“Hey,” I said, seeing my son and two friends sprawled out on the carpeted floor instead of using the recliners in the room. They all had their laptops in front of them and looked completely engaged in whatever they were doing.

Christian’s eyes flashed to me, but then he focused back down on his laptop, brushing me off. “Hey,” he mumbled, having lost his smile.

The other two were munching and working, and I stepped into the room, loosening my tie and taking off my jacket.

“Did you eat?” I asked, making my way to the center of the room.

Christian didn’t look at me, only gestured to the pizza boxes on the floor before resuming his work on the computer.

I sighed, rubbing my jaw in frustration.

Christian was an only child, his mother having chosen not to have any more with her husband. As I’d worked and built my legacy over the past decade, I’d always assumed I’d have more kids eventually.

When I found the right woman.

It was the natural progression and how we marked our lives, after all. Go to college, begin a career, marry, and have children. I hadn’t wanted to be a father at twenty, but I wanted to be one now.

But how successful would I be if the kid I already had never stopped hating me?

“What are you guys up to?” I pushed, walking around behind Christian and taking a look at his screen.

“Just schoolwork,” he answered, scrolling through pictures.

“Pirate’s Alley?” I slowly inched in, recognizing the colors of the buildings and the Old Absinthe House sign in the photo.

“Have you ever been there, Christian?” I asked, looking down at the top of his head. One of his legs bent in toward his body, and the other lay straight out on the side of the laptop.

“Yeah.” His voice sounded clipped as he reached for his friend’s phone and started tweeting.

I studied the screen, seeing that he was on the Internet. I didn’t know much about Pinterest, but it seemed to be a popular site. It looked like he was doing schoolwork, though.

“So what’s the assignment?” I demanded, my own tone turning harder.

“Ms. Bradbury posted a scavenger hunt for extra credit today,” he bit out. “We’re mapping points of interest during the eighteen hundreds. Whoever is first, wins, okay?”

I could see the muscles in his jaw flex in anger, reminding me that my son was growing into a man with a fight of his own.

“She assigned this today?” I asked, trying to stay calm even though I knew the answer.

After I’d told her specifically that my son would not be allowed on social media for homework.

He had his phone after his schoolwork and on weekends, but clearly he was still able to get online and borrow friends’ phones.

Christian shook his head and tossed his friend’s phone back at him.

“No, right there.” His friend leaned over and pointed out a pic on the screen, referencing the map on his phone. “This one’s on the corner of Ursuline.”

And I was forgotten.

But I’d barely noticed anyway, my jaw hardening at the mention of Ms. Bradbury and her foolish determination to continue to piss me off.

I yanked at my tie as I walked out of the room, and ignored the food I’d left on the table.

SIX

EASTON

I leaped to the right, landing on my left foot as I held the racket with both hands and slammed the tennis ball back across the court. Popping back upright, I raced to the center again, oxygen rushing in and out of my lungs as I bounced on my feet.

The next shot fired out of the ball machine low and high, and I lurched my arm back, taking the racket over my head and swinging hard, sending the ball straight for the ground and out of bounds on the other side of the net.

Shit.

I ran my sandpaper tongue over my lips, desperate for water from all of the exertion as I ran frontward, backward, and left to right, trying to keep up with the speed, trajectory, and spin I’d programmed into the machine.

I’d clearly overestimated the shape I was in.

Sure, I exercised. I ran and used my own small equipment to do strength training at my apartment, but tennis required muscles I rarely used anymore.

Every six months or so, I’d start to miss the game, the new challenge that every serve would offer, and I’d use my membership to access the pristine private courts at the gym.

I never played anyone, though. I hadn’t played with a partner since the first round of Wimbledon, July second, five years ago, shortly before I moved to New Orleans with my brother. That was the day I’d gotten a code violation, a default on match point, and so, with no hope of winning, I’d walked off the court before the game was officially over and never returned to competitive tennis again.

My brother had tried comforting me, telling me that I couldn’t expect to get my head in the game after what we’d been through earlier that summer. It had been a hard time.

Hell, it had been a hard two years prior to that, but it was still a moment I wished I could go back and change. My last match on a professional court had been my worst, and it was the only thing in my life I was ashamed of.

I’d behaved like a brat, and despite everything I’d accomplished up until that point, that’s how people remembered the old Easton Bradbury.

But I would make damn sure that this Easton Bradbury never made that same mistake.

It was strange how something that felt like second nature at one time now felt so foreign. I used to do this every day. I’d wake up at five o’clock in the morning, eat a light breakfast or drink a protein shake, put on my gear, and hit the court for five hours.