Prologue

My life is a ghost of what it was before Lucas became my enemy, my brother, my best friend, and then my enemy again.

I now have a wife that left me for a musician, and divorce papers leaving tracks in my mailbox. I have a drunk, pill-popping mother because she hates my sober, asshole father. I have a basketball team-slash-interior decorating squad remaking the inside of an old, shitty, health-code-violating gym because our coach is mad at us 'ladies' yet again.

I have the hoop in the backyard of my parents' house, which I'd recently moved back into and wanted to die about.

And I totally just missed that shot.

"Nice one," he taunts from behind me as I retrieve the ball. "Is that the new move Whitey's teaching you or was that an improvisation?"

"What do you want?" I ask, and I really don't want to know. I don't even look his way as my arms are poised to make the ball sail toward the hoop.

"What are you going to do with your life, Nate?" he asks condescendingly, but I hear a trace of father's worry, I suppose. I definitely hear the disappointment. "Have you thought about that at all?"

I purse my lips in annoyance, but I can't exactly tell him to get the hell out of his own backyard.

At least I make this shot.

"You don't even have basketball, you realize that?" he grills me, anger boiling over at the thought of the waste talent he'd passed off to me. "You're going to end up grilling burgers for the rest of your life. You do remember the food service, don't you, Nathan? During your glorious marriage?"

Sighing, I hurl the ball at the baseboard and it shakes the whole structure before bouncing off to a corner.

"Don't start with Haley," I warn, but really, there's nothing left for him to start. He's already shed light on the venom that is his opinion, and sadly enough, I don't have the heart to defend her anymore. She wants me back so badly, she says—but it's what she says. What does she mean? Fuck if I know.

"I was right about your pathetic marriage, and I'm right about this," Dan continues, satisfied that something seems to be seeping in. After all, I'm not in his face throwing a punch for Haley. That's Chris' job. "Let me help you."

Up until this point, I didn't feel any urge to laugh.

Now, I'm laughing.

"Help me?" I snarl, and finally face his expensive suit and shiny tie. "What will you do to help your pathetic, talent-less child, Father?"

And the patronizing sparkle in his eyes is gone, as though I'd insulted him.

"You have talent, boy. You think Whitey'll bring it out in you? While he's looking out for Lucas, you think he'll let you shine? He's got you cleaning goddamn gyms. You don't have talent for a janitorial staff, I'll agree with you on that much," he jokes, and my lip turns up at a corner. He must mean my room. Like a father would mean his son's room is messy. "But you've got it, Nate. At basketball, you could be the best. With me as your coach, you won't ever worry about the path you're taking. You'll be a legend."

I sigh, and look toward the now still orange ball that had ricocheted off the rim.

"Dad, you always say that," I reply forcefully. I don't need to be fed bullshit. "You always say that you can make it happen. But you know what? I found that letter from Tall Oaks. Mom said you kept it from me. Why? I got into the best basketball league in the region and you kept it from me. Was that in my best interest? Or are you going to tell me that you weren't jealous I was getting offers like that as a junior?"

Dan looks repulsed for a second at the mention of Mom, and I'm reminded of another reason why I can't buy into him. And then he smirks at me and the patronizing sparkle in his eye returns.

"Son, you don't know the offers I got at your age, but that isn't even the issue," he says, and I wonder why he has to say that if it isn't the issue, if not to gloat. "That was for your own good. At Tall Oaks, everyone is the best of the best. You go there and it will be a thousand times harder for you to excel. Here? You are the best. The scouts will see that so much more and they'll know you're the right choice for—"

"What scouts, Dad?" I ask, exasperated. "There haven't been any. No scouts that you promised would be here."

"I could pull some strings," he begins, and I feel like I've started to watch an infomercial. "It's definitely not too late to call—"

"You're full of shit," I say, but I don't sound mad so much as I sound spent. I retrieve the ball and move to go back inside the house.

"Let me prove to you that I'm not," he says, and I have to wonder if that's an option at this point. Be on Dad's side? Let him coach me? Let him make it all happen?

"Why do you want to do this for me?" I ask, turning around. "I thought you gave up on your loser family."

He smirks, and it's like nothing I say can break him.

"My son is not a loser," he merely says, putting his hand on my back, and that's the most sincere thing I've heard him say to me in what seems like years. "Come on, we've got some work to do."

And that's when I agreed to the alliance with my dad, and the ghost found its body.