tenfold. I’m his son. How can he believe I was capable of doing such a thing? Doesn’t he know me at all? Guess not.
“Oh, you’re not a cheater, huh? Then what do you call this?!” he shouts from the top of his lungs, throwing my failed dope tests on the ground.
Hmm.
What can I call a piece of paper that proves my steroid use? Do I call it my penance for being a manipulative bastard in trying to right a wrong? Or do I define it as my own karma kicking my ass for being an unfeeling asshole all these years?
Perhaps neither.
After all the lives I’ve ruined, I think I can only call this scathing, false document The Society’s way of reminding me exactly what I deserve.
And maybe they are right. By all accounts, I should be behind bars for all the criminal things I’ve done. My freedom should be ripped from me, and my reputation tarnished beyond repair. I sure as shit don’t feel like I deserve any better. Not when the woman I love hates my guts, thinking I jeopardized her chances for the future she always envisioned. Not when she spends her days hating me while I wallow in my misery, loving her.
Missing her.
“You haven’t let the boy even explain himself,” my mother pleas again on my behalf. However, at this point, I really wish she wouldn’t.
“What is there to explain? He got lazy and thought he could cheat his way into the NFL. You should be down on your knees, thanking Ryland and me for convincing the lab to destroy your results—for a price, I might add. If word got out that my son needed to shoot up to win a game, I’d never hear the end of it. But you’re still a liability, and Ryland is too astute to let you embarrass the school by keeping you on the team. I can’t fault the man for protecting his interests. I’m just ashamed you were so careless to not do the same to yours.”
“Hank, you are blowing things out of proportion. Montgomery said that Finn could play ball as long as we did a private test each week to prove he’s clean. Benching him for a few games is not the end of the world,” my mother defends, trying hard to settle my father’s concerns.
“I’m not doing the tests,” I mumble. “I’m quitting the team.”
“What did he just say?” my father asks my mother in outrage, only to snap his head back in my direction. “What did you just say to me, boy?!”
“You heard me. I said I’m quitting the team. I never wanted to go Pro. That was always your dream, not mine.”
With those words still piercing through his eardrum, he throws the tumbler of bourbon against the wall, making my mother jump back, clasping her trembling hands over her mouth to keep her horrified shriek at bay.
I, however, keep my footing steady, not one bit intimidated by his fury. I’m done with his bullshit. I’m done with football and every expectation he ever had for me. But most importantly, I’m done being The Society’s butt boy.
They thought this would break me? Did they really believe that my father kicking me out or disowning me would be the thing that would cripple me? Or that making me look like another steroid-filled jock would ruin me? Is that what they thought?
Idiots, the lot of them.
They had already succeeded in breaking me. This extra bit of hell doesn’t compare to the one I’ve been living in since they went after Stone. I couldn’t give two flying fucks that they threatened my place on the team, or made me gain my father’s wrath.
I was already a mess of a man when the one person who knew me—really knew me—gave up on me. When Stone told me she loved me, with hate seeped deep in her gorgeous eyes, I died that day. There is no pain greater than seeing the person you love in such tremendous agony, thinking you are the cause of their suffering.
This little sideshow act of theirs does nothing for me. The first shot already pierced a bullet through my heart. Why waste extra ammunition when they got the job done in their first go of it?
“Charlene, by all that is holy, get this boy out of my house before I strangle him.”
“But, Hank—”
“Now!” he yells, his face turning an ugly shade of red.
“Don’t bother. I can show myself out,” I quip, turning my back to him