He’d entered the Twilight Zone.
That was the only explanation Blake could come up with for his current predicament: sitting in his office at LNY on opening night, across the desk from his father.
His father. Here. In New York. Wearing a suit, of all things.
Joe never wore a suit unless he was going to a funeral.
Maybe this was Blake’s funeral, come too little, too late. He’d already been in hell for the past month.
“Quite a party you got out there.” Joe looked wildly uncomfortable in his formal outfit. No doubt Blake’s mom put him up to this. His father would never wear a tie of his own volition.
Blake steepled his fingers beneath his chin. He hadn’t spoken to his father since their argument on Joe’s birthday. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Perhaps not the nicest way to start things off, but his patience ran a short fuse these days.
Joe’s eyes sharpened. “Watch your tone.”
“Or what? You’ll send me to timeout?” Blake leaned forward and planted his hands flat on his desk. “I’m a grown-ass man, Dad. I have my own business and my own money. You don’t scare me anymore. You can’t tell me what to do.”
“Did I come in here telling you what to do?” Joe roared. “You think you’d be more goddamned grateful, considering your mother, sister, and I flew all the way out here for your big night. You know I hate airplanes!”
“One night out of how many? A dozen?” Blake sneered. “I’ve invited you to every opening, and this is the first one you’ve ever attended. You didn’t even show up for the Austin celebration, and that was right in your goddamned city, so excuse me if I’m not falling all over myself because you’re here.”
His ugliness boiled to the surface, grateful for a target to take itself out on.
Hell, Blake’s personal life was already in shambles. He might as well continue the trend and take a match to his already-frayed relationship with his father.
Watch everything burn and get all the agony out of the way in one fell swoop.
“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.” Joe stood and loosened his tie with sharp, angry jerks. “I don’t care what your mother says.”
A glint on his wrist caught Blake’s eye. “What is that?”
His father glowered at him. “What’s what?”
Blake jutted his chin toward the item that had captured his attention. He’d asked a silly question because he knew what it was. It was a gold Patek Philippe timepiece with a brown alligator strap and the number 50 custom-engraved on the back of its case.
Blake knew because he’d bought it for his father’s fiftieth birthday.
Discomfort filled Joe’s face. “It’s a watch.”
“It’s the watch I gave you for your fiftieth. You’re wearing it.”
“Of course I’m wearing it,” Joe snapped. “It’s a watch. What else am I supposed to do, eat it?”
“You’ve never used any of the presents I’ve gotten you in the past.”
The golf clubs Blake had bought for Joe’s forty-eighth birthday, collecting dust.
The rare whiskey he’d bought for his forty-sixth birthday, unopened.
The birthday cards he drew when he’d been too young to buy presents, tossed.
“How would you know? You don’t come home often enough to know what the hell I use.”
Blake’s nostrils flared. “Don’t try to guilt-trip me. That bottle of whiskey was still unopened last time I checked, and I was home two months ago. Four years after I gifted it to you.”
“It’s a nice whiskey. I’m saving it for a special occasion.”
“The golf clubs?”
“I used them until Rick moved away. He’s the only one of my friends who played.” Joe scowled. “Why the hell are we talking about this?”
“Because.” Blake curled his thumbs around the edge of his desk. The smooth oak seared into his skin until he was sure you could see the wood grains etched across his fingers if he released them. “Nothing I give or do is good enough for you.”
Shock glittered in Joe’s eyes. He stopped fussing with his tie and collapsed into his seat again. “Is that what you think? That you’re not good enough?”
“You’ve never given me any indication otherwise,” Blake said bitterly. “The only thing I’m good at is football, remember?”
His father’s reaction when he’d told him he wanted to start a sports bar all those years ago had burned itself into its memories.
You know nothing about running a business. A sports bar? C’mon. There are a million sports bars out there. Take it from someone who’s been around a lot longer than you have, son: stick to what you’re good at. You’re good at football. That’s it.
Joe grimaced.
“I guess only being an NFL superstar is good enough for you. All this—” Blake swept his arm around his large office. “Doesn’t mean shit. You will always hate me for not living out the dreams you couldn’t live yourself.”
Joe had played college ball too, until a torn ACL forced him to quit before he could go pro. He’d turned to fitness coaching as a consolation career, but from the moment Blake threw his first perfect spiral at age seven, he’d piled expectation upon expectation on his son until Blake buckled beneath the weight. Joe relived his glory through Blake until it came time for the thing he wanted most: the NFL. Blake quit before the draft and squashed his father’s dreams of a pro football career by proxy.
“I don’t hate you,” Joe bit out. “You’re my son.”
“Only by blood.” Blake flashed a sardonic smile. “You could barely stand to look at me. Not even on your fiftieth birthday.”
“It’s because I’m ashamed, okay?” Joe exploded. “That’s why I can’t look you in the eye!”
Had Blake not been sitting, he would’ve tumbled to the floor. Shock swelled in his throat, cutting off his air supply.
Joe’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “I’ll admit, I was pissed when you quit football. You were a unique talent, Blake. One in a million. I thought you were throwing your future away for a pipe dream. I didn’t hate you for it; I was worried about you. Figured you needed some tough love to help you pull your head out of your ass before you were stuck, miserable, and in debt.” His lips twisted into a wry smile. “Luckily, you proved me wrong. But when you invited me to the opening…” He tapped his fingers on his thigh, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “It seemed wrong to celebrate and act the role of proud father when I had been such a…well, less than stellar one. I’d tried to hold you back every step of the way, and you succeeded despite me, not because of me. I didn’t want to leech off your success—not when I had nothing to do with it. So, I stayed away. It’s not because I hate you. You’re my son. I could never hate you.”
Blake couldn’t have been more stunned had Joe ripped off his face to reveal one of those squid-like alien heads from Independence Day. Every interaction he’d had with his father over the past five years—and there hadn’t been many—flashed through his mind. Part of him resisted Joe’s explanation. It was easy to resent Joe because that was all Blake knew. They hadn’t had a “normal” father-son relationship since Blake thought girls carried cooties.
Yet Blake could tell by the look in his father’s eyes that he was telling the truth. He also knew how much it must’ve cost him to utter those words out loud. Joe Ryan was a proud man, and he didn’t admit to his faults often, if ever. His logic may be twisted and fucked up, but it made sense—to him.
“Then why are you here now? What changed?” Blake eyed the bottle of scotch on his shelf longingly. He could use a stiff drink, if only so he didn’t pass out from shock. There were few things as disorienting as having what you’d always considered a truth be flipped upside down.
First Cleo, now my dad. That’s twice in one month. I’m setting a damned record.
Joe scratched his chin with an awkward frown. “I thought about what you said at my party. About me being a shitty father.”
Guilt twisted in Blake’s gut. “I didn’t mean to blow up on you on your birthday.”
“Seemed like it was a long time coming,” Joe said dryly. “Ya know, I honestly didn’t think it would bother you that I told Pete to host the kickoff at his house instead of Legends. It’s what we’ve always done. But I guess I’m not the best at sussing that sort of stuff out.” Another scratch of his chin. “I admit I haven’t been…the best father over the years. I wanted to skip New York, too, ya know. Wanted to keep avoiding the issue. But your mother and sister blew up at me. They took your side.”
His mom went against his dad? The shockers kept coming.
“Anyway.” The discomfort returned to Joe’s face. “I figured it was time I stopped running and had a talk with you. Man to man. And I know this is the biggest opening you’ve had so far. You did a good job,” he added gruffly. “A really good job. I’m proud of you.”
I’m proud of you.
Blake had waited his whole life to hear those words come out of his father’s mouth. Now that they had, his brain nearly exploded trying to comprehend them. Joe might as well be reciting Ulysses in Latin.
A strange warmth dripped from Blake’s heart to his stomach, where it pooled into a puddle of pride and disbelief.
“It wasn’t all me.” Blake cleared his throat. “My team did a fantastic job.”
While he oversaw the strategy and vision, his team members were the ones who’d turned his vision into reality. They were the bedrock of Legends, and Blake treated them as such. He’d be nowhere without his team.
“That they did. Well, good talk. I’m going to head downstairs.” Joe stood. He’d clearly reached his bonding limit for the night. “Lord knows your mother and sister get into all sorts of trouble when they’re around margaritas.”
Last Blake saw, Helen and Joy had been busy gawking at Zane, a famous male model and LNY’s celebrity bartender of the night.
“Wait.”
His father froze.
Blake licked his lips. “I got a new bottle of scotch yesterday.” He tilted his head toward said bottle on the shelf. “Straight from Scotland. Want to try it with me?”
The olive branch stretched between them, taut with hesitation.
Joe’s eyes traveled between the scotch and Blake’s face. He settled into his chair again with a shadow of a smile. “I’d love to.”
