Distracted.” The word tastes bitter. “Art boy. God, you’re such an asshole, Dad.”
“Watch your tone with me, son. I’ll let it slide this time because I understand you’re emotional.
” His voice stays controlled, but I know him well enough to catch the warning underneath.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You and emotions never mixed well.
That’s what was happening back then. You were falling apart on the field, missing tackles, losing focus during critical plays.
You were struggling even before that final game.
The scouts noticed. I had to do something. ”
The memory of that final game comes rushing back. The way my hands shook before every snap, the way I couldn’t seem to find my rhythm.
“The pressure you put on me,” I say slowly, “the constant monitoring, the way you made every game feel like life or death. That’s what was messing with my head, not Adrian.
You turned football from something I loved into this crushing obligation where every play felt like it would determine my entire future. ”
I take a breath, the words pouring out now.
“The way you’d dissect every mistake for hours after games, replaying my failures over and over until I could barely sleep. You made me believe that one bad performance meant I was letting down generations of Holloway legacy.”
“Pressure makes diamonds, son. You needed to understand what was at stake.”
“What was at stake for you, you mean.”
Victor’s voice hardens. “Everything I built was for you. My reputation, my connections, my coaching program. You think any of that meant shit if my own son couldn’t deliver when it mattered?”
The raw honesty in his admission catches me off guard. For the first time, I hear something beyond the calculated control, something that almost sounds like fear.
“When I learned about Callahan approaching Mitchell,” he continues, “I saw an opportunity to show you exactly what kind of person he was. Someone unpredictable, impulsive, one of those idealistic types who’d drift through life following their feelings instead of making calculated decisions.”
He pauses, and I can almost hear the gears turning.
“Not like us Holloways. We plan, we strategize, we control outcomes. This kid just went wherever his heart led him, thought he could charm his way through problems with his art and good intentions.”
“He was trying to help me.”
“He was being naive and reckless. He’s the kind of person who brings others down with poor judgment.”
“So, you orchestrated the whole thing, making sure I’d be there to see him at Mitchell’s hotel.”
“I made sure you understood what you were dealing with. You’re dealing with a boy who thought he could manipulate the system, who had no concept of what real sacrifice looks like.
” Victor’s voice takes on the hard edge I remember from my youth.
“In my day, we didn’t let anything interfere with the goal.
When your mother started becoming difficult, when we were fighting constantly, screaming matches that went on for hours about my training schedule, my work priorities… ”
He trails off for a moment.
“She’d threatened to leave, demanded I choose between football and family like they were mutually exclusive.
All that chaos, all that emotional drama bleeding into my preparation time, affecting my sleep, my focus during film study.
I couldn’t perform at peak level with that kind of domestic instability poisoning my headspace. ”
The thoughtless way he mentions destroying his marriage and disrupting my childhood sends a chill through me. “You chose football over your family.”
“I chose excellence over mediocrity! And it worked. Two Pro Bowl seasons, a coaching legacy that opened doors for you that most kids can only dream of.”
“And Mom? What about what she wanted?”
“Oh, she got what she wanted, right? She remarried, found herself a nice accountant who comes home at six every night for dinner and plans weekend getaways instead of working around game schedules. She got her white picket fence, her suburban life, her husband who doesn’t disappear for months during training camps or bring home the stress of performance contracts.
” His voice carries a note of disdain. “She wanted to be anonymous, ordinary. She couldn’t handle being with someone in the spotlight. ”
I close my eyes, forcing myself not to grieve for the kind of family I never had.
“She knew what I was when she married me. Hell, she was there through college, through the draft process, cheering in the stands when I got selected. She knew exactly what professional football meant, what kind of life we’d be building together.
” His voice hardens with old resentment.
“Then the moment things got real, the moment the pressure started and the demands became too much, she just bailed. She started resenting everything she’d once been excited about. ”
He pauses, and for a moment I think he might actually reflect on this.
“But everyone got what they needed in the end.”
“Except me.” The words come out rougher than I intend.
“I got to spend my childhood shuttling between two completely different worlds, never fitting into either. Weekends with Mom meant pretending I didn’t care about football, hiding my trophies in my backpack because her new husband thought sports were a waste of time.
Weekdays with you meant pretending I didn’t miss having a normal family, acting like I didn’t notice that other kids’ parents showed up to games together. ”
Victor stays quiet for a moment. When he speaks, there’s something almost defensive in his tone. “You had opportunities those other kids dreamed of having.”
“I had isolation. I learned how to be whoever people needed me to be, but I never learned how to be myself.”
“You got toughness. Adaptability. The ability to compartmentalize personal bullshit and perform when it matters.” His tone softens just slightly.
“Look, Vincent, I’m proud of what you’ve accomplished.
You have talent, son. You probably would have gotten where you are with pure will and determination.
But it would have taken longer if you’d gotten sidetracked by some starry-eyed kid who thought he could fix things with finger paints. ”
The dismissive way he talks about Adrian’s art, about everything he cares about, ignites something hot and dangerous in my chest.
“Adrian’s work isn’t some hobby, and you know it. He’s talented, more than either of us ever gave him credit for.”
“Talent doesn’t matter if it distracts from what’s important.”
“Important to who? To you? To your legacy?”
“Important to your future. Which, in case you’ve forgotten, includes a comfortable retirement and enough money to do whatever the hell you want with the rest of your life.”
The conversation is spiraling into familiar territory, the same arguments we’ve had for years about sacrifice and priorities and what it means to be a man. But this time, something’s different. This time, I can see the strings.
“What did you do to him back then?” The words slip out softer than I intend, but sharp all the same. “Did you threaten him?”
“I did what I had to do, son.” Victor’s voice is steady, almost bored, like he’s reciting a fact instead of confessing.
“I spelled it out for him. If he breathed a word to you about what really happened, his art school applications would disappear, his future would dry up overnight. And if he so much as tried to crawl back into your life, I’d make sure you could kiss your football dreams goodbye. ”
His voice grows colder.
“He knew exactly what was at stake.”
The unashamed way he admits to threatening Adrian makes my vision blur with rage. “You son of a bitch.”
“I had to make him understand the gravity of the situation. I told him he was a distraction, that he wasn’t helping your career, and that all this lovesick bullshit was what made you fall apart during games.
” Victor’s voice carries the satisfaction of someone recounting a successful strategy.
“Clay told me he saw you two backstage. He said you were getting soft, losing your killer instinct.”
I grip the phone harder.
“That boy was naive enough to believe I’d actually sabotage my own son’s future, but the threat worked. He understood his position pretty quickly once I explained how easily I could destroy both your futures.”
My hands are shaking so hard I have to grip the phone with both fists.
The man I’ve spent my entire life trying to please, trying to make proud, is describing psychological warfare against an eighteen-year-old like it was a coaching decision.
It’s like Adrian was just another obstacle to remove from the field.
“I’m a realist, Vincent, and everything I did worked. You got your NFL career. You built your name. You became exactly what you needed to be.”
“I became exactly what you needed me to become.”
“Same thing.”
“No, it’s not the same fucking thing!” The words explode out of me. “I spent ten years hating someone who risked everything to help me, carrying around this poison because you needed me to believe I’d been betrayed. Do you have any idea what that did to me?”
“It kept you focused.”
“It kept me hollow.”
Victor goes quiet for a moment. When he speaks again, his voice carries a note I’ve rarely heard from him, something that might be regret, if he were capable of such a thing.
“You made it, son. Everything else is just details.”
“Adrian’s not a detail. What Mitchell tried to do to him isn’t a detail. What you manipulated me into believing isn’t a fucking detail.”
“What are you planning to do about it?”
The question cuts through me like a blade. The answer roars through my blood before I can even think it.
“I’m going to destroy Mitchell.” The words come out raw, torn from somewhere deep in my chest.
The silence on the other end tells me he can hear the violence in my voice, the way my breathing has turned ragged with the need for retribution. Ten years of buried rage is clawing its way to the surface, and I can feel it changing me, reshaping me into something dangerous.
“Vincent, be smart about this.”
“Be smart like you were smart? Smart like spending my whole life pretending to be someone I wasn’t?” My voice drops to something dangerous. “I’m done being smart on your terms.”
The line goes quiet. I can almost hear the calculations running through his head, the way he’s trying to figure out how to contain this situation, how to manage me the way he’s been managing me for decades.
“Your career depends on your reputation staying clean,” he says finally.
“I’m twenty-eight years old, Dad. I’ve got plenty of good years left, but not if I keep living like this. Some things matter more than money.”
“Like what?”
The answer comes to me with startling clarity. “Like the chance to be the person I should have been all these years. Like the chance to prove that I’m better than the man who raised me.”
I end the call before he can respond, but his words keep echoing in my head.
I keep hearing everything he said about discipline, focus, and what it takes to succeed.
Part of me knows he’s not entirely wrong.
Part of me recognizes that his methods, however brutal, did shape me into someone capable of thriving under pressure.
But as I sit in this empty hotel suite, surrounded by the trappings of the success he helped me build, I finally understand the real cost of his approach.
I never learned how to fight for the things that actually mattered. I never learned that some battles are worth losing everything for.
Ten years too late, I’m finally ready to find out what kind of man I am when I stop trying to be Victor Holloway’s son.
The clarity that comes with that realization is sharp as a blade, cutting through years of confusion and self-doubt. It’s time to prove I’m capable of being the man Adrian deserved then, and still deserves now.