Page 73 of Bad Wolf

“Oh my God,” I groan.

“You’re going to call Coach right now and tell him you need a personal day. Tell him to expect you on that ice tomorrow with an apology and a mindset fit for playing on his team. He’ll agree you need the time. I guarantee it.”

Fuck, what a mess.

“John will handle most of it. He’s your agent and that’s what you’re paying him to do, but I think you’ll take a lot of heat after this. And I’m about to go for the jugular here, Son, you need to do some damage control with Jack. Coralie’s been calling all night. The way you’ve lost control…it’s not the answer. Not the Madden way,”

I nod. I caused unnecessary drama last night in front of seventeen thousand fans and a million more on TV. And most importantly—my nephew.

I fucked up.

“Go call Coach Kelly, take a shower while I heat up this breakfast your Mama sent with me and then we’ll talk.”

“I don’t wanna talk.” I walk off like the scolded kid I am, muttering about why I can’t just be left alone and grumbling about taking orders from my dad at twenty-four.

After an embarrassing phone call to Coach and stalling in the shower for as long as I can, I make my way back out into the kitchen feeling slightly less moldy.

He scans me like he’s frickin’ robocop and then nods for me to take a seat at the counter, pushing what looks like all my favorite breakfast items piled high on the plate towards me.

“Did she put the—”

“Velveeta in the grits? Yeah, she did.” He shakes his head, “I don’t know how you can eat that stuff.”

I let my stomach do the talking for the next few minutes, and once I’ve eaten the whole plate, I throw the now cold coffee back too.

“What are we dealing with here, Knox, is it just alcohol? Are you flat-out hungover or is there more to this? And don’t even think about lying to me.”

I shake my head no and his eyes widen,

“I mean, no this is just plain old vodka. Straight up.”

I’m stupid, sure, but I’m not dumb enough to touch drugs. I’m ashamed to say I’ve thought about it a lot though and how I might get away with it.

“Come on then, put your plate in the sink, and let’s go.”

“Go? Where are we goin’?”

“To get some fresh air.”

We make our way out of the building and onto the street and then he takes off at a jog.

“Dad, no. I can’t run after all that food.”

“Sure you can, Ace, now get,” He taunts, using my nickname to get a reaction out of me.

He and Mama started it when they realized I could turn my hand to any sport. Or heard I could carry a tune better than anyone else in my family. When they found out I was an outrageous flirt and could charm my way out of almost anything.

And it stuck.

The retired vet goads me as he gets further away, and I quicken my steps until I’m keeping pace. Then he speeds up and I take the silent challenge.

My stomach rolls and pressure starts to bloom in my head as I squint against the sun, even with sunglasses on.

By the time we hit the park, he’s in full sprint mode, and even under the hangover and the messiness in my head, his chirps and challenges ignite the natural competitiveness we were all born with.

He continues on and on and I fight the need to hurl until I can’t take it anymore and unload into a nearby trash can.

“Jesus, Dad.” I gasp and spit.

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