Shit. “Oh no. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t be, I’m not looking for sympathy. It’s just relevant.” He shoved the phone in his pocket. “Don’t just blame her, either. It’s like a chicken-egg thing. Dad’s an asshole to her, she drinks to deal with it, drinking makes her horrible, too, they blow up, she cheats on him and doesn’t even try to be subtle about it, he finds out, they blow up more. It’s been like this for years.”

“That’s awful.”

His face was blank. “I’m used to it. But that’s what was happening when I had you over. He came to visit Mum, and Dad came home. He does that sometimes, to try to catch her doing something wrong.”

“She doesn’t try to hide it?”

“Nope.” At this, he actually smiled. But it was cold and humorless. His eyes were devoid of any light. “Maybe she wants him to crack and ask for a divorce. Maybe she wants him to get jealous and act better. Who the hell even knows?”

Coach Pris Plumber probably would, a voice piped up in the back of my mind, but I decided not to bring that up. It seemed rhetorical.

“Anyway,” he went on, “they were about to kick off, so I got you out as quick as I could.”

Holy shit. I was an absolute idiot. How had I bought his weak excuse that easily? I guessed him being needlessly cruel fit the narrative I’d created for him, so I hadn’t questioned it like I should’ve. That, and I’d gotten so fixated on Brougham criticizing my skills that all reason had gone out the window.

Huh. There was a mild possibility I had an issue with taking criticism.

I felt a wave of shame for how annoyed I’d been that afternoon. “Why didn’t you tell me that’s why you wanted me out?”

“Because it’s embarrassing. Plus, I thought it was sort of obvious?”

Touché. “Fair enough. But, like, I wouldn’t judge you. Just so you know. My parents had a really messy divorce. I get how much it sucks.”

“Yeah?”