Thick & Thin (Thin Love, #3)(66)

Almost four days he’d kept himself in his university office. It made sense. He wouldn’t go to a hotel, not with the media catching wind of the bullshit paternity suits. He wouldn’t camp out at a friend's house and drag their family into the middle of the shit storm. Besides, his office was private, secure. You needed a key card to get into the auditorium, you needed a security code to get into the staff offices along the back of the auditorium. I had those. Blue Devils for life, you know? But Dad wasn’t working in his office this late in the afternoon. A peek through the door and into the disaster he’d made of the place told me that much. Mom would kill him if she knew about the half eaten subs and abandoned pizza boxes.

I finally found him in the empty team gym. He was the maniac in the center of the weights area kicking and punching the stuffing out of the heavy bag suspended from the high ceiling. Music pumped from the surround sound and an old Jompson Brothers son, “Barley Alive” screamed through the speakers. It wasn’t exactly pump up, work out music, but it seemed to fit Kona’s mood.

Dad just hit forty-nine. You couldn’t tell by how well he kept himself. There was a spattering of gray along his temples and in the scruff of the beard he seemed to be working on. But otherwise, his hair was black, skin still as dark as it had ever been. My shoulders were wider than his, but his chest was bigger and his thighs put mine to shame. Point of fact: Hawaiians don’t miss leg day. Ever. It was something Dad had always joked when I whined about squats and lunges, but he probably hadn’t missed many workouts in twenty years.

Dad was an inch and a half taller than me—I made him measure a few years back when we were a little drunk and bragging about our stats—but his abs weren’t as cut as mine and his traps were maybe a few inches smaller.

Now his entire body was covered in a sheen of sweat. It dripped from his naked back, flung off his shoulders as he punched that heavy bag, brutalizing the black leather like it was nothing. Kona would punch right, then left, then sling a knee kick into the bag so hard that the chain rattled from the impact.

“Hey,” I tried, earning a grunt from my father as he battled that bag and whatever frustrated him. Well, I imagined a lot did. He had a hell of a lot to choose from. “Dad…” he swung again, releasing a loud grunt as I stood behind the bag, steadying it until he looked me.

“What happened?” he asked, lowering his hands until I shook my head.

“Easy…just checking on you.” I winced when Kona returned to pounding on the bag, the impact jabbing me a bit in the gut.

“Check…” he wheezed, kicking twice in a row, “on…your…” another punch, a faster kick, “mother.”

“She’s okay. Damn,” I winced, shaking out my hand when Kona stopped swinging. “She’s keeping herself in the studio, though Aly said she did bring Mack to practice while I did PT.”

“Good.” Kona returned to the bag, this time bouncing on his feet and I hurried to hold it steady just in time for him to pound it with punches once more. “Koa and Mack?”

“You haven’t talked to them?”

“This morning.” He moved quick, faster, I admitted to myself, than I probably could but I avoid cardio at all costs. Big as he was, Dad moved like a kid hopped up on Blueberry Kool Aid.

“They miss you.”

He paused, chest working quick as he looked at me, closing his eyes before he shook his head. “I miss them. I miss…all of you.” Kona’s jaw tensed, his nostrils flared and then he punched the bag so hard that I stumbled backward. Then my father sat down on the bench next to the bag, grabbing a bottle of water as though he wanted to drown himself. Water flew from his head, on the tips of his curling hair as he doused himself before grabbing a towel and scrubbing his face. “This is such a f*cking mess.”

“I know it is.”

Dad looked up at me, watching me close and I wondered if he thought I blamed him for the shit we’d all been thrown into. “Koa tell you about his fight?” Kona nodded, looking worse than he had just minutes before. “That’s not on you.”

“Isn’t it?” He threw the towel to the floor. “My kid catches shit from some punk telling him his father can’t keep it in his pants and he sticks up for me? Knocks out some kid’s tooth? And that's not on me somehow? He hunched over on the bench, and let his hands hang loose between his knees, eyes on the wooden floor. “It’s my ex…Simone…though I have zero ideas why she’s trying to lay her kid on me.” He looked up, stretching his shoulders before he leaned forward, keeping his gaze on my face. “The other one…I just, I got no clue. She’s has to be some groupie, right? Though, shit, I’ve been out of the league thirteen damn years. Why the hell is this shit happening now?”

I’d debated telling him anything. It was a decision that up until that moment I thought maybe I should rethink. At his core, my father was aggressive. It was his nature to defend. It’s what made him a great lineman and better father. I knew telling him about Cass, about my suspicions, would trigger some huge alpha * in Kona that I could not contain. But I’d never seen my father this torn, looking this damn helpless. It scared the hell out of me.

“Dad…”

“I guess it doesn’t matter, right?” He worked that towel over his face, scrubbing his hair dry. “Aly’s got her man working on some things.”