The Bad Boy and the Other Bad Boy

Chapter 8

I ignored the calls of my team mates as I stormed out of the changing room, swinging my bag furiously over my shoulder. I let the changing room doors slam shut, muffling their voices.

I let out a breath of air and shook my head once, pushing my tongue into my cheek. I was livid - at Coach for going easy on him, at him for doing this, and at myself for letting him get to me. I got into my car and sat in silence for a bit, then pulled my phone out. I still had two missed calls from my mom, so I called her.

She picked up quickly, her slight Mexican accent clear in her voice. "Hey Rocky, have you seen your father?"

That's my mamá - straight to the point.

"No, mamá, I had football, remember?" I said absentmindedly, digging in my bag for another bar. Man, being mad makes me hungry.

There was a sigh from the other end. "Yeah, I know it was a long shot. But he's not picking up his phone, and Jerry said he left work about an hour ago. If you get a hold of him, tell him to call me. We need to choose the colour for the new curtains. I'm thinking a Palmerston Grey or even Eggshell for the sitting room. "

"Ok, sure. " I said dutifully through a mouthful of granola bar which I had finally found. It actually was a bit weird - not the granola bar - but the fact she didn't know where my father was. He usually went straight home after work - and if he didn't, it would be for something either my mother knew about or had orchestrated. This was a small event - my mother not knowing where he was - but it was one that had not occurred for a while. Not for years - not since Dane.

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Until I was fifteen, my father had a friend called Dane. I never knew his last name, but my father had known him for years and years. He was at our house often, and got along with my mother - unlike many of my father's friends at the time. And he got along with me as well - he was younger than my father and I almost saw him as a cool uncle I never had. He would take me out for ice cream, to go camping, or played video games with me when my friends weren't there. He was tall, with shaggy dark hair and a lean but strong build. He always wore combat boots, jeans, and a dark shirt. He could talk politics and science with my parents, and high school stuff with me.

Dane had no family of his own, and I didn't know where he was from. He'd just always been a part of my life. I think he was lonely. I'm not sure, but I think he was. And maybe my father had kept him around for so long because he felt bad for him. I know they had met when Dane was in some sort of trouble and my father had helped him out of it.

When I was fourteen, Dane started coming to my house covered in purple welts and bruises from fights, drunk, stoned, or both. When he was like that my parents tried to hide me away from him, so I didn't see him like that, but of course I did. He would crash out our place often - which resulted in many furiously whispered fights between my parents in the hallway outside my room as he lay passed out on the couch when they thought I was asleep.

Then, he began asking for money.

I knew my parents could afford what he asked for at the start - I wasn't not ignorant or naïve about how much money we had. But he began asking for more and more, and more frequently.

Just a little bit, he said. Just to get him into the next month.

During this time my mother banned him from coming into our house, from seeing me, but my father continued to meet with him and give him money. It was just the kind of person my father was. He could never turn down someone like that. He would be out late, and leave work early without telling my mother to meet with Dane.

I knew, because I followed him once. I saw them meet at a park, saw money exchanging hands. After a few weeks of this laying heavy on my chest I told my mother, who already had her own suspicions. This resulted in a huge fight in which my father backed down and agreed not to meet with Dane anymore.