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“Sheee-it.”
“You know how often I’m staring at Horton’s ass,” LaForge piped up. “Definitely thought of it once but then remembered it’s attached to his ugly mug.” He faux shuddered, and Horton hurled his wet towel, smacking LaForge in the side of the face.
“But seriously,” LaForge continued. “You couldn’t have, like, maybe blown Tucker’s back out or something before we played them last time? Helped us out a little?”
I dragged a hand down my face and rolled my eyes. While there was some relief that we were joking about this shit, I was still leery of talking about it, especially since the NFL had stepped in with their inquiry.
“Oh fuck, hold on a second,” Clancy said. “Is that what’s going on with your hip? Tucker knock it out of alignment?”
I snorted. “Nah, that was your dad. Or your mom.” I scratched my chin. “Both, maybe. Memory is kinda fuzzy now.”
“Dayum,” Barker said, and a fresh wave of laughter rang through the room. It felt fucking good. A tiny moment of levity that I soaked in, suspecting it wouldn’t last.
We finished getting dressed, and as we walked out, LaForge wrapped an arm around my shoulder, voice dropping to a confidential tone.
“I think it’s gonna be alright, bro. Just keep kicking ass, and we’ll all do the same. It’ll get figured out.”
For the second time in a month, a lump formed in my throat, and I nodded since I didn’t trust myself to speak.
He grinned and nudged me. “Don’t let Clancy see you like this. He’ll probably ask to use your tears as lube or something.”
* * *
After the inquiry was announced,I’d spoken with my parents, and they checked in here and there but mostly left me alone. Maybe because it was what they’d always done or maybe because they were worried I’d reflect badly on them. I had no fucking clue. Candice, however, messaged me daily, telling me to hang in there or sent a stupid meme that never failed to make me smile. I looked forward to those. Not so much the missed call from my dad. As I headed home, I punched the callback, ready to get it over with.
“Patrick,” my dad said in his standard confident businessman tone when I answered. “How’s it going, son?”
I blinked. How’s it going? That wasn’t standard.
“It’s going,” I replied hesitantly. “How’s New York?”
“Smoggy as ever.” He cleared his throat. “Listen, I was thinking about this inquiry thing.” Inquiry thing, like it was just a passing gnat and not a hornet’s nest capable of ending mine and Malik’s careers. “It could be worthwhile if we put a little pressure on the inquiry committee. Remind them who we are. We’ve got a lot of lawyer connections, Patrick. A lot of connections, in general. Couldn’t hurt.”
“What?” I spluttered, halfway between a laugh and a groan. “Dad, this isn’t a business deal. That shit doesn’t fly in this world.”
He chuckled. “It flies everywhere. You’d be surprised.”
“No. No fucking way,” I said, and then realized I was shaking my head vehemently while driving alone in my own car. “You want to talk about bad looks, that would be one. Someone runs a story about how the Whitts bribed the NFL? That’s ridiculous.”
“We wouldn’t bribe them. Hell, we could buy the Royals if it came to that.”
Had the man been drinking? Had a stroke? Lost his damn mind? “Not only is that not necessary, but it would just do more damage. They’re not going to find anything. Neither of us were cheating in any way whatsoever. I already told you that.”
“Well, you know how it is with these kinds of things…guilty until proven innocent.”
I gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Thanks, but I’m good. Seriously, don’t get involved; just let me handle it. If this inquiry doesn’t kill my career, that definitely would.”
There were a few beats of silence, and then my dad said quietly, “I don’t want that. I know how important football has always been to you. And I hope you know there’s not a bone in my body, or your mom’s, that thinks you did anything wrong. A bit messy in the execution, perhaps, but…not wrong.”
He’d never spoken to me that way in my life, and while I was tempted to go down a rabbit hole of a thousand things that might have motivated him to say something like that, in the end, I said the only thing I could say. “Thank you.” I meant it.
* * *
“He must have beenhigh as fuck,” Tucker said when we hopped on FaceTime later. “That fancy millionaire shit. Probably comes from some private stash grown in a cave on Mt. Olympus.”
“Watered with the tears of virgins.”
“And the blood of third-generation warriors for extra potency.”
