Page 53 of Right Up His Alley

Our three-hour drive, the constant one-sided championship chatter with my father, and our evening check-in left me pining for a comfortable bed. It feels like just a minute ago I could finally close my eyes.

And now, in the private suite I paid for, my father is harassing me to prepare for a championship game I half-heartedly want to bail on.

I don’t know why I consider myself the one who paid for this suite. Yes, I used my actual money, and, yes, the credit card the hotel swiped had my name written across it in sans-serif. But, from my father’s perspective, he paid for it. He put me here. The suite, the money, my career. If it weren’t for him, I would have none of it. So, of course he believes he has the right to access my room, to barge in wearing his crisp athletic quarter-zip and polyester performance pants like he owns the place. Because he does. He owns everything. Even me.

“We need to hit the gym before the qualifier. Get up.” He flips the light switch and yanks back the blackout curtains, flooding the room with a harsh, searing light. I wince and pull the blanket over my head.

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

He rips the blanket away, leaving me with nothing but my boxers on. “Not an option, Truett. Get dressed.”

I let out a long, suffering sigh and drag myself upright. My body feels heavy, weighed down by the inevitability of stress this man will cause me today. I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stretch my arms overhead, feeling the tight pull in my shoulders. I could really go for a massage right now.

“I don’t get why you always do this,” I mutter, standing and heading for my suitcase.

“Because discipline matters,” he says like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “You know that. It’s what separates the good from the great. And the great from the legendary.”

I dig out a pair of shorts and a nylon tee, pulling them on with slow, deliberate movements. If I go any slower, maybe he’ll get impatient and leave me behind.

He doesn’t.

Five minutes later, we step out into the hall. Even through my socks, I can tell the carpet is soft beneath my feet before I shove them into my sneakers. My father walks ahead like he expects me to fall in line, and like always, I do.

The gym is on the second floor, a high-end facility with gleaming equipment, towel service, and a smoothie bar. A few early risers are already here. Some business executives who want to get in a quick workout before their meetings, some die-hard fitness junkies who live for the grind, and I even see a couple of bowling acquaintances I’ve met before from previous tournaments.

I head straight for the treadmill, setting it to a moderate pace. My father hovers nearby, watching, judging. I know the routine. First cardio. Then weights. Then drills, if he decides I need them. The championship qualifier isn’t for another seven hours, but in his mind, the games start during morning workout preparation.

I pick up the pace, my feet striking the belt in a steady rhythm. My mind drifts, unfocused, as my body falls into autopilot. I put my father’s voice somewhere deep in my mind as he tells me to pace myself and think of my feet as bowling balls or whatever the fuck he’s going on about.

Instead, I pull a core memory from a couple days ago to the forefront. The little drop of sweat collected in the corner of my mouth reminds me of how Ezra tastes. How he graced my mouth with the pleasure I made him feel.

And, boy, was it a lot of fucking pleasure.

I then think of Ezra’s face, the one he made when he saw the furniture company replace the last kitchen appliance. When he looked at the brand-new top grill, he tried hard not to react. Like even the smallest sign of relief could break down the guard he’s put up for so long.

Knowing what I do now about how much stress he’s been under since his dad passed, I can’t deny seeing the slightest spark in his eye as he looked over the new appliances. It was faint, gone almost as soon as it appeared. But I knew what I was looking for. Like, just for a second, he might have believed things could turn out okay. That what we’re building together might be what saves his family’s legacy.

“I’m grabbing something for your mother,” he says abruptly, checking his watch. “She wants an iced cherry chai latte. With a shot of espresso vodka, of course.”

That pulls me out of my daze, and before I trip over my own feet, I grab the emergency stop cord. My pace stops abruptly. “It’s barely past seven.”

He shrugs. “She likes what she likes, when she likes it. You know your mother. She’s hard to say no to.”

Finally, something I can agree with him on.

He continues, “Keep going. You weren’t done with your full ten yet. I’ll be back soon.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

I let out a slow breath and start the treadmill back up, focusing on the rhythm of my stride. In, out. Left foot, right foot. If only my running could break away from all of this restraint. If my running was freer and could take me anywhere else but this damn tournament.

The gym is quiet except for the whir of machines and the occasional clink of weights hitting the floor. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here, Truett Thorne.”

I look over and see someone I feel like I should know. He’s average height, thin, with toned shoulders. He’s dressed in a sleeveless compression shirt, arms crossed like he’s been waiting for me to notice him. There’s something a little too cocky about him, especially with his short, wavy red hair left unkempt. I’ve seen him before. I’m sure of it. But I can’t place where, no matter how quickly I think through all the tournaments I’ve been in.

“I’ve been hoping to play against you ever since we met in San Diego,” he adds—thankfully, because without this extra context, the memory of his name would never have come to me.

Blaine Fisher.