Page 22 of All This Time
I pat my stomach. “You know it. Less for me to work off later.”
“Smart.” He slides the glass over to me. “You had one hell of a season this past year,” he says. “It’s a shame about the playoffs, though.”
“The team just wasn’t jiving,” I say as I lift my drink to my mouth.
“He can blame it on the team all he wants, but the truth is, without a quarterback who can make the pass and a wide receiver who can find his mark, they didn’t stand a chance.” The voice behind me makes myhackles rise. His monstrous hand comes down on my shoulder. “Huh, son?”
I glare at him over my shoulder as he takes the seat next to me, the smell of beer wafting off him. I wonder how many he’s already had.
“You know that more than anyone, right,Dad?” He doesn’t hear the jab I intended, judging by the mile-wide grin on his lips.
He turns to Justin. “Yeah, I guess I might know a thing or two about the game.”
Justin humors him. “Trust me. I feel like I’m standing in front of football royalty right now. Anything you two say I’ll take as gospel.”
My father slaps me on the back again. “I don’t know about Fletcher here. He’s still too green to know the game the way his father did, and I still don’t see a ring on his finger.”
My teeth grind together as I fight with myself not to say anything in return—because being the son of Luke Adams, one of the best quarterbacks to play the game in his time—comes with never-ending criticism and competition, among other things.
Justin nods toward me. “I don’t know about that, sir. Fletcher is killing it. He’s the top wide receiver in the league.”
My dad takes a sip of his beer and then studies me. “Interesting. Last I checked he was number two.”
I pick up my tea and start to chug, wishing it was alcohol and thankful that it’s not at the same time—because then I’d be dealing with my issues the same way he does. When I’m done drinking the entire glass, I set it down and move to stand, fishing my wallet from my back pocket so I can pay and get as far away from this man as possible.
When I walked into Blossom Brews today, the goal was to just kill some time before I meet up with Elliot later about wedding shit. But after only a few minutes in my father’s presence, I can think of a million other places I’d rather go.
“Thanks for the tea, Justin.” I throw a twenty on the bar and move to leave, but my dad reaches out to grab my arm.
“Where are you going?”
“Oh you know, the usual. Going to study some game tape.”
“Don’t mock me,” he growls just low enough that only the two of us can hear.
I glare at him over my shoulder as I shake my arm free from his grasp. “I wouldn’t dream of it,Dad.”
“Fletcher…” he draws out, and for a moment, he almost sounds sincere. But I know better. “Would it kill you to just be thankful for everything that I’ve taught you?”
And there it is. The classic Luke Adams cocktail—one part gaslighting, two parts self-congratulation, topped with a twist of emotional manipulation. According to him, my success on the road to the NFL had nothing to do with my hard work and everything to do with his athleticism, his knowledge of the game, and his tough love that ultimately made me a better player and man.
Jesus. What a load of shit.
“Nice to see you, Dad,” I say instead of the countless rebuttals I’ve rehearsed over the years. I walk away, swallowing the bitterness he always leaves behind.
Chapter 6
Laney
Popcorn, Lies, and Thank-Yous
“Did you get the popcorn machine to work, Dad?” Holding the stack of red and white striped cardboard buckets, I head across the grass in his direction. People are already starting to arrive, claiming spaces on the lawn and laying down blankets, trying to get the best spot to view the projector screen in the courtyard.
My father straightens from behind the old red steel popcorn cart, adjusting his pants and wiping the sweat from his brow. “I think so.” A beat later, the sound of popping kernels fills the air, and his mouth spreads into a proud grin. “See? She’s still got it.”
I set the buckets on the table beside the cart. “But what happens when it doesn’t work the next time?”
“Then I fix it again.”
