Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(13)

“Let me try.” Lawrence eases me to the side and beats hard. “Get the fuck out of the fucking restroom, or we’re calling the fucking cops.”

“Subtle,” I say.

He shrugs. “I know what works. I brought the hoodie. I tried to bribe the old dude. You’re missing out. Just think, me at your service twenty-four seven. I love this shit.”

“Nashville adores me.” It’s what I tell him every time he inquires about doing my PR for me. I don’t need PR. Jack, on the other hand, has a rocky past, and Lawrence has come in handy. It’s a small world that the three of us ended up in the same city. Jack was drafted to Nashville straight out of college, Lawrence is from here and has opened his own firm for athletes, and I went to play in Jacksonville, then luckily got traded to Nashville a few years ago. Three amigos back together.

“Here, move. I got this.” I pull out one of Giselle’s pins and pick the lock. It takes three tries before the cylinder clicks, and the door opens.

“Should I ask why you have bobby pins in your pocket?”

“No.”

“You’re better at that than you should be,” he muses.

“He used to drink and lock me out. I got inventive.”

“Fuck me; it smells like piss.” Lawrence covers his mouth with a hankie as we slip inside.

My dad lies faceup on the floor in front of the sink, splayed out in the shape of an X. His chest is moving, so he’s alive, and some of that knot in my chest loosens. The last time I saw him was a month ago, when I took him to dinner. He seemed fine—a bit antsy, but sober.

I push Lawrence aside and bend down and shake his shoulder. “Wake up, old man. We need to get you home.”

Eventually he comes to, his eyes blinking as he grimaces and lets out a groan. The smell of beer hits me. “Where am I?” he rasps.

“Filthy bathroom. Not yours.” My lips compress. Seeing him like this reminds me of why I’ve been trashed only one time in my life.

“Ricky’s?”

I nod. His words slur, but I peg him as not bad off. There are degrees to his drunkenness, and I’ve cataloged them all. At least he seems to recall where he was at some point.

“I had a fight with Dotty,” he mumbles. “Tried to call you, Dev. You didn’t pick up. You mad at me?”

Guilt ratchets up my spine that I missed his earlier calls.

Dotty is his on-again, off-again girlfriend he met at AA.

“Come on.” I lift him up by his armpits and grunt at the weight as I place him on the toilet. He sways back and forth and scrubs at the stubble on his face. His once-white Grateful Dead shirt has brown stains on it. I wince, my shoulders tightening, as I take in the oily hair, the black shadows under his eyes, the nasty cut on his hand. Not wanting to look back at Lawrence and see judgment on his face, I busy myself with dampening some paper towels and dabbing at his hand.

“How’d this happen?”

He stares down at the dried blood, squinting. “Can’t remember.” He tries to pull his hand back, but I hold tight.

“You don’t need stitches, but it needs antiseptic.” There’s a slight tremble in my voice, and I grit my teeth. My sophomore year of high school, he stepped off a curb, got hit by a car, and was hospitalized with two broken legs. The night before I was supposed to leave my past behind in California and play college ball, he got into a shouting match with our neighbor across the street and ended up with a broken nose, two busted ribs, and a concussion. His injuries set me back three days for summer camp while I took care of him.

“Had worse,” he grumbles, as if he’s read my mind.

Our eyes meet, his bleary road maps. His face is sallow and gaunt, the lines of a much-older man of fifty. “Your liver can’t take much more of this,” I grind out. “When did you fall off the wagon?”

He staggers to a stand, using the wall for leverage as he presses his fingers into his eyes and rubs. “Shit—I—don’t worry about it.” He ends with an attempt to take a step but trips over his own feet.

I catch him and prop him up. He’s as tall as me, so Lawrence jumps in, and we put him between us, his arms around our shoulders as we head out the door and down the hall to the exit. Sweat drips down my back inside the sweatshirt. Pushing through, we step outside to a quiet parking lot, where I gulp in fresh air.

We move slowly to the front and reach Red. Lawrence holds him as I pop the lock and open the door; then we get him inside, buckling up the seat belt for him.

“Call Dotty. Tell her I’m sorry . . .” He trails off as he leans his head back on the seat. His eyes flutter shut.

Nah, not calling her. His love life works like mine. Once they’ve seen his true colors, his cesspool of insecurities, they are done. I haven’t let a girl see who I really am in seven years. I slam the door and face Lawrence.

His face is, thankfully, blank. I don’t think I could handle pity right now.

“You’ve done this a few times.” His words are quiet. “Fuck, Devon. Why haven’t you ever told me he was . . .”

A long exhalation comes from my chest. Jack knows the most, but even he’s never seen my dad like this.

He shifts his feet and pulls out his phone, tapping away. “It’s all right. I’m here if you need me, okay? I’ll get an Uber. Call me tomorrow, and we’ll chat.”