His Secret Santa: A Phoenix Club novella

Chapter 8

"Eighteen." Darren Pratt clapped his son's shoulder. "Big number. You're officially a man."

Lincoln smiled small. "Yeah."

"Big party tonight. Live it up—for soon, the real battle of life begins, and you've got to hold your own out there."

He sighed. "I know."

His dad leaned against the kitchen counter, a cup of coffee in hand. Even on a Saturday, he dressed like a stockbroker—full suit and tie, face set firm as if he were heading into battle at the exchange. Lincoln couldn't remember ever seeing the man completely relaxed and laid back. He was an alpha career man and believed in 24/7 vigilance, lest he be trampled beneath the feet of his adversaries, as he referred to his competitors.

To Lincoln's distress, his father demanded the same of him. He saw Lincoln as a carbon copy of himself and meant to mold him as such.

Lincoln wasn't like him. Not at all. There were many differences. Some of which his father couldn't handle, and therefore, couldn't know. Not yet. If he caught wind of Lincoln's true self, life would become unbearable inside these walls.

"How's that pretty girlfriend of yours?" his father asked as he sipped his coffee. "Things getting serious?"

Darren Pratt liked McKenna. She was beautiful and came from "prime stock". Lincoln was aware his father wanted them to marry. Lincoln could think of nothing more depressing and... well, frankly, horrifying.

"She's fine." Lincoln stirred his Wheaties. "I'm not thinking in terms of serious, right now. I haven't even graduated yet."

"But you will soon. And that girl is a keeper. I'd advise you to lock her down before it's too late. You wait too long, and she'll set her sights elsewhere."

Not likely, Lincoln thought. She wasn't only with him because he was the quarterback—but because of his father's money. On more than one occasion, she'd made idle remarks about them getting married, playing it off as joking. But she wasn't joking. She meant to get in on the Pratt fortune.

"Yeah, well," Lincoln mumbled. "We'll see what happens."

"No," his father stated firmly, making him flinch. "You don't wait and see—ever. Life is a stingy bitch. It gives you nothing. If you want something—you take it, by any means necessary. And you keep it the same way. That girl is into you now. But if you wait and see, and don't make your move, she'll move on to someone who will." He pointed at Lincoln. "Heed my warning, son. Don't fuck this up."

Lincoln nodded and continued eating his cereal.

"Learn from your brother's mistakes."

The spoon paused halfway to his mouth. He didn't like it when his father spoke about Sam.

"He could've had a thriving career in the stock market, but he threw it away by joining the military—then got himself killed." The man huffed quietly. "What a waste."

Lincoln raised his head. He rarely argued with his dad—there was no point. But when it came to his brother, he would go toe-to-toe with his old man. "He died defending our country. We should be proud of him. And I am. Damn proud." His throat knotted. "Why aren't you?"

The man showed not a spec of emotion. "Because there's no pride in a selfless life. Either you conquer this world—or it conquers you. I raised you both to be kings among men. Masters of your universe. And your brother chose to crawl through the trenches instead, like a fucking grunt. His entire life of training—wasted. Bled out in the sands of some foreign land who posed no threat to this country." He gave Lincoln a stern look. "Be smarter than your brother. Don't waste what I've given you."