Amber butts in by clearing her throat, her words spoken sharp. “He was sick with the flu, Mr. Cunningham. That’s why he’s missed a few practices.” The lie drips easily from her mouth, the situation starting to make my pulse pound as I look at her. I wasn’t sick and Amber knows it. Truth is, I had something come up and, in my line of work, that happens more often than not. Being that my coaches rarely give me shit about it—the two former potheads letting my and Ryder’s dirty piss tests slide by—I don’t know why my father feels the need to bring it up.
I shake my head at myself. Who am I trying to kid? I know why he fucking brings it up.
My father acts like my judge and jury. He hovers, trying to control my existence as though it were his own. If it involves my life, and it’s something he knows about, then he’s all over it like flies on shit. Not because he wants me to make good decisions or avoid getting hemmed up in trouble—that would be one thing. But it’s all about not blemishing his name, the façade he’s built in the community surrounding his Cunningham clan. It drives me fucking nuts. Even though I’ve died trying, there’s no pleasing these people.
“Sick?” my father says. “Unless you’re in the hospital tied to an IV pole, you can’t miss practices, Brock. You’re on scholarship and your future is on the line. It looks bad if you aren’t giving a hundred and twenty percent. You know that.” His eyes are icy, his struggle to maintain his composure something you couldn’t miss a mile away if you tried.
“I got it. It won’t happen again,” I mutter, the bullshit flowing out of my mouth as easily as it did Amber’s. This isn’t the place nor the time to discuss my nonexistent football career.
Amber’s hand grazes my thigh, causing my attention to shift to her. She smiles at me before turning to her foster parents. “You guys will have to come to one of Brock’s games. He’s amazing on the field.”
“Oh, I bet,” Cathy says, her gaze set on Amber. “I still can’t believe you watch football. He would have to be something special for you to go to a game.”
My mother cackles, her I’m two sheets to the wind pitch making me cringe. I wish I could yank the fucking alcohol off the table. Better yet, I wish I could yank her from the table. But I can’t. I’m as unable to dictate this situation as I am every other time I’m around her or my dad.
Amber’s grip on my thigh tightens as she glares at my mother. “I’m surprised too. God knows I couldn’t stand the sport before Brock.”
“Don’t worry, Amber.” Brit takes a sip of water. “You’re not the only one who despises it. I’d rather clean my house than watch a bunch of sweaty dudes throw a ball around. And me saying I’d rather clean is saying a lot.” She nudges my arm, a smirk twisting her lips. “No offense, bro. Though I love you to death, I’d take a month spent with the vacuum over watching you play any day.”
A laugh moves across the table, the easy banter continuing as I fix my attention on my mother, who’s refilling her glass with a near-empty bottle of wine. I watch, sickened, as she barely takes a breath in between gulps, her entire body trained on the plum-colored mixture as though it’s her lifeline. After inhaling the entire glass in under a second, her gaze catches mine. She raises a perfectly arched brow, my pulse jumping at the darkness dashing over her features.
Shit’s about to go south. I know it, can feel it. I’ve seen this more times than I can count. I grab the sides of my chair and brace myself for whatever poison is about to fly through the room.
After a second, then a third heavy sip of the merlot, her sharp voice hits me in the center of my chest. “How’s Ryder doing, Brock?”
I meet her stare head-on, wondering how quickly the situation is gonna deteriorate. I know my mother, can see her demons slowly dragging her back to her inner hell. The bomb’s about to go off: that I can’t prevent. All I can hope for is a mild explosion.
“He’s good,” I answer, my voice remaining calm. “Working, school, football—the same old stuff.”
“Mm-hmm,” she hums, tapping her nail on the rim of her glass. “I bet he hasn’t missed any practices.”
Silence simmers midair, a thick tension compounding as I say, “I don’t know, Ma. You’d have to ask him that. I don’t usually keep a tally on what he does or doesn’t do when it comes to practice.”
A mirthless smile lifts her lips as she once again refills her glass. “I don’t need to ask him anything,” she hisses. “Ryder would never throw his future away.”
“Neither would I.” My words come out tame, despite my wanting to scream them. “I’m thinking about a business law class next semester. Will that work for ya? Make ya proud of me?”
“Not sure anything will work or make me proud when it comes to you, Brock,” my mother points out through a sardonic laugh. “You look at life like tomorrow’s guaranteed. Who knows what will happen? Bad decisions and hedonistic attitudes take away people’s will to live.” She openly glares at me, then Amber, her hatred palpable as she dangles her glass in the air. “Especially when they’re running around with white trash.”
Angers surges hot and fast, but before I can react, Brittany lets out a quiet moan. “Put the wine down, Mother.”
Cathy and Mark look at each other wide-eyed, not as familiar, obviously, with my mother’s lack of couth. Normal people, which the Cunninghams aren’t, don’t expect someone to be so vicious about another human being, least of all one sitting at the table with her parents.