As if on cue, I get the nod.
But not the walk-away.
My father startles the shit out of me by saying, “Garrett. A word.”
His deep voice sends a chill up my spine. I fucking hate the sound of his voice. I hate the sight of his face.
I hate every goddamn thing about him.
Hannah’s expression creases with concern when she sees my face. “Is that…？”
Instead of answering, I take a reluctant step away. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I mumble.
My father is already halfway down the parking lot. He doesn’t even turn around to check if I’m following him. Because he’s Phil fucking Graham, and he can’t imagine someone not wanting to be around him.
Somehow my stiff legs carry me in his direction. I notice several of my teammates lingering at the door of the bus, watching us curiously. A few of them are visibly envious. Jesus. If they only knew what they were jealous of.
When I reach him, I don’t bother with pleasantries. I just scowl and speak in a terse voice. “What do you want?”
Like me, he gets right to the point. “I expect you to come home for Thanksgiving this year.”
My shock manifests itself in the form of a sharp laugh. “No, thanks. I’ll pass.”
“No, what you will do is come home.” A dark look hardens his features. “Or I will drag you home.”
I genuinely don’t know what’s happening right now. Since when does he give a shit whether I come home or not? I haven’t been back once since I left for Briar. I’m in Hastings during the school year, and I spend my summers working sixty-hour weeks for a construction company in Boston and saving every last penny, which I then use to pay for rent and groceries because I don’t want to take any more of my father’s money than I absolutely have to.
“Why the hell do you care what I do for the holidays?” I mutter.
“You’re needed at home this year.” He’s speaking through clenched teeth, as if he’s enjoying this even less than I am. “My girlfriend is cooking dinner, and she requested your presence.”
His girlfriend? I didn’t even realize he had a girlfriend. And how fucking sad is it that I know nothing about my own father’s life?
The way he phrased it doesn’t escape me, either. She requested my presence. Not him.
I meet his eyes, the same shade of gray as my own. “Tell her I’m sick. Or hell, tell her I died.”
“Don’t test me, boy.”
Oh, he’s busting out the boy, huh? That’s what he always called me right before his fists pummeled my gut, or smashed my face, or broke my nose for the hundredth fucking time.
“I’m not coming,” I say coldly. “Deal with it.”
He moves in closer, his eyes gleaming beneath the low brim of his Bruins cap as his voice lowers to a hiss. “Listen up, you ungrateful little shit. I don’t ask much of you. In fact, I don’t ask anything of you. I let you do whatever the fuck you want, I pay for your tuition, your books, your equipment.”
The reminder makes my stomach seethe with anger. I keep a spreadsheet on my computer that documents everything he’s ever paid for so that when I gain access to my trust, I’ll know the precise amount to write on the check I plan on handing him before I tell him good riddance.
But tuition for next term needs to be paid in December, the month before my trust comes in. And I don’t have enough in my savings account to cover the full amount.
Which means I’m stuck being indebted to him for a little while longer.
“All I expect in return,” he finishes, “is that you play like the champion you are. The champion I made you.” An ugly sneer twists his mouth. “Well, it’s time to pay up, son. You will come home for Thanksgiving. Understood?”