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“This is what happens when you ignore him, West. You know this.”
I turn away as the waitress approaches with menus, pretending like I’m figuring out what I’m going to eat, even though I get the same thing every time we come here. Why did things have to happen like this? I wish I would’ve met Kenna when I was in the NFL already. When I was someone important. Right now, I’m still the West Brooks who grew up in a trailer park with parents who fought all the time. I’m no one. Nothing.
And she is obviously on a completely different level than me.
“What are you getting?” Kenna asks.
Turning toward her, I catch her gaze. She scans my face, cute concern lines etching between her eyes. I don’t think it’s fair to put this baggage on anybody. Especially not her. I can see it now. Another football player ruining her life. It’ll be a constant struggle until I’m big enough that he can’t touch me.
My stomach rolls. Did I just think that leaving Kenna was a good idea? She’s literally the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
“I think we should go,” I tell her.
Aidan interrupts, “But we just got here.”
Yeah, and suddenlyhereis not where I want to be. I don’t want to be anywhere where I think things like that. I mean, that was stupid.
Right?
But looking at her now, I see everything she can be. I see her strength. I see her fuel and motivation. I used to think it was a lot like mine, but I’ve been fooling myself this entire time.
I’m not strong.
I’m not anything.
I’m still the scared little boy hiding in his closet.
Kenna places her hand on my cheek, making me look at her. “Are you okay, West?”
I close my eyes, and when I open them, a figure walking into Richie’s catches my eye.
My muscles lock up.
My mouth goes dry.
Suddenly I am seven years old, singing myself “Happy Birthday” alone on the floor in my room because no one decided to celebrate my special day…again.
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
West
There he is.
He’s wearing the same shirt from the first football game of the season. It doesn’t look like he’s shaved either, and his hair looks scragglier, more unkempt. I didn’t pay attention to what he looked like on TV, and I’m trying to remember if he looked this bad when his mouth was running or if I missed it completely.
After him, big dudes follow, and my fists clench around the menu. Hamilton players. Dad walks straight for our table, but the players find their own spot across the room. The tension mounts and the dining area quiets.
Kenna shifts and looks up at what my attention is on. The table full of my teammates behind us quiets, too. They all saw Hamilton’s social media post. There’s no denying that this is my dad.
My heart seizes. I feel my body crumbling in on itself. Sure, I’m bigger than him now, but I know what will always be more monstrous than I can ever be: his anger.
I want to shield Kenna, but it’s too late. My father stops at our table, leaning on the edge. Behind him, the Hamilton players aren’t hiding the fact that they’re recording this exchange.
What did Coach say? Hopefully, this will blow over. Hopefully, ESPN won’t pick it up.
“West.” My father nods.
Mute. I should’ve been mute. Why was I born with the ability to talk if I can’t ever use my voice to be heard when I need it?