Page 114 of Game Misconduct

forty-two

. . .

Nick

The text taunts me. My screen flickers off, and I tap the glass, bringing the message back to brightness.

Sperm Donor

What r u up two?

Grimacing, I let the phone fade to black again, then shove it into my pocket. My head aches and I’m still a little rough around the edges after Dr. Palmer’s exam.

I need to block him. I want to block him. But I can’t.

Just like Bex can’t seem to cut her mother off, either. She wants to. I know she does. But something’s stopping her from actually doing it.

What a messed-up pair we are. Fitting. Our issues complement each other, and I understand her as well as I do myself.

I’m walking out of the practice facility when I catch sight of a man in the shadows. My Spidey senses go on sharp alert. My head throbs, but through it all, I have a sense that something is wrong.

This man is not safe to be around.

I’m a big guy, bigger than him. I can handle myself in a fight. But if he pulls out a knife and tries to excise my kidney, I’m fucked.

How did he even get onto the property?

“Nicky.” His voice is weak, slurred.

A chill runs down my spine. And as my father trudges into view, I clock the unsteadiness of his gait, his gaunt frame in clothes two sizes too big. He used to tower over me, but now he’s stooped, his back hunched.

What is he doing here? Paul trespassed him from the facility a few weeks ago; he shouldn’t be here.

I reach for my phone, ready to call the police, when his voice makes me pause.

“Son.”

“I’m not your son,” I snap.

Fred’s eyes widen, bloodshot and jaundiced.

“I need help.” He sounds broken. Defeated.

When I made it into the league, I paid for him to go to rehab. Not once. Not twice. Three times. That’s on top of all the times he tried when I was younger.

And all those times, he relapsed. The last time, he made it a solid six weeks before he drank. That’s the longest he’s made it.

I’ll be the first to admit I don’t know his struggle. I’ve never wanted to know it. Back when I was financing things, my therapist encouraged me to try Al-Anon, the support network for families of alcoholics.

But instead of finding community, I felt more isolated. So many people were going through the same troubles, but their family member was finding the strength to stay sober, and my father couldn’t manage that.

I resent him. I resent his disease. And most of all, I resent that I’m like him.

Right now, I know when to call it quits. But what if one day, I don’t? What if one day, I can’t escape the lure of the bottle?

What if one day, I turn into him?

He had the support of a good woman. My mother loved him unconditionally, giving him a piece of herself, and it killed her.