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1
MORGAN
Is this day ever gonna freakin’ end? It sure doesn’t feel like it as I squirm against the sticky leather seat of the golf cart, extending my legs fully over the dash. Even in what should be a comfortable enough position, I can’t relax. The heavy, humid air shows no mercy, so even out of the sun, under the cart’s roof cover, just being outside is enough to make me miserable. But it’s the same conversation, on repeat once again that wears on my last nerve.
“If he doesn’t play, Saint Juliet Academy is screwed. We may as well forfeit the entire season.” Dad makes his plea once again to his assistant coach, the pitiful chump who’s worked all summer to accomplish Dad’s ridiculous request of getting a replacement QB since his star quarterback broke his precious throwing arm.
If only my dad cherished the people he shares a home with as much as he does his players or the prized state championship he’s been after since assuming the head coach role at Saint Juliet a few years ago. It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that it’s the only position he cares to focus on.
“The kid’s shown up for every practice since we got his brother on board. Mark my words—Cade Crawford will be on the field. And if not, we’ll figure out a way to persuade him to be,” Paul says with a tone that clearly indicates he’s got no qualms breaking more than a few rules. Rules that were put in place to avoid players from being “persuaded” to play for the wrong reasons. And I’m sure Dad one hundred percent agrees with Paul’s methods.
“Well, he didn’t show up today. Sweeten the deal. I need him or all this shit is pointless.” Dad tosses his 7 iron, highlighting his frustration. The steel club hits the grass with a thud. And he claimsI’m the dramatic one.
Well, he’s not wrong about that one. I am dramatic. But I haven’t thrown anything. Today. “Can we go now?” My question is lost on Dad as he picks up the club and continues on his recruitment quest.
My brother, however, is happy to kill my dream of getting out of the stifling heat. “Stop whining. You wanted to come.”
“Yeah. For one round, which we finished an hour ago.” Since then, Dad and Paul have stood on the driving range of Crescent Fleur Country Club, running their mouths but not actually taking more than a handful of shots. “And usually by now, you’d be the one crying to go home. Why is today different?”
Hm. I hadn’t thought of that until now. Usually, Ryder grumbles about the heat or the game or something equally annoying that starts an argument with Dad before I even have a chance to complain.
“No difference. I’m just enjoying this fabulous sunny day before we’re imprisoned in the classroom tomorrow.”
“Bullshit. This weather fuckin’ sucks. It feels like we’re simmering in Lucifer’s ass crack.”
Ryder leans towards me and takes a quick sniff before scrunching his nose. “You smell like it too.”
“Not gonna work.” He’s trying to piss me off to distract me from something. Lifting my legs, my skin pulls away from the sticky dash as I drop my feet down and sit up, glancing around the area and down the line of players. There’re less members than normal around, but one catches my eye. His long, lean body, perfectly aligned from the start to finish of his swing, is hard to miss. And as much as Ryder wants to pretend he’s not paying attention, I’d bet he knows the exact form of said perfection. Harrison. “Ah. Pathetic,” I snicker, waiting for Ryder’s reaction.
And he obliges. “You’re fucking pathetic, not him.”
I laugh, watching as Harrison sends another ball gliding through the air. “I wasn’t talking abouthim. I was talking aboutyou.”
Ryder isn’t sharing my humor. “Fuck off.”
“Right after you stop stalking Harrison and go talk to him.”
Ryder glances at Dad. “Nah. I’m good.”
“What? It’s not like Dad gives a damn.” He can’t. It has nothing to do with his precious title or glory days. And Dad has already shown that having a son who sucks at football is the ultimate strike to his ego. Dad’s, not Ryder’s. Because God forbid the former NFL player have a son who doesn’t follow in his footsteps and represent the King legacy. Which is what I believe Dad’s pathetic obsession with the silly high school state championship title is all about. It’s the closest he’ll come to his past glory days.
“No, but he’ll still make a point to interrupt and talk to Harrison about something sports related.”
“That’s nothing but an excuse to stalk him from a distance. Dad is too busy trying to suck Crawford’s dick to worry about whose dick you’re sucking.”
“Fucking drop it, Morgan.”
“That’s the plan.” I glance around, noting Dad is definitely not concerned about us or leaving anytime soon. Stepping off the golf cart, I look back at my brother before walking towards Harrison.
“What the fuck are you doing?” My brother’s gritted words tell me he’s pissed, and that just makes it that much more enjoyable when Harrison looks my way as I walk over.
“Nice form.” I don’t have to look over my shoulder to know Ryder is standing just behind me because I’d feel his fury from a mile away. “Ryder needs help with his swing.” It’s the truth. Ryder sucks at golf as much as he does at football. Another distressing point for Dad.
My golf game is great. Top-notch in fact. But I was counted out at birth; the moment Dad realized his firstborn dared to have a vagina. He was arguably even more disappointed when his second child, although a boy, didn’t have a knack for the game. Surprisingly, Ryder doesn’t seem to give two shits about Dad or his opinion. Wish I could say the same.
“I don’t need any help.” Ryder’s hand grips my forearm, tugging me. But I plant myself in place.
“Liar,” I snicker.
