Chapter 3 #2
They all thought I was so lucky to be his daughter.
I wasn’t. He was never home. He rarely showed up at school events.
He rarely saw me play ball. When I was in high school, he retired.
I assumed it would mean he’d start spending more time with us and attending my games, but that’s not what happened.
The Camels offered him the head coaching position, and he became obsessed with it.
He left before five in the morning to review game tape and didn’t come home until we were all asleep.
We never had family dinners like a normal family.
My so-called friends thought it was cool that the famous Jett Jeffries was my father, but it wasn’t cool at all.
It was only made worse by the fact that he’s considered attractive.
He feeds into that dialogue with shirtless, thirst-trap workout videos.
It’s so self-serving. I’m not sure why he needs the validation.
Our small handful of conversations were limited to him pushing me to play college basketball.
Being athletic was basically the only thing we had in common, so it’s the only thing he would ever talk to me about.
He’s never taken the time to otherwise get to know his own daughter.
By the time I was back on the East Coast playing professional ball, he started to reach out to me all the time. Too little, too late, Jett Jeffries.
My mother got caught up in the money and her social life. She made being a fashionable WAG her whole personality. She may be the most selfish person I know. Whereas most mothers would revel in their daughter being as successful as I was, she resented all the accolades I received.
She’s much shorter than me, with blonde hair and brown eyes, and she always hated how much attention I garnered for my height and good looks.
I think her sense of style might be the only thing I got from her.
For a reason I’ve never told another soul, I hate her and will never have her as part of my life again.
My brother and I were raised mostly by nannies.
My parents rarely exchanged a single pleasantry with one another.
I never once saw them be loving and affectionate.
It felt like an arrangement. I guess years of their sham of a marriage finally took its toll, because when I was in college they got divorced.
It didn’t affect my life since I was no longer home, but I’m guessing it impacted my little brother.
I feel bad he was left alone in the trenches, but it’s been easier for me to disassociate with all of them.
Pierce is going into his senior year of high school.
I know he’s a good quarterback on the school’s football team, but I don’t think he plans to play in college.
At least I haven’t seen any announcements on his social media suggesting anything of the sort.
It’s not like I’m otherwise in the loop.
The fact is, I don’t know much about him.
I have a tinge of regret about that. Perhaps now that I’m living here, I’ll consider reaching out to him, but I just don’t want anything to do with my parents.
I’ve ignored her texts and his emails over the past few days since news broke that I’m playing for Philly.
My phone buzzes with an email notification. Shit. Another email from my father. He only emails or calls, never texts, because he doesn’t live in the twenty-first century. Last I saw him, he was still using a flip phone, and that was last year. I didn’t think they even produced those anymore.
I open the email:
Hey Marshmallow,
There’s a pickleball tournament coming up. Mixed doubles. Registration just opened. Any interest?
Dad
Marshmallow was a nickname he used to call me when I was a little girl.
I roll my eyes at his attempt to connect, but there’s no denying he knows the way to my heart.
Competition. I love pickleball. I love that the older men assume because of the way I look I can’t play, and then I kick their asses.
It’s the one and only thing I’ve ever done with my father.
I’m certainly not responding now, but maybe I will in a few days. I wouldn’t mind playing. We’ll see how things go.
I take in Palmer’s bare face and drab clothing, imploring her to let me help, but she refuses.
I had to force-buy her a few things today, but it wasn’t much.
She was super shy in the dressing rooms. Sulley pleads with me to leave Palmer alone about it.
I’m trying to help, but I guess you can’t help someone who won’t help themselves.
A little while later, we’re in an Uber on the way to the club. Sulley smirks at me. “Please tell me one more red flag on your list.”
When we all met the other night, it was awkwardly silent, so I suggested an icebreaker game of each of us giving a few of their red flags when it comes to the opposite sex.
For some unknown reason, they all got the biggest kick out of it.
I have hundreds of them listed on my phone.
I don’t know why everyone doesn’t have that.
It reminds me of things I don’t want in a man.
I pull out my phone. “Hmm, I already told you a few of my top ones, like men who use Androids, men who take selfies, and men who know every word to the rap verse from ‘Waterfalls’ by TLC.” I keep scrolling.
“I added Sulley’s disgust for men who wear sandals and Layla’s distaste for men who wear necklaces because I agree with those.
Ooh,” I perk up, “here’s a good one. Men who order fruity drinks.
” I make a look of disgust. “It’s so…unmanly. ”
Sulley and Palmer giggle uncontrollably. They really are wildly amused by my red flags list.
“One more,” Sulley begs. “Please. They’re so funny.”
I roll my eyes but scroll through my list again until I find a good one.
I look back up at them with a smirk. “Men who have pictures of themselves in front of their cars. It’s even worse if it’s a selfie.
Such a douchebag thing to do.” In a deep voice, I mock, “Oh, look how cool my car is. I’m a big man with a manly car. ” I roll my eyes. “Losers.”
Sulley breaks into hysterics. “Oh my god. Hilarious. I never would have thought of that one, but it’s true.”
I stare at Sulley and Palmer in awe as they continue to giggle like schoolgirls about my list throughout the entire Uber ride.
Then they discuss groceries for the week and how they will equally divide household chores.
They even chat about how much they miss their moms and how they talk to them every single day.
These two may be the purest, most Hallmark-like, unaffected women I’ve ever met.
I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone like them, and I’m honestly not sure they’re going to survive life in a big city.
There are so many people who will take advantage of them.
For a reason I can’t explain, I feel protective of their innocence and don’t want anything bad to happen to them.
We walk into Club Liberty, and I look around. I used to sneak in here while I was in high school, but it looks like it’s been renovated and is so much nicer than it used to be. It’s wall-to-wall people. Drinks are flowing, the music is pumping, and the dance floor is jammed with bodies.
Layla materializes out of nowhere and is immediately right in our faces. She’s clearly already had a few drinks and is practically bouncing up and down. God, overly cheery people annoy me.
She introduces us to her husband, Presley, and then they practically make out in front of us. Ugh, I hate people who are all loved up like that. It’s usually bullshit. A facade masking some underlying resentment. I bet they’ll be divorced within five years.
He’s cute, with brown hair, chocolate-brown eyes, and olive skin. He’s shorter than her though. I don’t know that I could be with a man shorter than me. She jokingly refers to him as her short king, and he doesn’t seem to mind at all.
He then invites us to their private booth, which is on the roped-off VIP balcony overlooking the dance floor. Now he’s speaking my language.
We make our way up the stairs and to the booth.
I see four men standing as we approach. I’ve never met any of them in person, but I know who they are.
Vance McCaffrey is the golden boy who succeeded my father as the Camels’ quarterback.
Creepily enough, he looks like my father, with dark hair, green eyes, and a bit of an ever-present scowl on his face.
I also notice Beau Fudd. Good lord, he’s even bigger than he looks on television. He’s a defensive lineman with shaven, dirty blond hair and muscles that have muscles. He looks like the Incredible Hulk.
Next to him is Champ Williamson. He’s a sexy, mocha-skinned running back with a badass bleached mohawk.
He’s a little shorter than the rest of the guys, but he matches their muscles.
I wish I wasn’t taller than him because he’s gorgeous.
By far the sexiest man here. I’m immediately attracted to him.
Screw the height, I’m taking that guy home with me. Yummy.
Finally, my eyes find Daylen Humblecut. He’s the tight end who comes across as a giant goofball known for touchdown dances and playing to the cameras.
Ugh, I hate immature men who don’t take anything seriously.
The blond hair on his head and his face is unruly.
He’s wearing wrinkled clothing that looks like he picked it up off the floor before he left the house.
There’s nothing more unattractive than an unkempt man who takes no pride in his appearance.
I work hard on mine and expect the same of the inferior sex.
My disgust for the beast before me is broken up by the awkward as fuck way Vance and Sulley interact. “Do you two know each other?” I ask.
Sulley looks like a deer in headlights, but Vance gives me a small nod and answers, “Sulley and I are from the same hometown.”