The sun is beating down on me as I make my way across the street and up the small set of steps to the door of his trailer. Beads of sweat trickle down my neck, and I take one last deep breath into my lungs before I raise my fist. The hinges on the door rattle as I bang on it.
Wayne takes a moment to get to the door, despite the fact that you could probably cross the entire living area in about three seconds. He doesn’t register who I am right away when he flings the door open, and I relish the look of surprise on his face when he reaches the conclusion that it is, in fact, his son standing on his doorstep. I clench my hands to keep from breaking his nose right here. That wouldn’t get me what I needed.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he sneers.
“You’ve caused a lot of problems for me,Dad,” I say. “I think we need to have a chat.”
“The fuck we do,” he barks at me.
I push his chest until he moves backward and we’re both standing inside the trailer. I might look a lot like Wayne McKnight, but I’m taller and I’m broader, thanks to years of professional hockey.
He eyes the manila folder in my hand. “That my money?”
I scoff and slyly adjust my phone so it’s pointing at him from my hand. I hold it sideways near my waist so you can’t really tell that he’s in direct view of the camera. I hit Record. “No, Wayne. I’m not here to give you any fucking money.”
“Then you don’t have any business here. Get the fuck out of my house.”
“Some house,” I say, looking around at the piles of trash. Empty beer cans and takeout bags litter the floor. The smell of greasy food and unwashed clothing briefly sends me back to teenage Rhodes and the every-other-weekend visits I was forced to have. He glares at me.
“Why’d you do it? Did you think costing me my job—that pays me the money you wrongfully think you’re owed—was a good move? Can’t exactly pay the blackmail if I don’t have a job, you jackass.”
There is silence from my sperm donor, but it doesn’t matter because I’m shouting now, filling the space around us. “Come on, Wayne. It’s your villain monologue time! Tell me why you lied to the NHL.”
“You’remyson,” he yells back, getting in my face. “You owe me for your life. The only reason you’re on that second-rate hockey team is because you got to use your mom’s rich-boy new husband’s money.”
That’s a good start, but I need his full confession.
“So what?” I retorted, practically spitting in his face. “So what if he paid for my lessons? You didn’t. You didn’t do anything except make my life miserable. You could have cut ties and had a clean break from us. We never asked you for anything.”
More silence spans between us. I let it sit.
It’s minutes later when he finally speaks. He’s laughing when he says, “I gave you plenty of time to get me the money. This is what consequences look like,boy. The paper trail I sent looks so good, they’ll never let you back on that ice again. My buddy forges all kinds of papers, and he’s never been caught. Never. They’ll never catch onto this one either. You’re done. And now you can be just like me. Exactly where you came from, exactly where you belong.”
Got him.
I shake my head, an angry smirk on my mouth. “Incredible. You’ll never be anything other than a sad, miserable sack of shit, you know that?” I look down at my hands, bored. “Now would probably be a good time to show you a few things.” I tap the folder. “First, a shiny new restraining order. For both me and Mom. You ever come within a hundred feet of us ever again, you’ll find yourself on the other side of a jail cell.” I pause, looking around. “You might like it there actually, it’s nicer than what you have here.”
“You fucking son of a b—”
I stop him with my hand held up.
“Not done yet!” I say, grinning now. “Then there’s the defamation and blackmail lawsuit I filed against you.”
His jaw is slack as I produce paper after paper and set them on what minimal empty space can be found on his counter.
“You can’t prove defamation or blackmail,” he growls. “I already told you those papers are solid.”
I shift and turn my phone around, showing the recording.
“The papers might be solid, but the video evidence is pretty damning, Wayne.”
His face turns an alarming shade of reddish-purple with anger. “You can’t fucking record me. That’ll never be allowed in court.”
“One-party consent state, asshole. See ya at the trial.” I turn and push the door open, letting it slam on my out.
I hear him open the door, screaming profanities behind me, but I don’t look back or give him any more satisfaction. I got what I came here to get.
And now it’s time for me to go home to Monroe.