The more he talks, the faster my heart races until it feels like it will jackhammer right out of my chest. I shake my head, wanting to stop this one-sided discussion in its tracks. “Sorry, I have an agent.”
Like I’d let him anywhere near my career?
Is he fucking crazy?
“Fire him.” He raps his knuckles on the table as if the decision has already been made. “Let’s keep this in the family. There’s no reason to give your money away to strangers.”
No, he would much prefer I give it all to him. There’s not a snowballs chance in hell of that coming to fruition.
“I’ve already signed a contract. I’m locked in tight.” I slide to the edge of the booth, ready to bolt. “So, if that’s all you wanted to talk about, I’ve got to get moving.”
Some of his nice guy veneer crumbles as he scowls, stabbing a finger at me. “Sit your ass down. I’m not finished yet.”
I glare before begrudgingly dropping back to the seat.
It takes a moment for him to regain his composure. He picks up his mug and takes a sip before grumbling, “Stone cold.”
With a wave of his hand, he flags down our waitress and asks for a second cup. This takes a good five minutes. I drum my fingers impatiently on the chipped table as I simmer. What he’s doing right now is deliberate. He’s purposefully trying to rile me up. All I want is for him to get to the fucking point so I can shoot him down.
Once he has a fresh cup of coffee, he points to me and says in an overly loud voice, “This here is my son, Rowan Michaels. Maybe you recognize him? He plays football for the Western Wildcats.”
The waitress narrows eyes that have been made up with an overly heavy hand, inspecting me carefully. “I thought I recognized you.” She points to a decrepit TV mounted on the wall. “Hal has the game on every Saturday afternoon.”
“Take off your hat, son,” Dad says mildly, “let the woman get a good look at you.”
I grit my teeth, torn between refusing the directive and not wanting to appear like a total dick in front of this stranger. Manners win out as I drag the ball cap off my head before combing my fingers through my unruly hair. I give her a tight smile and hope I don’t come across half as pissed off as I feel.
She whistles. “You sure are a handsome one.” Her gaze slides approvingly to my father before she winks at him. “Just like your daddy.”
It takes everything I have inside not to throw up in my mouth.
“Yup.” The man across from me grins like he’s the reason for my success. “You mark my words,” he jabs a finger at her, “he’s gonna make millions next year.”
“Gracious.” Her hand flies to her narrow chest as if she had no idea something like that was even possible.
He puffs up, clearly pleased by her reaction. “His mama and I couldn’t be any more proud.”
“Well, then, I should get your autograph.” She shifts, searching her pockets for a pen before grabbing it from where it’s tucked in her hair. “Once you turn pro, we can hang it on our wall of fame.”
Wall of fame?
I don’t even want to know.
“We should probably charge you for it,” my father chuckles, sounding lofty. When her wide gaze cuts to him in question, he waves a hand and sits back like he’s the Grand Poobah or something like that. “But we’ll let it slide this once.”
Embarrassment stings my cheeks. If only it were possible to sink into the floorboards and escape from this nightmare.
With that declaration, the waitress shoves a small pad of paper in front of me. I scribble out my name, hoping it’s somewhat illegible. Like I want anyone to know I ever stepped foot in this dump that masquerades as a no-tell motel?
It’s a relief when another customer flags down the waitress, and she reluctantly takes off in his direction.
“Well,” Dad leans against the booth before settling one arm along the torn-up top, “I think it’s safe to say you made her day.”
Fucker.
I drag a hand over my face and decide to pull the plug rather than allow this to continue a moment longer. “How much do you want?”
He takes a sip of his fresh coffee. It’s still steaming. “That’s much better.” Instead of answering, he inspects the dirt caked under his fingernails. “How much can you spare?”
“Not much,” I grunt out bitterly. “Football is my job during the year so I’m not able to work. I live off savings from the summer.”
“What? They don’t pay you to play ball?” His brows snap together as if he’s personally offended on my behalf. “You’re practically a professional.”
“That’s not how college athletics work. I have a scholarship that pays for my tuition.”