Page 92 of The Change Up
I’m almost past a few lingering bystanders when more words slice through my body.
“Jesus, she’s nothing. Nothing more than someone to help release the stress of the game. She’s not the type you marry, soget off my back about it. I’ve told you that I don’t have time for distractions, and I refuse to let a girl get in the way of my game.”
Just a distraction?
Someone to help release the stress of the game?
She’s not the type you marry?
Bile rises in my throat, and I turn around to see Ty standing right behind me. By the look on his face and his clenched jaw, it’s obvious he heard everything I just did.
Walking straight into his arms, I let him lead me out of the stadium through a different entrance. Reaching into his pocket, he thumbs out something on his phone.
A few seconds pass, and he’s leading us toward a line of cars. I spot the Uber and climb in the backseat next to him.
“What do you need from me?”
“Nothing. I just want to go home.”
Ty pulls me into his side, and I rest my head against his shoulder. Digging out my cell phone, I pull up my dad’s number.
After a few rings, he answers. The sound of his voice causes the floodgates to open. “Daddy?”
“Amore Mia, what happened?” concern is evident in his voice, and I fight the sobs so he can hear me.
“I need a flight home.”
“Give me five minutes.”
And with that, he hung up the phone, and I let my emotions win.
Climbing the steps up to the bleachers with the team feels like it’s taking forever. Dread feels like a bowling ball in my stomach. Not one ounce of me is looking forward to this encounter with my parents.
As great of a game I just pitched, I can’t even be excited. I know that he’s just going to ruin it, so why even celebrate?
Reaching the top of the stairs, I turn to the left. Placing one foot in front of the other, I steal my face in a hardened expression.
Never let him see you sweat.
And the thing is, I’m not scared of him. I quit being scared of him a long time ago. The longer this has gone on for, the more I’ve realized he’s a coward. He hides behind his cruel words in his alcoholic haze. My dad is like a shark in the water. At the first scent of blood, he’s attacking anyone in his path.
What makes me nervous is him causing a scene in front of everyone. I don’t need the press catching wind that I’m the son of an emotionally abusive alcoholic father. I don’t need thedrama or the sympathy that comes with it. He doesn’t matter. What matters is my performance on and off the field.
Honey-blonde hair catches my attention, but I keep my stoic expression neutral. It’s killing me inside to remove myself from her. I want so badly to lift her in the air, spin her around, and plant my lips against her soft, rosy pink ones. She’s the one I want to be celebrating with.
“Well, there’s the golden boy,” my dad slurs, wobbling a bit.
Great, how many beers deep is he? And why didn’t they cut him off?
“Oh sweetie,” my mom greets, wrapping her arms around my shoulders as she tries to pull me in for a hug. “Great game tonight.”
With one arm, I return her hug. As I lean my head over her shoulders, I never take my eyes off my dad. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Great game? Could’ve been better,’ he grumbles from behind Mom. “It would have been better if he wasn’t busy holding hands.”
Pulling away from my mom, I steal my shoulders preparing for what’s to come.
“Made arrangements and paid all this money to get here only to watch him play a mediocre game against a less than mediocre team.”
