For The Love Of The Game

Level 2 ++

Enter Player Name: Noah

I despised this chair.

Its legs were too short. Its cushions too hard. Each part, designed to cast a daunting cloud over the waiting room. Bookcases and file cabinets lined the crimson red walls. Everything looked new, shiny, and without a speck of dust to tarnish to its perfect appearance.

But I digress; back to this stupidly complex chair.

As a child, I spent a lot of time sitting within these four walls. My mother would regularly leave on business trips, so my father brought me here when a babysitter could not be procured. I sat here, listening to the periodic clicking of typing. Almost every day, a never-ending cycle of people paraded into my father's office. Some came out happy, and others left dejected.

"Excuse me, Mr. Kline. Your father is ready for you," my father's secretary spoke in a soft tone.

I stood and automatically straightened my tie. "Ms. William, I have told you many times you can call me Noah. At this point, you are like family to me."

Her entire body trembled from age. "Mr. Noah would sound awkward."

Stubborn as always. "Fair enough," I chuckled.

Ms. William pushed against the formidable doors of my father's office— a daunting task given her advanced age. I pressed against the wooden panels and gave it the final push it needed.

My father, The Honorable Judge Nathan Kline, sat behind an enormous mahogany desk. Clear blue skies adorned the gorilla glass wall that served as a backdrop. From this vantage point, the city below looked glamorous and clean. Much like the waiting area, his office was accessorized with books, files, and the occasional work of art — every item strategically placed to give the office an air of importance.

"Noah!" He sprung from his desk, sending his chair rolling back. "It's so good to see you, my son."

Dad captured me in a tight hug and patted my back. The comforting scent of cigar and mint pulled me into a vision of sitting and gaming on his lap. With my life spiraling and his busy schedule, I barely conversed with him nowadays. It was good to see him, even if out of necessity.

I caught a glimpse of my father's judge robes hanging on the wall. He switched professions about five years ago. He quickly climbed the ladder from a standard immigration judge to assistant chief. Yet, those measly years aged him immensely. His green eyes, although always sharp, had new wrinkles framing the corners, making him appear more overtaxed than he was.

His arms unwound, releasing me, and we instinctively walked over to the set of leather sofas to the right of his desk. I released the button on my smokey grey blazer and took a seat, matching my father's linear back posture.

I shifted on the chair. It irked me how the atmosphere took the undertones of a business meeting rather than a conversation between father and son.

My father spoke first. "I'm surprised that you decided to visit."

"Yes, I wanted to speak to you."

"You know, your mother told me she was worried about you," he ignored my statement.

"She always is." I threw my head back and exhaled. It was evident that my mother, ever the savvy businesswoman, hijacked my meeting with my father. I should only blame myself for not anticipating it. I watched the ceiling fan turn, waiting for the execution of my mother's masterful hand-woven trap.

My father grumbled, annoyed that I did not meet his gaze. "She wanted me to speak with you."

"About?" I straightened and feigned ignorance.