The great Ford Hamilton didn’t usually instigate a conversation with him unless it was to catalog his faults, but he appeared almost…interested. He must be to have pulled himself away from the dinner party that Jared could hear going on in the dining room. Stealthily sliding the brandy bottle from which he’d been sipping behind his backpack, he straightened from his dejected slouch, an optimistic kernel of hope unfurling in his chest. Maybe he didn’t have to drown his sorrows after all. “Yeah.”“And I understand it was you striking out that ended the game.”The hope shriveled and Jared’s stomach began to churn, but he rose to his feet and gave his father the bored, insolent sneer he’d perfected years ago. “Yeah, well, what can I say? Shit happens.”Ford gave him a look of disgust. “Shit does not just ‘happen,’ young man. It’s a result of sloppy preparation.”He shrugged, but his gut roiled harder and fiercer. Wouldn’t it be something if just once his father didn’t take the opportunity to tell him what a huge disappointment he’d turned out to be?
