HABIT, page 7
“I started in May, um, sir?” Jensen’s voice cracks with his words. I close my eyes and touch my index finger to the bridge of my nose in anticipation. Christopher Bentley has a great disdain for weak personalities.
“Why would you say that like a question? Who hired you?” My dad moves closer to our poor waiter before spinning on his feet to scan the restaurant, apparently searching for someone to come running in to haul Jensen away.
“I’m Abby’s nephew, sir.” Jensen clears his throat after his answer. He’s practically leaning forward on his toes, as if he’s dangling on a cliff’s edge waiting for my father to simply push him off. But his answer must hold weight because instead of growing more irritable, my father tilts his head a tick, pulls his glasses down his nose and squints.
“Huh. You look nothing like her,” my father says through a gravelly laugh. “Bring another chair over here.”
My dad motions to the open dining area with few patrons, and Jensen rushes to a four top and quickly carries over a chair. As is his way, my father manages to make a major production of taking his seat and scooting closer to our table. There’s the swinging of his jacket around the tall wooden back followed by the screech of the wooden legs along the polished concrete floor as my father hopscotches the chair forward under his weight. When he finally unfurls one of the rolled-up cloth napkins—my napkin, to be precise—he cranes his neck to see if our young, terrified waiter is still within earshot.
Jensen is standing two feet away.
My father snaps.
“Three mimosas. Go on.” He waves and again, Jensen obeys. All I can do is laugh lightly and shake my head.
“You are a study in behavioral psychology, I swear. Why people continually perform for you when you treat them like golden retrievers, I will never know.” I reach across the table and take Paul’s napkin, knowing he’s the weakest of the three at this table, and when Jensen returns with our drinks, Paul asks him for another place setting.
My dad fills the quiet with small talk about why he bought this property, and how the land rights were tricky, something about reverting to the original owner whom he sued on breach of contract between his father and the now deceased patriarch of the family he fully took advantage of.
What a proud legacy.
“I’m sorry, I’m confused. Why are you here?” Paul has finally hit the bullshit limit. I’ve seen it plenty of times. I’ve hit it myself. The only reason I’m hanging around is they truly do have an incredible mimosa. I lean back and sip at my drink, waiting for this all to play out. Paul will walk away shocked. I won’t. I never do.
“Ah, your dad, Mickey Flannery. He’s . . . sixty-percent owner of Molten Unlimited?” My dad knows this percentage to the decimal. He’s toying with Paul.
“I don’t know. I guess? Maybe?” Paul’s stammered response is his tell. My dad swivels his head slowly until our eyes meet, and we both quirk a brow. Paul’s not so innocent, and he knows that decimal, too.
All of this means that I, once again, am that fucking chess piece.
A faint, knowing smile hits my mouth. I hide my reaction against the lip of my glass, and when Paul’s gaze clicks to mine, eyes wide and searching for help, I simply look away.
“You know, something’s off with mine. Sit tight, Paul. All will be clear in minutes.” My dad takes his mimosa in his hand as he steps away from our table. I follow him toward the bar with my gaze. He hadn’t yet tasted his drink. He’s making a move.
“What is this? Are you in on this?” Paul leans toward me, his fist heavy on the soft white linens that drape over our table.
I take one more sip of my drink then lean forward, crossing my ankles under my chair and cursing these miserable shoes. I slide my glass forward and play with the stem, scratching the frosted glass with my long French-tipped nails. I look up through my long lashes and let the rage and disgust from years of being used just like this fuel my response.
“So, tell me, Paul. Are you one of my followers? I mean, you do know who I am. You did all along, which, to your credit, you never pretended you didn’t.” My tongue presses firmly inside my cheek while I await his response.
“Yeah. Of course I recognize you. We’ve been at the same parties. You’re online all the time, and I’ve probably seen your videos and stuff. So what?” His sudden hostility is telling. My mouth twists into a subtle sneer. Paul isn’t a nice guy deep down. I sense it.
“And my dad . . . I’m guessing he maybe mentioned that I was interested . . . in you. Meeting you, or getting to know you?”
Paul’s tongue lodges in his teeth and his chest flinches with the sudden exhale that accompanies his realization.
“He mentioned you at the club when we were talking recently, yeah,” Paul says.
I let my focus drop to the table and I chuckle under my breath.
“Son of a bitch,” I utter under my breath.
“I’m sorry?” Paul cuts in.
I laugh a little bolder, then glance up to meet Paul’s confused, pinched expression. He’s fallen too many moves behind. So have I, but I’m still ahead of Paul.
I dab my napkin on my lips, then fold it next to my glass on the table. It’s hard to abandon two-thirds of a strawberry mimosa, but my stomach is suddenly sour.
“You’ve been played, Paul. Or rather, your father’s been played. You are more like a pawn.” The hairs on the back of my neck stand up, my instincts never failing. I spot the paparazzi across the street as I turn and glance out the window. At least Paul had the sense to get a seat inside. It won’t matter much, but at least the glass will blur his shots a little.
Fucking zoom lenses.
I turn my back to Paul completely and head toward the bar on my way out of the bistro, my dad’s back to everything he orchestrated. His jacket’s still on the chair, which he conveniently pulled out of the frame when he left our table.
“If I’m a pawn, then who are you?” Paul says, catching my ear only a few steps away.
I pause and smirk to myself before glancing over my shoulder.
“I’m the queen. And the only reason I’m here is to protect the king.” I speak loud enough for my father to hear my response.
I don’t bother to stick around for my dad’s check mate. I’ll see it soon enough. Within hours, likely. It will read something like this: Son of Molten heir caught sipping mimosas with social media star Morgan Bentley.
The details aren’t necessary for the buzz. Those will come from the followers who will pile on with comment after comment to fill in the rest of the story, the one they will make up based on the fabricated visual my father instigated for them. I’m used to being the high school girl out with older guys. But Paul is in for it. He’s about to be the college grad trolling high school girls and plying them with alcohol. He’s going to be an obsessed fan, the kind of guy who probably stalks young girls on social media. And his credibility is going to take a missile-sized blow.
I’m not sure what his father did to piss off mine, but it was enough to make him pull out his classic bag of tricks. From getting my mom to lure me to lining up his favorite loyal photographers for the proof, my dad really threw me all-in—right to the fucking wolves. I hope that decimal point was worth it, because I am never talking to my father again.
Chapter 8
James
I always thought Public High’s field was shit. But it turns out when you’ve been pounding the same dirt and grass for a hundred years, the terrain gets a little rough. I was hoping my feet would get used to the Welles turf with practice, but somehow today—game day—it feels like this ground played host to a tractor rally the night before.
Maybe it’s the lights. Rather, the lack of lights. Who plays football on a Saturday morning besides Pop Warner players?
I’ve been pacing in the locker room all morning. I got here early. A good hour before anyone, including Toby. Especially Toby.
Fuck Toby!
The locker room is overwhelmed with the sound of guys who are not taking this shit seriously, and it’s pissing me off. I need them on my side out there, though, so I keep my mouth shut. My dad drags what looks like a fifty-year-old chalkboard into the center of the locker room and I take a knee on the floor, both to give our linemen room on the open benches and to set a leadership tone. Toby makes it hard to rise above the bullshit when he takes a knee next to me, his pads pushing into mine and knocking me off balance. I smash my molars together and catch my balance with a fist to the floor.
“Ooops,” Toby mumbles at my left.
My mouth tightens into the kind of smile meant to hold in all the not nice things I’ve got to say.
“No problem,” I grit out.
Glancing up, my eyes connect with my dad’s serious glare for a brief second, just long enough for me to get the point—keep my emotions in check. I draw in a long breath and let my focus get fuzzy while I do my best to mentally block out the noise.
This should be an easy win. Augustine isn’t known for their size, and the coach isn’t experienced. He’s only in his third year with the school, and from what my dad could tell from film, it seemed he relied a lot on a weak quarterback with zero running game. My only hope is I get enough time to show my versatility to everyone who matters. Never in a million years did I think I would need to prove my talent to a bunch of CEO’s and hedge fund darlings. I wanted to come here because life at Public maybe meant a roster spot at a junior college or a crappy Division II school. And after that, I’d probably be working on the docks or at some sales job that put me behind a desk and on the phone for ten hours a day.
I want more than that for myself. I want to see Papa’s legacy live on through my mother’s talent and dreams. But damn, do I miss the guys at Public right now. I bet my dad does, too.
“They’re slow to the hole, so that’s where we need your power, Theo. Theo?” My dad snaps his fingers as his eyes widen, and I glance over my shoulder to catch Theo’s rock-hard gaze on the back of one of our teammate’s heads. I’m sure he has some issue with the guy—I think his name is Raskin? Theo has issues with a lot of people, which I won’t fault him for. The dude has been through hell—a lot of people here have been through hell. I never met Anika, but I’m learning she was a sort of nucleus for peace. I remind myself to keep my focus on the game—on my game—and leading this team.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be on it,” Theo answers.
“All right then. Let’s go get our first win. Break it down!” My dad pushes the ancient chalkboard out of the way, the wheels creaking as it struggles to glide over the rough floor.
“Bring it in!” I shout, getting to my feet.
Toby claps loudly at my side and my stomach tightens.
“Let’s do this, guys!” he shouts, his deep voice ringing out, and more of the team responds.
I mentally work to calm the boil in my stomach that’s growing up my chest. I recognize this burn. It’s the pain of insecurity. I growl along with the rest of the team, but before I can count out for us to shout ‘win,’ Toby steps in and does the job.
He is not a threat. I am the quarterback for this team. I can get this done. Show them and they will follow.
We cluster as we jog through the cramped locker room hallway, breaking through the back exit of the field house where the Welles drumline waits to announce us taking the field. The snap of drumsticks against snares cuts through the air like hard rain, and the boom of bass drums being pounded rattles my chest. This is one thing that rings similar to Public. We always had a good crowd at games, even if we were mediocre compared to some of the other schools in our division. Our cheer and drumline were always there for us to run through and amp ourselves up. I let my mind morph the scene in front of me so it feels like home, convincing myself it’s the same people I played in front of for years. It’s just enough to ground me. I forget about Toby being next to me, and I let go of the silent competition happening between us. The only battle ahead is the one that’s two hundred yards down this grassy hill, where a surprising number of people fill the stands.
Toby and I both lead the team through stretching. We clap everyone in for pre-game prayer, which thankfully neither of us has a right to give. That job is done by the school chaplain. I think if it weren’t, there’s a good chance Toby and I would be battling for who gets to say the most amens.
When my dad calls me in to run the first set of downs, I catch Toby’s narrowed eyes staring me down behind his face mask, but I stop my invasive thoughts there, before I fall down the rabbit hole of wondering where Toby’s father is and whose ear he’s bending about my dad playing favorites.
Do your job, James.
I know the plays by heart. It’s the same offense we ran at Public last year—fast, aggressive, and pass heavy. That’s to lean into my strengths, and all I have to do to prove myself is execute.
I call the first two plays in the huddle so we don’t waste time between downs. If I do this right, we’ll march down this field ten yards at a time.
I take the first snap and fall back a few steps until I spot Cameron on the Augustine thirty-five-yard line. I drop a perfect side-armed pass into his hands. He fights for an extra six yards and my chest opens up with relief.
All right. We’re doing this.
Then the fucking whistle chirping hits my ears. I scan to my right in time to see the head referee bending over to pick up his flag.
You have to be kidding me! Fucking holding?
I grab the sides of my helmet and turn away from my team to growl on my own. I don’t know who failed at their job, but thanks to the holding call, we’re now moving ten yards the wrong way. Basically, a net loss of twenty-six yards.
I glance to my right to catch my dad on the sidelines, and he rolls his fingers together in a quick sign to run it again and run it fast. I get our team to the line of scrimmage and start my count before the Augustine line knows what to do. I bank on catching them off-guard, this time faking the same pass and rushing for the down myself. I slide when I’ve made up most of the penalty and then some, but before I get to my feet, I see that fucking flag fly to my right again.
“Come on!” I shout, unable to mask my massive frustration.
This time, I see what’s going on. Theo’s going through something. I saw it brewing in the locker room, and the fact he brought his personal shit out on the field pisses me off. Back-to-back holding calls is unacceptable, and I let him know how I feel as we huddle for a new plan now that we need to go thirty yards.
My legs are primed to run, and while the best chance to gain yardage is to throw deep to Cameron, at this point I want to keep the ball in my own damn hands and run the full length of the field to take care of this on my own. I barely make it past the snap, though, before the flag comes out and Theo’s called for offsides.
“Oh, fuck that!” he shouts, waving his hand at the ref. I close my eyes and choke down the angry bile rushing up my throat, knowing what’s coming next.
“That’s it! You’re outta here!”
Thank God Cameron is there to march his ass off the field before we completely ruin any favor with this referee crew. I lock eyes with my dad for a breath, his mouth a hard line and eyebrows low, heavy with rage. My father has little patience for hot tempers. That’s not to say he can’t get worked up. He just has the emotional intelligence to know when it’s safe to let it out and when it’s not.
I do my best to regroup, but without Theo on the field, Cameron gets doubled-up and the only other passing option I have—Devin Williams—is nursing a bad hamstring. He probably shouldn’t be on the field, but we don’t exactly have the biggest roster, and Devin’s as competitive as I am. I wish he was at a hundred percent. I could use his speed right now.
We’re able to get close to the original line of scrimmage after three downs and are forced to punt, giving Augustine decent field position. I come off the field and push my helmet up so it balances on my forehead. My dad barks his version of a pep talk at me as I walk by—“Our defense will get that ball back for you!”—but his words are meaningless. The only thing I see is Toby throwing the ball to stay warm on the other side of the bench. I hate that I have to share the field with him today.
My mini session of self-doubt and irritation is broken up as Theo rushes into that Raskin guy he had issues with in the locker room, smashing the side of his face with a helmet then sending him tumbling backward into the Gatorade table. Orange liquid spills into the grass and tiny white cups roll across the track, some catching in the breeze and traveling all the way to the snack bar at the end of the stands.
The crowd is a strange type of silent, occasional Ohs mouthed in unison as two of my teammates beat the shit out of each other. I rush over with Cameron and my dad, along with a few of the other guys, and we manage to pull Theo and Raskin apart.
My dad has Theo by the waist, his forearm flexed and digging into his gut as my teammate struggles to break free. When his arms and legs finally stop flailing, my dad lets go of his bear hug but spins Theo around so he is forced to look my father in the eyes. My dad orders him to the locker room, and as the seconds pass, Theo’s body relaxes more and more. He’s more willing to obey.
“He was talking shit about my sister,” Theo croaks out. His shoulders heave, his breathing still echoing his emotions.
“I understand, Theo, and I’ll deal with him. But this is not acceptable. This can’t happen on my field, you hear me?” my dad says.
Theo nods and my father unfurls his fist where it clings to his jersey. Before my friend can amp himself up again, I step in to lead in a different way. I throw an arm over his shoulders and urge him to walk with me—away from everyone.
“He was talking shit about Anika . . . and Lily,” Theo says, his voice raw. The hurt shows in his words. This was personal, and while I might not let things interrupt my work on the field, I can’t exactly begrudge Theo for letting in the noise. His circumstances are different . . . elevated. Tragic.
