Chapter 12 Bryson
Bryson
I’m not sure when I dozed off, but thankfully Walker and Ashton decided to stop by our apartment before heading to practice. I’m even all right with their harsh awakening skills, though the cup of water tossed at my chest was right up to my line.
“Did you even make it to class today?” Ashton teases, kicking my feet from the armrest of the couch and forcing me to sit up.
I rub my fists in my eyes while I do a quick mental check—did I go to class?
“Yes, asshole. I had a quiz in anatomy. Aced it, by the way. I’m sure you were worried,” I say in a snarky tone.
Ashton flashes me his middle finger as he heads toward our rooms.
“I’m just behind on sleep, I think,” I groan, stretching with my yawn as my eyes blink to focus.
When the open article on my laptop comes into view, I slam it shut before my roommates have a chance to get eyes on what I was busy with before I fell asleep.
It’s a story about Jaden’s family’s restaurant.
I got curious after our chat yesterday, and then I became obsessed when I saw a short local news piece mention how the restaurant was having financial trouble.
I was up until three in the morning uncovering any details I could, which I realize is total stalker behavior.
I eked out a couple of hours of sleep before my quiz and dove right back into my research when I got back this morning. Until I fell asleep, that is.
“Well, I know you’re a famous influencer now and all, but you still need to get your ass to practice. Think you can play quarterback for a couple hours, then go back to setting couple goals?” Ashton’s chuckle is muted, but I sense a little honest frustration in his tone.
I stand and shake out my arms, trying to snap my body and mind out of nap mode.
“You’re right. I need to focus. Sorry this is taking over my life so much. It’s a big deal for Amelia, though—”
The moment I pivot, Ashton smacks my chest with my sneakers, handing them to me as he meets my gaze with a puzzled smile.
“Dude, relax. I’m giving you shit. And it’s not all bad for me, having a famous best friend and all.
I didn’t even need to get on your sister’s app, and look what I got at the Coffee Jam this morning.
” He flashes his phone screen in my face as I take my shoes, and I read the name Aimee on the contact screen.
“As in the Aimee?” He’s been pining after the head barista at the shop across the street from our complex for an entire year.
“Yessir! She wanted to know what it was like living in your shadow, which . . . ouch!” We both laugh.
“But then we started talking about how cool the app idea is, how it makes it easier to break the ice with people our age and not just exist in this hookup culture. She asked if I was on it, and I said, ‘Not yet.’ Next thing I know, I’m asking her if she wants to hit the clubs after tomorrow’s game. ”
“Good for you, Ash!” I slap his hand, making a mental note to circle back to that little bit about being “couple goals.”
I shove my practice shirt and compression shorts into my duffel bag, then snag my phone to shoot a text to my sister to see if she has any ideas for our next posts.
Amelia: Yes! You two are getting homecoming nominations! Meet me at Slices at noon.
I scratch my head and squint one eye as I read her words a second time.
I’m not sure how thrilled Jaden is going to be about running for homecoming queen.
Especially at Cordon, where the only purpose of homecoming royalty is to force a couple to wave from a float for the alumni parade.
Maybe if Amelia does all the work? I put off typing a reply and open our apartment door—where I come chest-to-chest with my father.
“Whoa!” He chuckles as he backs up a few steps and play-punches the air between us in his good-ole-boy way.
He’s wearing his infamous black Stetson, and it’s hard to miss the Moss Ranch silver buckle prominently sitting at his waistband and framed by the panels of his black sport coat.
He’s in show-off mode, which spikes my suspicion.
“Dad . . . you’re early.” I move into him for one of our typical macho bro-hugs.
I knew he planned to come out for my game this weekend, but showing up a day early sends my head into an unpleasant tailspin.
He’s going to want to spend a lot of time together, and historically, that hasn’t been great for my focus, or anxiety, or . . . self-esteem.
“Yeah, well, I got a buddy from Tech who just launched one of those chip companies and figured we could get in a round or two.” He motions his arms through his near-perfect golf swing, and I let my shoulders relax. Good. He has plans.
“That’s great! Hey, I’m on my way to practice, but maybe after—”
“I’ll come with you boys. It’s been a while.
” He swings his hefty arm over my shoulders and winks at Ashton, who is hovering a few feet behind me next to Walker and likely dreading my father’s presence at our practice as much as I am.
Walker is lucky my dad hasn’t known him since childhood the way he has Ashton.
It buys him a pass from Jacob Moss’s critical sideline chirping.
My dad may not be a Cordon alumnus, but he’s never met a field he can’t set foot on, and after three years of throwing his weight around Cordon’s program, our coach treats him like he’s the second coming of John Madden.
“Great.” Everything about the way I say that word is . . . not . . . great.
As we reach the parking lot, my father’s steady hand coaxes me toward the massive Escalade he rented, which means he’d like to use the short drive to talk.
I hold up a hand to my roommates and holler, “I’ll meet y’all there.
” Ashton’s pained eyes offer me a touch of sympathy, but I know he’s relieved that my dad didn’t offer to drive all of us.
That would have meant him sticking around for the drive back.
“What, were they out of Bentleys?” I joke as I climb into the sleek SUV.
The windows are tinted beyond the legal limit, and the dash looks like a cockpit.
My father is more of a lifted-truck guy, part of the whole cowboy mystique he tries to play up for his brand.
He gives my sister a lot of shit, but her marketing skills sure didn’t fall far from the family tree.
“Yeah, well, this is the closest I could get to a truck on the West Coast. Every other damn car was electric.”
It’s hard to discern whether my father’s grumbling is a shot at me for heading to the northwest for college or just him being the typical oilman. Probably a little of both. Either way, I’m sure it’s a tone-setter for what’s to come, and I’m already forming a defense on behalf of my sister.
“You know . . . your mom showed me the most fascinating pictures on her socials yesterday. It was my son prancing around in a fountain with some chubby redhead.” Dad’s got some nerve calling anyone, least of all Jaden, chubby.
His fixation on body types has always rubbed me wrong.
He gives me a sideways glance before he pulls out of the parking spot at a snail’s pace.
He’s going to make this two-mile drive feel like hours.
“Stepmom,” I correct, matching his passive aggression with my own.
He grumbles and shifts his weight, draping a wrist over the top of the steering wheel and hitting me with a stern glare.
I hold up my palms.
“Hey, just making sure the facts are right before I have to endure a lecture meant for Amelia.”
My father has never been great at talking to my sister, and since he divorced our real mom, that massive communication wall has only doubled in size. And I’m so tired of being the go-between.
“Fine. Savannah, your stepmom, showed me the pictures.”
I snicker, partly to be a punk, but mostly because of the antiquated way my dad navigates the modern world.
“They’re posts, Dad. On social media. You should probably get with the times.” I roll my eyes.
“Damn it, Bryson! Not the point, and I know what social media is. My question is why the hell are you parading around on it advertising your sister’s cockamamie business? Are you partnering with her on this dating scheme? That’s not what your trust fund was meant for, and I think you know that.”
We’ve passed the point of this being a fun game of sparring. Now, I’m simply getting mad. And I hate that this shit is going to linger in my head during practice. I’m not like my dad. I don’t have an on/off switch.
“I haven’t touched my trust fund, and you know that. I’m sure you get alarms every time one of us sets foot in a bank.”
“Bryson, I’m not playing games,” he groans.
I let out a heavy sigh and mumble, “Neither am I.” The long minute of silence that follows is almost more painful than bickering with him, because I know what’s coming next.
He’s forming his thoughts so he can lay out his case.
Parenting has always been a business deal with him, though he does less negotiating the older we get.
We pull into the player parking lot, and I unbuckle my seat belt the second we rock back to a full stop, ready to sprint out of this SUV.
My dad’s too fast, however, and his hand wraps around my left forearm before I open the door.
My face jerks up to meet his gaze, and it takes every ounce of willpower in my body not to laugh at his pathetic attempt at expressing empathy.
“It’s not you I’m worried about, Bryson.
Your sister, she’s always been about the fairy tales.
But we both know that life’s not written that way.
You went through hell and back with your injury.
You’re built tougher. Amelia, she’s . . .
a dreamer. And the business landscape is cruel.
I just don’t want her ending up penniless and destitute because she thought she was the next big tech giant and instead was simply a weeklong fad. ”
We blink at one another, and I chew at the inside of my mouth to keep my lips shut long enough to stifle my knee-jerk reaction. He’s an oil tycoon. Would he seriously stand by and let his oldest child struggle in poverty simply because she tried and failed to make something of herself on her own?
“It’s not my business, Dad. It’s Amelia’s. So you should give her a call if you have questions about it. But yeah . . . I am supporting her. That’s what family does. My real mom taught me that.”
I nudge the door open with my leg and shirk off his grasp, pivoting to face him head-on when I’m standing outside the SUV.
“And that redhead? She’s going to be the number one tennis player in the world soon. So quit equating strength with chubby. Maybe if you put on muscle back when you were in college, you wouldn’t have finished your college career playing backup.”
I slam the door shut on that note. And even though I don’t turn around to check, I can feel my father’s eyes drilling laser beams through the back of my skull.