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“Yeah, because this time—” he said mockingly, “it’ll work. Right? Fuck treatment. I’m fine. I’ll stop when I’m ready to stop.”
I crossed my arms. “Okay, so I’m supposed to sit here until you decide it’s time to quit? Should I call my coaches and the owners and let them know I won’t be finishing off the year?”
“Alexis, I really don’t care. Do whatever the fuck you want. You do anyway. It’s just a matter of fuckin’ time before you do something else stupid. It hasn’t been that long since you sailed off on a houseboat into the Pacific and missed how many games? You remember that, don’t you? How I had to smooth it over and get you onto a new team?”
My stomach churned, and I wanted to burst out into tears.
“And then you go off and get married in Vegas—” his voice rose louder, “before you even play one fuckin’ game! What’s next, kid? Huh? How long until you fuck up next and then come calling Daddy to fix everything for you?”
I shook my head, and blinked away the tears I felt threatening behind my eyes. “Nice, Dad. Real nice. So, now I’m supposed to give up on my dreams—” my voice hitched, “our goddamn dreams, Dad. How am I going to get to the Olympics if I have to drop out before the playoffs even start? The Olympic coaches won’t even consider me.”
“Pfft,” he said and leaned forward. He grabbed the bottle of rye on the table and poured some into his glass. “You’re not going to the fucking Olympics.” He tossed back the entire contents of his glass in two quick swallows. “The sooner you accept that fact,” he hissed, “the better.”
Yeah.
Dad was a real jerk when he used.
Even though I knew the asswipe sitting on the couch in front of me was not my father right now—his words still freaking stung.
He'd been coaching me since the day I was born, encouraging me and telling me how one day, I was going to play in the Olympics.
And I knew this because I’d watched a home video of him telling me that when I was barely minutes old.
And since then, never a week went by without him reminding me of where I was going to end up.
Playing in the Olympics.
Just like him.
Like father, like daughter.
He taught me how to shoot—just like him.
And I wanted to be—just like him.
Except for when he was acting like a complete and total jerkface.
Like now.
“I take it that’s a no on going to treatment?” I said sarcastically, trying my best not to cry.
I swallowed down my pride. “Daddy, please,” I lowered my voice and pleaded one last time, “can you do this one little thing for me? Just this once. Even if you don’t think you need it. Can you, please, please, please go?”
“Go away, I’m sick and tired of your fucking nagging.” Then he filled his glass.
I turned around and saw Trey’s eyes on me. I’d nearly forgotten he was here.
“Lex, let’s go. You’re going to be late.”
I laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
But because what he’d said was so ludicrous—all I could do was laugh.
“Yeah, I’m going to be really late.” I walked around and shut the doors and windows. I felt the weight of my father’s addiction on my shoulders, and I really wanted to go back downstairs and cry for an hour.
Instead, I had to sit around and wait him out.
