I sit because my legs are shaking and if I don't sit I'll fall, and I'd rather sit than fall in front of him.
He pushes coffee across the island. I don't touch it.
“I spoke to Callahan at nine.”
“I don't care.”
His mug lowers to the marble.
“I need you to listen, Theo.”
“I don't care what you need.”
My voice comes out flat. I don't recognise it. Paul's hand tightens around his mug.
“Maddox is going to Blackridge.”
The toast in my throat goes sideways. I haven't eaten the toast. The toast is on the plate.
I mean, the air in my throat goes sideways.
“What.”
“Blackridge Reapers signed him. Two-year deal. It'll be announced Monday. He's flying out tomorrow morning for a physical.”
I stare at him.
“How do you know.”
“I know because Callahan knows. Because our league is small. Because his agent called Matt Orrick last night from the arena parking lot, and Matt Orrick called one of our scouts who played with him in college, and the scout called Callahan at seven this morning. I know because it's been decided. He'll be four hundred miles from here by Monday night, Theo. He is not coming back.”
The kitchen gets very quiet.
My hands are in my lap. I am looking at the toast I haven't eaten. I am thinking about how Maddox's voice sounded when he saidwait for me, backward through a corridor, with security hands on his arms, and I am trying to match the voice that saidwait for mewith the man who is apparently on a plane to Blackridge tomorrow morning.
I breathe. Four in. Four out.
“Was he going to tell me?”
“He can't tell you, Theo. He knows better than to call you. My guy outside has orders to turn him away if he shows up. He knows it. His people know it. This is the cleanest exit foreverybody, and the cleanest exit means you don't say goodbye. I'm sorry. That's the part that hurts. It's the part that's going to heal.”
My face is wet. I didn't know it had started. I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand and I look at my father.
“You don't get to tell me what's going to heal.”
“Theo—”
“You don't get to tell me anything. You don't know anything. You don't know him. You don't know me. You don't know what we are to each other. You have been wrong about me my whole life and you are wrong about me now and I am never,never,going to sit in this kitchen and let you be the voice that tells me what's real.”
He opens his mouth. He closes it.
I stand up. The stool scrapes.
“I'm going to call Aunt Diane.”
“Theo—”
“I'm going to call Aunt Diane, and she's going to come over, and you are going tobe herewhen she does.”
