5. Wes

FIVE

I trymy hardest at all times not to use the word hate when talking about people.

There are some people that I strongly dislike, but I don't hate them. There are people that make me see red, and thoughts of murder are swarming around my brain, but still, I don't hate them. Mom always told me not to use that word unless I really meant it. It was like Mrs. Macallestair"s threat to Kevin before he wished his family away for Christmas. She scared me so much by saying that word that I never used it unless I was talking about objects. Even then, she would remind me that I'd eventually change my mind and that I would stop hating it in a few days. She was right.

Maybe all those times that I didn't use that word when talking about people was because I was saving it for the right one. The right time to finally let how I truly feel bubble over to the surface.

I am almost one hundred percent positive that I hate my dad.

I don't need some pathetic lecture about how much you're supposed to love your parents because they love you unconditionally, because when the person you idealized for so long betrays you and your mom in the same breath, all you see is a monster. What man preaches about family and the chosen family you make on a football team just to cheat on the woman who has given him everything? A fucking coward, that's who.

We've not had a real conversation since I found out after our semi-final game last season back in January, but now, as we prepare for the start of our new season, I couldn't care less about what this man has to say. I've avoided him at all costs and spent my time checking in with my mom.

The whole team is spread out around the field to do drills together. We're doing rotations, and I'm paired up with Sam Cho, Oliver Nayman, and Connor. And every time my dad looks over at me, scolding me about something, I get closer and closer to punching that mother fucker in the–

"Wes!"

Fuck. Our team has set up cones a few yards in front of us, enough space for a quick sprint and then into a backpedal. It's an easy drill that I could do in my sleep, but I've spent so much time thinking about ripping my dad's body in half that I didn't notice it was my turn to run.

I quickly do my reps of going back and forth ten times before switching off with Oliver. I sit down on the grass, catching my breath as Connor does crunches beside me. Workout time is one of the best times of the week, but for once, I can't get my head in the game, and we really don't have any time for me to fuck this up. Especially when we're having one of those seasons where the new freshman messes up the dynamic on the team. We have a few new defensemen, and they're treating this like it's a frat party, not a serious team where some of us are actually wanting to get drafted to play in the NFL.

"What's wrong with you, dude? Your face is beet red," Connor says, not a single waver in his voice as he continues to put his body through hell. "Someone clearly hasn't been pulling their weight in the gym."

"I'm fine."

"You only say that when something is wrong. I think you're forgetting how well I know you, Wessy. You talk too much shit for you to give me two-word answers," he explains, sitting up.

We've been friends since we were in diapers, of course, he knows me better than anyone else I've ever met. And he's right, I love to talk, but when I'm in my dad"s presence, I prefer to shut up and keep my thoughts to myself. I've got a big mouth, and the second I let loose around that man, no one's going to hear the end of it.

So, I lie.

"Honestly, I'm good. I'm just tired," I say, faking a yawn for some extra effect.

Connor isn't buying my bullshit. His eyebrows crunch as he turns to look at me better. "From doing what? You've been lounging around like an ass for the last two weeks."

"Oh, gee, thanks so much for checking in on my mental health. I could be really struggling, and you think I'm just lazy–"

He shakes his head. "That's not what I mean, and you know it. You always speak your mind, so quit acting like you don't. You're looking around like you've got a secret."

"I do have a secret," I say, keeping my voice low. He raises his eyebrows. "No one else knows about my dad and what he did. Olivia just disappeared, and no one cared enough to ask why. So excuse me if I'm still pissed."

"Oh," is all he has to say. Honestly, what am I expecting him to say? He has the best pair of parents any kid could ask for. I'm sure the thought of either one of his parents cheating has never crossed his mind. He's never had this sickening feeling of pure rage in his chest when he looks at his dad. All he sees is what I used to – admiration.

"Yeah, it's fine. It doesn't matter," I mutter, pulling at the grass. Fuck. I hate feeling like this. I'm supposed to be a happy friend. The one who doesn't have any serious problems. The one who lives their life to a set of rules that I make up on the fly. "I think I just need to get laid."

He lets out a sigh at that answer. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think you might be right. I've never seen you so jittery in my life, and it's making me uneasy. I'm a mess as it is. I don't need your stress to rub off on me."

"I've not even had the energy to entertain another girl, but I'm starting to think it's about time," I say, running a hand through my hair. I need a haircut, desperately, but there's nothing I love more than a girl running her hand through my hair whilst I have my face between her legs. Fuck me. I'm getting hard just thinking about it. I shoot to my feet, ready for this conversation to be over. I've decided what's wrong, and now I just need to fix it. "Wanna run laps now?"

Connor blinks at me. "T- That's it? We're not going to suggest a game plan or anything?"

"Who the fuck do you think I am? I'm a catch, Connor. I'm not like you. I don't need step-by-step instructions on how to get laid. Women practically leap at me, and all I have to do is exist," I say, speaking nothing but the truth. Being a football player certainly has its perks. I used the fuck out of said perks in my freshman and sophomore years, so I can use them again.

Connor grins, standing up as he pats me on the shoulder. "There he is."

"Who?"

"The Wes that thinks his ego is bigger than the continent, not the one who secretly thinks about murdering his dad," he says, bumping his shoulder into mine as we start off at a slow jog, Oli and Sam slowly joining us.

"I wasn't thinking about murder… Just slight psychological and physical torture."

"Right, because that's so much better."

We all settle into a routine of talking about classes and our plans for the weekend as we run around the field. Holding a conversation whilst running is an art we've all mastered from a young age, so when Oli tells us about another proposition he's gotten from Hailey Dermont, we all burst out laughing.

That poor guy has been in the shackles of a woman who isn't even his. She's had her way with all of us on the team, apart from Connor and Oli. We only hooked up once at the end of freshman year, when she gave me a BJ in the back of her car. Connor is basically married to Cat, so Oliver is the only one left that she's desperate to get a taste of. She's imprinted on him – Jacob and Renesmee style. It's fucking weird as much as it is hilarious.

"Wes! What are you doing?" My dad's voice booms across the field as he stands in the middle of the track, his eyes following me as I continue running.

"What does it look like? We're running laps. Isn't that what you told us to do, old man?" Sam and Oliver laugh at that, and Connor just groans beside me like a disappointed parent. My dad shakes his head.

"I'm supposed to check your group drills first, boys. You all know that," Coach explains.

"Sorry, Coach," Connor says. What an ass-kisser. "We'll do better next time."

"Yeah, we're just trying to tire ourselves out," I add. That only makes his face redder. What the fuck is his problem? It's like he's begging me to go over there and swing right in his adulterous face.

"You tire yourselves out when I say you do," he argues. I roll my eyes, but he just beckons a hand in my direction. "Mackenzie? A word."

Reluctantly, I drag my ass over towards him, holding my head up high, puffing my chest out. Trying to intimidate my dad is pointless. He can make me see red, but he's also a fuckton bigger than me and could probably beat the shit out of me if he wanted to. Still, I try my hardest.

"Yes, Coach?"

"What's your problem, son? You don't speak to me for weeks, and you've managed to fuck up every training session we've had since preseason started," he says, pinning his arms against his chest, the football he was holding dropping to the floor.

"I guess fucking things up runs in the family," I mutter.

He takes a deep breath. "Look, I don't know how many times I'm going to have to apologize to you and your mom. We're still in the process of the separation, but it seems like she's handling this a lot better than you are."

I scoff. "Do you really think that living on her own in an apartment is her handling this better than me? She's hardly looking after herself, but I guess that doesn't matter to you, does it? It never really did, anyway."

He sighs again. "Wes, look–"

"Is that what you called me over her for, Coach? Just to complain about how badly I'm handling the fire you started?" There's a very fine line between punching him in the nose or walking out of here. I've not cared much for football over the last year or so, anyway. I doubt anyone would notice if I left.

"I just need you to know that despite all this, I'm still your coach, and I expect you to listen to me. You and Connor are key parts of the team, and if you continue acting like a brat, it's going to rub off on everyone else, too," he explains. I hate that he kinda has a point. "You have a lot riding on this season, son. A lot. And if you don't get your head out of your ass, I can't be the one to push scouts your way or help you get any contracts. That's all up to you. All this partying and drinking and sleeping around isn't helping your case. You need to focus more on your performance and take better care of your health if you want to be taken seriously. This whole goofball, funny guy act that you have going on isn't going to last, Wes, and the faster you get that in your head, the better."

I don't even say anything.

I swallow the bile in my throat as I look at him. Who is he to tell me to get my act together when he's spent the last few years lying to all of us and cheating on my mom? His wife. The mother of his only child.

Fuck this.

Fuck him.

Fuck fucking football.

I kick the ball at his feet instead of kicking him in the balls. As soon as it's off in the sky, the whole team gasps and whistles as we watch it fall to the other side of the bleachers. I immediately hang my head, knowing that I'm going to be the one who has to collect it.

My dad's growl reverberates through me. "Collect it, bring it back to the locker room, and get out of that uniform. I don't want to see you wearing that until you start acting like you're a part of the team."

I blink at him. "Are you benching me, dad?"

"Oh, so I'm back to being your dad now?" he scoffs, shaking his head. "Get the ball and change. I don't want to look at you anymore, Wes."

I sulk the whole time it takes me to find the ball, shove it into the equipment locker, and change out of my kit. I don't like feeling like this – constantly on edge, like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. It isn't supposed to be like this for me. I'm not supposed to get wound up about shit like this. I'm used to taking this light and breezy, and just existing is starting to feel like a chore.

I don't bother to wait for the rest of the team to join me in the locker room and I'm out of there in ten minutes. Connor drove us here from our house earlier, so I had to walk all the way back on my own. My headphones don't serve as the kind of distraction I thought they would provide. Every song doesn't sound right in my ears. I end up skipping each song that comes on my playlist before my mom's contact name fills my screen.

I stop in my tracks, swiping the answer button. "Mom?"

"You took Jarvis."

"Hello to you too, mother," I say, laughing. "I took him just over a week ago, remember? You said it was easier for me to have him for a bit until you found your feet."

She sighs, laughing a little. "Oh, right, yeah." A pause. "I'm sorry, Wes, my brain is a mess right now. A lot is going on at the moment, and I keep forgetting things, like where our cat is."

My chest pinches. "Are you getting enough sleep?"

"I'm trying to, but with the deadline and everything and the papers and–"

"Just one thing at a time, Mom," I say quietly. I hate how soft and fragile she's gotten. My mom is the toughest person I have ever known. She always has been. Growing up in Germany with a strict mother as her ballet teacher, she grew a thick skin. And I hate that my dad was the one who healed her just to break her down again. "What needs doing first?"

She pauses again, humming. I imagine her pacing around her small apartment, barefoot, her long blonde-ish-brown hair flowing down her back. "Probably grocery shopping. Then I need to get this draft to my editor by next Friday."

"Okay, okay," I say, trying to think. "How about this? I'll order the groceries to your house and they'll get to you tonight. Then, you can work on your book. How's it going?"

Mom's been working on a series of lifestyle books for as long as I can remember. She's an incredible author, and although most are about motherhood and the struggles of being a woman, they're a fun and interesting read. I'm not just saying that because she birthed me and has been doing everything for me for the last twenty years.

When she explains to me that she's not reaching her writing goal for the day, I suggest that she hang out with her friend Julia. I don't know what grown women talk about in their spare time, but I'm sure my mom's divorce would be a good conversation starter. I'd be running that story into the ground if I was her.

"Enough about me, Sonnenchien," she says, laughing softly. "How are you? Have you got a girlfriend yet?"

I sigh. "Same answer as always, Mom. No, I don't."

"Why not, Wes? You're always talking about how you're seeing new people."

"Doesn't mean I'm dating them seriously, Mom. It's just, uh… Just a physical thing," I say, clearing my throat. Do I really want to talk to my mom about my sex life? Not particularly. "Which we're both totally okay with and are consenting to," I add quickly.

My mom lets out an exaggerated sigh on the other end. "I don't like the sound of that, Wes."

"It's fine, honestly. I don't need to be in a relationship to be happy, or I dunno… Complete?" I say. She should be very anti-relationship after the way her last one just ended.

"Maybe not, but you need some stability. You're constantly out and drinking and… I don't know, Wes. I can't help but think you're lashing out, and I don't want to ruin your life before it's even started just because of what's going on with me and your dad."

Living life without a plan is freeing. It might not be ideal for other people, but not having to worry about expectations or something I've planned for not working out makes me feel better about myself. It feels like I'll have the opportunity to share stories with my kids about my rebellious days and that the fun parts of my personality won't die out.

"I'm going to be busy with football, but I'll think about it," I say, just to give her some peace of mind. The last thing I want is for her to worry about me above everything else that's going on. She might not believe me right now, but I'm going to have to figure out a way to prove it to her and my dad, apparently. I can't deal with either of them on my back right now.

After she ends the call, I submit a grocery order to get to her as soon as possible. When I get back to the house, finding Jarvis curled up in the blanket on my bed, I thank my lucky stars that there's at least one sane person left in our family. Jarvis will always be the best of us.