Page 27 of Habits

“Good evening to you, too, Father.”

John Hill enters the living room, his tall, imposing frame dressed in a top-notch, three-piece suit that probably costs more than the average income of a middle-class household. And that’s without including his shoes or watch.

His cold, green eyes take me in, jaw tightening in irritation. Even though he’s in his early fifties, he still looks good. Golf and the occasional visit to the gym keep him in shape. Light brown hair, peppered with grays, is neatly cut, thanks to his sacred first-Monday-of-the-month haircuts. A light five o’clock stubble colors his cheeks and taut jawline.

“It would have been even better if I didn’t find my underage son intoxicated in my living room. I guess I should be thankful you’re at home and not wandering around the town, where only God knows who’d see you. Marijuana, Andrew, really?”

My soft chuckle turns into a full-on laugh. I’m laughing so hard, the freshly poured drink spills over the rim of the glass. “Trying to play Daddy of the Year suddenly, John? What gives?”

“Can’t a father just be worried about his son?”

His face is so straight, collected and composed, almost … almost worried even. For a minute, I actually believe him. I let myself believe him. The image of the guy he once was enters my mind. The way his big, light smile could brighten a room. How his laugh was so strong it echoed all around. Whether I wanted it or not, I would eventually crack a smile myself. How he used to take me to the park and to the rink, where we would play for hours. Then I blink and remember who my father is. First-class lawyer. Con. Politician. Liar.

Taking a pull from the blunt, I put it out in the ashtray. “Try again, old man.”

“Okay.” He walks toward the bar, where he pours himself a glass of Scotch. Only the best for daddy dearest. “If you want it that way.”

“If I want it that way?” I take a swig of my drink, pointing a finger at him, suddenly fuming with rage. “You’re the one who’s never around. You left, just like she did, and now you have the gall to act all worried?! Well don’t bother, because you’re so beyond repair they wouldn’t give you the Worst Father of the Year award, much less anything else.”

My chest is rising and falling violently. And here I thought this day couldn’t get any worse. Five minutes in the same room with John Hill is all you need to remind you there is always worse.

“Don’t you talk to me like that, young man. No matter what, I’m still your father.”

“And a shitty one at that.” I can’t resist biting out.

“Andrew,” he drawls, his voice irritated and resigned at the same time. “You should know by now that the elections are next year and I’m a strong candidate for mayor. This year will be crucial for me. For us.”

I roll my eyes at his melodramatics. There is no ‘us.’ Hasn’t been for years. He just needs me to play the part so he can get what he wants. Typical John Hill.

“Taking that into consideration, I need you to stop acting like a spoiled rich kid and step up to the Hill name.” He looks pointedly at the glass still crushed in my hand and the blunt already forgotten in the ashtray. “No more wild parties. No more drinking. No more drugs. No more causing problems and fights. Keep clean. Focus on school, hockey and college.”

I smirk. “And what if I don’t?”

His face becomes grim, a shadow falling over it. “Then we won’t have a nice chit-chat like we’re having now. We’re Hills, Andrew. Failure is not an option.”

“Of course not,” I deadpan.

We Hills do everything we have to—steal, lie and cheat—just to get to the top. And if you’re in our way? God have mercy on your soul.

“Are we done here?” I don’t wait for his answer. I have to get out of here. If I don’t, I’ll punch him in his presumptuous, pompous face.

Just as I reach the door, he stops me yet again.

“Oh, and Andrew?” I stop, not turning around to look at him. “There will be some events I’ll need you to attend. It’ll look good in the press.”

“Of course,” I mutter, stalking away.

Because why else would a father want to spend time with his son?

Jeanette

“Ouch.” I wince, looking as one of the Wolf players slides down the Plexiglas. He was just pushed by the opposite team’s player, who skated away like nothing happened.

“That’s a foul!” Brook screeches next to me.

For a girl who didn’t follow hockey until a few weeks ago, she sure is opinionated.

“There are no fouls in hockey.” I roll my eyes at her.

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