Page 11 of Manhattan Tormentor

I climb from the shower, scrubbing my hair with a towel as I scowl at myself in the mirror.

Disgusted at where my mind is.

Wondering what Damsel is doing.

Speculating if I’ll see him today.

There’s a clutch in my belly I put down to a tapeworm because I won’t admit it is the anticipation of seeing that face.

I hate him.

He’s so aloof, and above anyone else, like he’s a fucking god looking down at his subjects.

It doesn’t matter how much I mess with him; he rarely rises to the bait.

The guy is a robot.

Avoiding my parents, my dad especially, I prowl through the house.

It’s a six million dollar townhouse on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, it’s not as though we’re on top of each other. He usually stays on the other side of the house in his office. But it’s my luck he hears me today when I can’t be assed to listen to yet another of his fucking lectures about college.

I ignore him calling out my name. Grabbing an apple and a double fist of the housekeeper’s soda bread, I head out with my sports bag slung over my shoulder.

It’s not 6 a.m. when I arrive at the school gym.

This isn’t my future career.

I like football, I’m good at it, but it’s not what brings pleasure to my life.

Unless you talk to my dad, who makes out like I will be Brady from back in the 20s.

Football has been something to pass the time. Sure, it pissed me off when Theo Fierro got all the quarterback adulation. I refuse to admit he was better than I am.

It’s me in the QB jersey now, and while it lasts, I milk the adoration. I’m a healthy man with a good working ego. No one says no to hero worshipping.

Dad wants me to go to the University of Alabama. As far as he’s concerned it’s the best school to get me noticed by scouts. He thinks I’m happy about it, but he’s unaware that I applied for NYU’s photography program.

WW3 is in my future, I can sense that shit coming when he finds out.

Today, I lift weights and run my miles. Coach has me run practices with next season’s players, passing on my wisdom, I soak in their shiny devotion like the prick I am.

See. I know what I am.

I never claimed to be an angel. I don’t act like one either.

I’m smart. Earning a good GPA through sheer ball-busting hard work.

My dating app bio would say I enjoy most sportsandpartying.

If me and my crew don’t have a party to go to every weekend, I’d go crazy. It’s the only thing that’s been getting me through the pressure.

Between the heavy weight of my dad’s expectations and the other shit on my mind, I need an outlet.

I use drinking and chicks like a woman on her period uses chocolate to feel better.

What the fuck ever, I’m not perfect. Refer back to the prick claim.

Bates catches up to me as I head out of the gym. He has a free ride scholarship to Wagner playing baseball. He slings his arm around my neck and grins. “What up, brosky. We skipping out?”

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