If you make every game a life and death thing, you’re going to have problems. You’ll be dead a lot.
–Dean Smith
Brent
I move through my life on autopilot. Numb. Exhausted.
Even spilling my guts at the press conference was a fog. I simply read a script Roger gave me. Roger spins it in a very effective “woe is me” way, garnering sympathy from everyone. A flood of well-wishes and emails came in right away. Now the entire world knows. About my heart, my mom, the surgery . . . my impotence. The fact that I won’t be signing a contract with the New York Sharks. The fact that I won’t be playing ball in the foreseeable future at all.
The press immediately asks questions about Bethany and Angela.
I can’t even fake a smile.
No comment.
In the days following the conference I finally call my brother and leave him a message, then he calls me back when I’m busy with doctors’ appointments.
Apparently, Bethany and Gwen talked.
“Dude. We’re in the middle of Nepal and I won’t be able to call you again until tomorrow.” Marc releases a gusty sigh. “Answer your phone. We need to talk. I love you. I want to kill you for keeping something like this from me.” He yells something in another language into the background before coming back on the line. “Just, please answer your phone if you can.” Pause. The sound of wind in the background. “Gwen talked to Bethany. She might have to move. She was a mess. She wouldn’t tell us everything. Just . . . call me. Okay? I’ll talk to you soon.”
I’ve let Roger handle all the fallout. I’ve been avoiding everyone and everything. Again. The thing I swore I wouldn’t do anymore? I’m doing it.
It’s time to man up and be the one to reach out.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Brent.” His voice is cool.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”
He must be in the car. Honking and the hum of traffic echo in the background.
But I don’t hear what I want. Words, from him. Not that I should have expected anything. He’s never been the best fatherly figure. Marc was more of a dad than he ever was.
Still. He’s family.
“I’m sorry about the deal and Angela and everything. I had to make a decision for my health and future. I’m going to live my life the way I choose and you can be a part of it or not. I hope you choose me. I love you, Dad. Marc does, too. We both wish you would love us more than the company. When you figure out what’s really important, if you ever do, please call me. Until then, I can’t be a part of your life.”
He’s still not speaking. I wouldn’t even know he heard me if not for the small hitch in his breathing.
“I’m having surgery in two weeks. I’ll be at Mount Sinai. I’ll . . . text you the details.” I hang up and take a deep breath.
I would be shocked if he cared enough to be there.
I’ll never understand my father. But it’s okay. I don’t need to cater to his whims anymore and the relief is instant, overwhelming, and . . . sad.
Sad for him, for me, for everything.
And there’s only one person I want to share it all with. I scroll through my contacts, thumb hovering over Bethany’s name. She must have gotten ahold of my phone at some point. She put “Bethany Nacho Beyotch Connell” as her contact name. I smile and shake my head.
Before I can click the button, the phone rings.
Roger.
“Hey, Roger.”
“We got some information on the person who sent your details to the press.”
“And?”
“The money was transferred to an account for Natasha Furmeyer. It might be an alias but do you recognize the name?”
I sit up, blood rushing from my head.
“Furmeyer?”
Steven’s girlfriend.
Natalie.
Natasha? I rub my head. This doesn’t make any sense.
Why would Natalie be selling my secrets to the press and how would she . . . ?
The intruder. The strange noises. The fact that someone had access to Bethany’s walls. Was it her this whole time? Did she overhear my conversation with Bethany at her apartment?
And that means Bethany . . .
“Shit.”
“What’s going on, Brent?”
“I don’t know. Hopefully nothing. I have to go.”
I hang up with him and call Bethany.
It goes to voicemail.
My stomach is churning.
I pull up the camera app.
There she is. At B’s door. I check out the time stamp. Two hours ago. No movement in or out since.
“Fuck!”
I run.