And so I focus.
Instead of drinking, I head to the fitness center in this tower. I run until my lungs burn, until my legs hurt, and then I run some more, because feeling the pain of a heavy workout is better than the pain of whatever is buried beneath the surface that I haven’t allowed myself to explore yet. I don’t want to explore it. I want to focus on the physical pain instead.
It’s unhealthy, I know. At some point, I need to deal with the anger and the emotions burrowing on the inside. I’ll get there. Just not today.
The message light is flashing when I return to my room. I unplug the phone.
I raid the minibar, and when I wake up in the morning, it’s with regrets. So I pull open my laptop and dive into foundation work. I sit on my balcony as I work, checking up on Archway and looking through the information on the foundation my mother left to me when she died. It’s really just money meant to start something new, and I do a little research and make some calls to try to figure out exactly what I want to do with it.
Since I already have one that’s sports-related in Archway, I want to try a different angle for this one. I think about what landed me here and what I could do to show the world that the paper I signed for my father isn’t who I am as a man.
And that’s when it hits me.
A quiet revenge. A fix for a problem my family caused. One more thing to separate me from my father’s goddamnlegacy.
I call my lawyer first.
“Mr. Bradley,” he answers formally.
“Mr. Donovan,” I mirror.
“What can I do for you?”
“I had an idea for the foundation my mother left me,” I begin. I launch into the details, and he stops me pretty much right away.
“Gambling addiction? Are you serious right now?”
“Dead serious, Wes. This is what I need to do. My family’s entire empire was built on gambling. I’m sitting out forty games because of it, and in all honesty, I can’t sit here believing my mother condoned it all those years. So it would honor her memory.”
“While getting revenge on your father,” he says flatly.
“Not the intended effect, but a definite benefit. I want to help people who are stuck in a cycle created by people like my father,” I say.
“I’d have to do some research on this, Archer, but in all honesty, I can’t think of a single player whose foundation benefits gambling addicts.”
“That makes me an original in the field, then.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s a huge risk that won’t pay off,” he points out.
“How will helping others in any capacity not pay off?”
“Because of the timing. You’re in timeout because of something tied to gambling, so it’ll look like damage control. If you put your name in the same headline as gambling, you’re pushing the narrative that you yourself have a problem.”
“I don’t care about the optics. I care about doing something good to offset the shitty things my father has done.”
“I’ll get someone on the research right away,” he says. “But talk to your agent first. Make sure it’s a good idea before you proceed.”
It doesn’t matter what my agent says, or what my publicist says. This is what I’ve decided I want to do, and once my mind is made up, there’s literally nothing that’s going to change it.
I spend the next few days either in the fitness center or in my suite. When I need something, I text Clive. I sit out on the balcony for fresh air, and I head to the fitness center for a solid six hours each day to keep my thoughts at bay. I run, lift, stretch, and sit in the sauna.
I pay for someone to come to my room to give me massages, ignoring the twinge in my soul every time I climb onto the portable table. The resort staff even set up a batting cage for me in a private area that the public can’t access, and I’ve been punishing myself in there, too.
It's been six days since the massage table excursion, and I haven’t seen her. I’ve actively avoided being seen, actually, and it has definitely been better for my mental health.
She’s knocked on my door a few times. I haven’t answered it.
Clive told me she asked about me, but he didn’t give her any information.
