If the Sun Never Sets (If Love 2)

A glint on his wrist caught Blake’s eye. “What is that?”

His father glowered at him. “What’s what?”

Blake jutted his chin toward the item that had captured his attention. He’d asked a silly question because he knew what it was. It was a gold Patek Philippe timepiece with a brown alligator strap and the number 50 custom-engraved on the back of its case.

Blake knew because he’d bought it for his father’s fiftieth birthday.

Discomfort filled Joe’s face. “It’s a watch.”

“It’s the watch I gave you for your fiftieth. You’re wearing it.”

“Of course I’m wearing it,” Joe snapped. “It’s a watch. What else am I supposed to do, eat it?”

“You’ve never used any of the presents I’ve gotten you in the past.”

The golf clubs Blake had bought for Joe’s forty-eighth birthday, collecting dust.

The rare whiskey he’d bought for his forty-sixth birthday, unopened.

The birthday cards he drew when he’d been too young to buy presents, tossed.

“How would you know? You don’t come home often enough to know what the hell I use.”

Blake’s nostrils flared. “Don’t try to guilt-trip me. That bottle of whiskey was still unopened last time I checked, and I was home two months ago. Four years after I gifted it to you.”

“It’s a nice whiskey. I’m saving it for a special occasion.”

“The golf clubs?”

“I used them until Rick moved away. He’s the only one of my friends who played.” Joe scowled. “Why the hell are we talking about this?”

“Because.” Blake curled his thumbs around the edge of his desk. The smooth oak seared into his skin until he was sure you could see the wood grains etched across his fingers if he released them. “Nothing I give or do is good enough for you.”

Shock glittered in Joe’s eyes. He stopped fussing with his tie and collapsed into his seat again. “Is that what you think? That you’re not good enough?”

“You’ve never given me any indication otherwise,” Blake said bitterly. “The only thing I’m good at is football, remember?”

His father’s reaction when he’d told him he wanted to start a sports bar all those years ago had burned itself into its memories.

You know nothing about running a business. A sports bar? C’mon. There are a million sports bars out there. Take it from someone who’s been around a lot longer than you have, son: stick to what you’re good at. You’re good at football. That’s it.

Joe grimaced.

“I guess only being an NFL superstar is good enough for you. All this—” Blake swept his arm around his large office. “Doesn’t mean shit. You will always hate me for not living out the dreams you couldn’t live yourself.”

Joe had played college ball too, until a torn ACL forced him to quit before he could go pro. He’d turned to fitness coaching as a consolation career, but from the moment Blake threw his first perfect spiral at age seven, he’d piled expectation upon expectation on his son until Blake buckled beneath the weight. Joe relived his glory through Blake until it came time for the thing he wanted most: the NFL. Blake quit before the draft and squashed his father’s dreams of a pro football career by proxy.

“I don’t hate you,” Joe bit out. “You’re my son.”

“Only by blood.” Blake flashed a sardonic smile. “You could barely stand to look at me. Not even on your fiftieth birthday.”

“It’s because I’m ashamed, okay?” Joe exploded. “That’s why I can’t look you in the eye!”

Had Blake not been sitting, he would’ve tumbled to the floor. Shock swelled in his throat, cutting off his air supply.

Joe’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “I’ll admit, I was pissed when you quit football. You were a unique talent, Blake. One in a million. I thought you were throwing your future away for a pipe dream. I didn’t hate you for it; I was worried about you. Figured you needed some tough love to help you pull your head out of your ass before you were stuck, miserable, and in debt.” His lips twisted into a wry smile. “Luckily, you proved me wrong. But when you invited me to the opening…” He tapped his fingers on his thigh, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “It seemed wrong to celebrate and act the role of proud father when I had been such a…well, less than stellar one. I’d tried to hold you back every step of the way, and you succeeded despite me, not because of me. I didn’t want to leech off your success—not when I had nothing to do with it. So, I stayed away. It’s not because I hate you. You’re my son. I could never hate you.”

Blake couldn’t have been more stunned had Joe ripped off his face to reveal one of those squid-like alien heads from Independence Day. Every interaction he’d had with his father over the past five years—and there hadn’t been many—flashed through his mind. Part of him resisted Joe’s explanation. It was easy to resent Joe because that was all Blake knew. They hadn’t had a “normal” father-son relationship since Blake thought girls carried cooties.