There were three things I was certain of in my life. I’d never play baseball again. My millions were almost gone. And my father’s reach extended beyond the grave.

The snow fell, gathering in the corners of the window. The glass was frosted. I couldn’t make out anything happening on the street below the Law Offices of Lancaster & Hudson.

“Did you hear what I said, Mr. Hartwell?”

“What was that?” I turned to face him.

My father’s attorney cleared his throat. “Your father’s wishes. The final part of the will. Do I need to repeat it for you?”

My mother ran a finger over the base of her throat, skimming her pearls. “Jeremy,” she whispered. “Let’s not drag this out.”

My tie was too restrictive. I attempted to pry it from my neck. “No, I think I missed it. Why don’t you read it again?”

I needed to take the damn thing off. I loosened the knot enough to take a solid breath. My ribcage filled with air, stretching the seams on my suit. My shoulders were too broad for this damn thing. Why did my father think I wanted to trade in the life I had for one like this? Stuffy rooms with stuffy attorneys. Board meetings. Fitted designer suits that suffocated my biceps.

“Really, Byron. I think we can handle this as a family matter from here. Your service is appreciated, however I should talk to Jeremy,” my mother protested. She could pretend to be humiliated. I didn’t buy it. Sylvia Hartwell did everything by design. Every word was chosen for a purpose.

“No. I’d like to hear it again. I just want to make sure I have my instructions. The final words from my father.” I glared in her direction. Like hell, if I wasn’t going to make this uncomfortable for her too. “Dad’s most parental moment. Right here. On the record for that cute little stenographer to preserve for us.”

I winked at the girl sitting in the corner furiously translating every word we spoke into the legal record.

Byron Lancaster had worked for my father since I was a kid. If he was shocked by the contents of the will, he didn’t let on that it bothered him. He was used to doing the dirty work. It’s why he made more than anyone else who worked in this building.

“Very well.” The older man pulled gold reading glasses to the brim of his nose. “My sole heir, Jeremy Hartwell, will receive his inheritance in its entirety, totaling half a billion dollars, the Malibu property, the vineyard in Napa, and the hunting lodge in Aspen, upon completion of the following.” Byron continued quickly. “The Hartwell family line will be extended with the addition of a spouse and a child bearing the Hartwell name. Under no circumstances will this marriage be dissolved without a full retraction of the inheritance, to be withdrawn and placed in a trust.”

“And there you have it.” I slapped the mahogany desk. Byron and my mother flinched. The stenographer temporarily stopped typing. “I’ve been called a stud before, but not quite in this manner.” I pushed off from the leather chair.

“Jeremy,” my mother hissed. “Where are you going? Sit back down.”

I reached for my overcoat. It was February, and cold as hell in Newton Hills. “Where do you think I’m going, Mother? I need to get drunk and knock someone up. I just got my walking papers to fuck every girl in this town if necessary. Some girl out there wants to be a part of this fun and happy family, don’t you think?”

Her mouth fell open. “Come back here. We haven’t discussed this. We need to have a conversation in private. You make it sound so vulgar. So tasteless.”

I huffed. “I’d love to hear your spin, but I have women to fuck. Thank you, Byron, for your time.”

“I will send a certified copy of the reading of the will to your address, Mr. Hartwell.” His voice remained monotone as if I had inherited a collection of rare books, instead of a command to sire a child.

“I don’t know that I need it. The directive seems pretty clear to me. I don’t get the money until I have a wife and an heir. Got it.”

“It’s my responsibility to make sure you have official copies of all correspondence from the late Mr. Hartwell. It is my duty.”

“Fine.” I didn’t care if I never heard the words again. I knew I wasn’t getting my inheritance. My father had made sure of that. I was a lot of things, but I wasn’t and never would be husband material. And no one wanted me as a father.

I nodded and closed the door behind me.

I ducked into the first taxi I could find in front of the law firm. Uber hadn’t reached Newton Hills yet.

“Airport, sir?” the driver asked.

I looked at my watch. I still had a lot of time to kill before my red eye back to New York.

“No. What bars are still around here?”

I was downtown, but other than a coffee shop and a deli there wasn’t much open on the small street. Newton Hills wasn’t doing well when I was in high school, and the past twelve years hadn’t done the town any favors. Nestled in the hillside of the Georgia mountains, it wasn’t a Mecca for industry. It wasn’t a Mecca for anything.

“Bella’s is open,” he reported.

“The Italian place?”

He nodded. “It’s about five minutes from here. They have the best chicken parm.”

I considered my options. I could feast on vending machine snacks in the small airport until my flight, or I could try a bottle of wine at the old Italian restaurant. I used to know the owner’s daughter.

“Bella’s it is,” I decided.

He pulled away from the curb. “Hey, I know who you are. Didn’t know if I could say anything.”

“Oh really?”

“You’re the Hartwell’s kid. You played Major League Baseball, didn’t you?”

I glanced in the rearview mirror. His eyes were on me. “Yes. For a few years. I was on the Ravens then traded to the Hawks. Then injured.” Three years in the majors was better than most guys did. It was a ticket to my own fortune. But I fucked up. I wiggled my fingers, staring at my palm. I hadn’t been a baseball player in a long time.

“Sorry to hear about your dad. I had a friend who worked at one of his stations. It was a real shock here.”

I gritted my teeth together. “Thanks.”

The sympathy was lost on me, but I had been trained to be a Hartwell. I was gracious even when I was angry as hell.

“I’ve never had anyone famous in my car before,” he sputtered.

I stared out the window as we passed empty storefronts that used to be businesses. Family-owned and run. The Radio Shack was gone. So was the drugstore, and the ice cream parlor. Newton Hills was almost unrecognizable.

A red neon light blinked in the front of Bella’s.

“Here you are,” the driver announced. “Do you think… ” His words drifted. “Could I ask for your autograph? I’d like to show my son I had a real-life pro athlete in my car.”

“Sure thing.”

I waited while he fidgeted for a piece of paper in the glovebox. He handed it to me along with a felt tip pen.

“What’s the name?” I asked.

“His name is Jordan.”

“Hmm. Ok. Got it.” I scribbled something more inspirational than my father had ever put in a birthday card, and handed it back to the man.

“He’s not going to believe it.” He glanced at the signature.

Seemed like a theme for the day. I didn’t believe what I had encountered either.

“Thanks for the ride.” I tossed a fifty in the front seat without bothering to hear the charge for the five-minute drive.

I pulled the collar up around my neck as the snow blew sideways. The bell jingled overhead as I walked into the restaurant.