Goddammit I wish I wrote this.
A hollowed-out shell of a man drags his hand across his still-childish mop, pushing aside a haircut that hasn’t been popular in decades. Chris Brody gingerly puts down his Arizona iced tea and draws a cigarette to his lips, hands shaking. He has no father.
“Who am I?” he croaks, swallowing hard. “I felt like after dad died, I just … disappeared, and no one cared about me. I worked my entire life to become the head coach of the Wizards, and still no one can remember my name. John Wall Jr. makes me leave the room during practices. Everyone I know only wants to talk about my sister— ”
“Yes, tell us about Dana, Christopher.”
“Well, she— ”
Weston raises a finger. “Actually, let’s move on. Anthony?”