Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(12)

She laughs, does a little pirouette, and takes off for the bar.

My cell buzzes again, and I hold the shoes under my arm as I pull the phone out of my jeans.

I press the green button, expecting to hear my father’s voice, only it isn’t him.



“Once you go in there, phones are gonna be out. People love drama, especially celebrities. Everything you do, man, under a microscope,” Lawrence says as we get out of my car.

“I know,” I say dryly. I’ve been in the limelight since college, but Lawrence likes to jabber.

He grumbles. “You didn’t need to drive Sex to this part of town. People notice. People like to steal shit.”

I flick my eyes down at the red Maserati. She’s my pride and joy, and driving her reminds me of how far I’ve come from a poor kid in California. “Her name is Red.”

“Sex is better.”

I smirk. “Your Tom Ford five-thousand-dollar suit sticks out like a sore thumb. ‘Over here; come take my wallet.’”

He strokes his tie. “Can’t believe me and you and Jack used to party in places like this in college. All that energy and zero hangovers? Dude. I’m old now with an ex-wife and alimony. Damn, I miss those party days; don’t you?”

“Nah.” I don’t miss college. Sure, we won a national championship our senior year, and that’s what I try to remember, but there’s heartache from Hannah in some of those memories.

He blows out a breath as we both come to a stop in front of Ricky’s Bar on Wilbur Street, several blocks from where I live near the stadium.

I slip a roomy sweatshirt over my head, flip up the hood, and slide on a pair of shades.

He squints at me. “Last chance. I can get him, and you can stay in the car. Nobody has to know he’s your family.”

I exhale. “He won’t go with you. Trust me. It will only make it worse.”

We roll into the bar. The usual place. Sticky floors, tattered beer signs on the wall, a long bar with red stools, antiquated light fixtures hanging from a yellow-spotted ceiling. Shotgun-style layout, four exits, I bet. The one we came in; one down a dark hallway past the pool tables, where I guarantee there’s a dingy restroom; another in the kitchen; and, if the owner is smart, one that leaves from his office. A long sigh comes from my chest. I spent most of my teenage years in places like this, washing mugs, sweeping the floor, taking out trash. My dad owned a bar, then lost it, then spent the rest of his life crawling in and out of every one he passed.

The place reeks of body odor, greasy fries, and cheap perfume.

Three guys are shooting pool, two older women nurse beers by a jukebox crooning Tammy Wynette, and several stools are occupied, but mostly it’s a sparse crowd. No one looks up as we make our way to the front, except for the old guy behind the bar. With a white beard and glasses, he’s wearing a shirt stretched out over his belly and a Nashville Tigers hat. He’s a fan. Not sure if that’s good or bad.

I lean in, keeping my voice low. “You called about Garrett Walsh?”

He sets down the glass he was drying, nods, and points to the dark hallway. “He went in the restroom half an hour ago and hasn’t come out. You his son?”

I grimace, studying the grooves in the wood of the bar. “Yeah.”

He puts his hand out and shakes it. “Ricky Burns. Love how you run with the ball. I got your number off his phone.” He reaches behind him and tosses me a cracked cell. “He left it unlocked, so I just rang up the last person he called. Didn’t realize it was you till I saw the name.” He frowns. “Much respect to you, Mr. Walsh, but he ain’t welcome back here. Runs off good customers and gets belligerent. He tried to start a fight with the guys playing pool. Next time I see his face, I’m calling the cops.”

My stomach turns over, and for half a second, anger at Ricky bubbles, until I squash it down. His words are nothing I haven’t heard before. It just hurts. “I appreciate you not calling the police tonight.”

“No problem.” He picks up another glass and takes the towel to it.

Lawrence pulls out a wad of cash from his wallet, but Ricky pushes it back. “No need for that. Just get him gone.” He pauses, keeping his voice hushed as he gives me a beady-eyed look. “Two men came in looking for him before you got here. Rough types. Bruisers with tattoos.” He flits his eyes over the bar in my eyebrow, down to the peek of butterflies on my wrists. “Told ’em he wasn’t here but thought you should know.”

“Any clue what they wanted?”

He raises an eyebrow, as if I’m crazy, then huffs out a laugh. “I don’t ask questions, but judging by the hard look on their faces, my guess is money. I’m just an old man, and this bar is my life. I don’t want any trouble in my place; you feel me?”

Loud and clear. “Thanks, man.”

Lawrence takes a gander at the patrons again. “Ricky, you mind if we take him out the exit in the back?”

“Be my guest. An alarm will go off, but I’ll turn it off up here.”

I tap the bar, and we flip around and head to the hallway, where a single light bulb hangs from a dangling cord. Rapping out a sharp knock on the men’s room door, I call out, “Dad? Open up. It’s me.”

Checking the door, I find it locked, and frustration builds. Images from my childhood flit through my head: me coming home from a football game to find him passed out on the front steps of our trailer. I’d drag him inside and put him to bed.