Page 43 of All This Time

“I know you’re not stupid.”

“Then talk to me.”

I clench my jaw, but she keeps my chin in her hand while she takes my hand and places it over the center of her chest where I can feel her heart hammering as hard as mine. “Fletcher, it’sme. You know me. I promise, I won’t tell anyone, but I need you to be honest with me.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “You already know the answer, Laney.”

“I think I do, but I need to hear you say it.”

“Fine.” Fury and shame race through me as I close my eyes and say, “No, I didn’t get hurt playing football, but it’s a good thing I can blame my injuries on that because, otherwise, I’d have to admit to people that my dad fucking hits me.” My eyes pop open as I add, “There. Are you happy?”

Her eyes fill with tears as she reaches out and pulls me into her, our chests now pressing together, my head resting on her shoulder. “No, I’m not fucking happy, Fletcher. I’m so sorry…”

I push her away gently and avert my gaze from hers. “Don’t feel fucking sorry for me, Laney.”

Fuck, I need to get out of here.

This is exactly what I didn’t want. I don’t want her pity or anyone else’s because it’smyfault. I’m the one who mouths off. I’m the one who says shit that makes him angry. I’m the one who has a love for thesame game that he lost, but I refuse to quit because football is the only thing that makes me fucking happy.

Dad never hit my mom, but she got sick of the drinking and left him. But she left me too. And now, when Luke Adams gets pissed—and it’s usually about football—he takes it out on me.

I whip off the blankets and start to get up, but Laney pulls me back down to the bed and shocks me when she pins my arms at my sides and straddles me.

Oh fucking hell.

“Laney…”

“No, Fletcher. You aren’t going anywhere.”

I close my eyes and beg my dick to calm down. Otherwise, this conversation is going to take a turn that I’m afraid might freak her out more than the information I just shared.

“Okay. I won’t leave. But can you please lie back down?”

She slides off me and I quickly pull the covers back over me to conceal my boner.

“Fletcher…”

“You can’t tell anyone, Laney,” I say, cutting her off as we lie facingeach other again.

“I won’t. I promise.” She bites her bottom lip. “But can I ask you something?”

I mentally prepare myself for the inquisition. “Sure.”

“When did it start?”

Memories assault me like raindrops hitting a windshield during a storm, fast and at random. But pinpointing the first time it happened is easy.

“The first time, I was twelve. It was after a peewee football game… He told me I didn’t execute a play correctly, and I told him he was wrong. He smacked me, and I was so shocked that it probably took me five minutes before I realized what happened.”

Laney pulls in her bottom lip between her teeth. “Jesus.”

“It didn’t happen for a while after that, so I thought it was maybe just a fluke, you know? But then freshman year when we moved here because he got the coaching job, I started to put two and two together.”

“What do you mean?”

“We moved because he got fired from his last coaching job. I guess when you show up to coach kids smelling like alcohol, people get concerned.”

“Oh my God.”