Chapter Thirty-One
KINSEY
“He’s not talking to me.”
I was watching the away game with Dad, ready to punch through a wall. Jax was playing like a complete moron, and Miller was saving the game by way of blocking—a technique that the other team’s offensive line was not implementing at all, leaving their quarterback vulnerable to the Bucks’ defense.
Dad patted my knee. “He’s just upset, honey, give him some time. You remember, he’s seen you at your worst, helped you through it. Show him a little grace. It’s your turn to help.”
My shoulders sagged. “He doesn’t want my help.”
“He does. He just doesn’t know it.”
I swiped a cookie from his plate and took a bite. Ever since the whole cancer and lupus thing came out, I’d been on pins and needles, waiting for Miller to ask me for details.
What was lupus?
How long had I been sick?
Would I get sick again?
How long had I been in the hospital?
But he didn’t pry. I knew he was waiting for me to talk about it, but I didn’t want to, because talking about something made it real. Besides, I was so emotionally spent from worrying about my dad that talking about my own health made me feel like I was going to have an anxiety attack.
I sighed again.
Dad turned up the volume. “You gonna sigh during the whole game?”
“Sorry,” I grumbled.
It was tied three to three. Seattle had a crazy good team, but I knew ours was better. The battle between the Bucks and the Sharks went back all the way to the 1940s, and because we were in the same division, we almost always had to play them twice before playoffs.
Both times, I held my breath the entire game.
Their defense was intense.
My eyes were drawn to Anderson. I shivered. The guy had basically ignored me for the past few weeks, and I had Miller to thank for that, but there was always that lingering fear that he’d corner me, say something mean, or just bring me back to that helpless place that I was so terrified I’d never get out of. He was an emotional bully—he fed on the weak, and being cornered by him left me feeling afraid, and I was done with that feeling.
The Sharks tight end blocked then went into a run. Anderson was there, he jumped up, caught the ball, and made a run toward our territory. Twenty, thirty, forty yards.
Touchdown.
I didn’t cheer.
I hated him.
He jogged off the field like a freaking peacock, then stopped when he got next to Miller and said something that was probably offensive.
Miller shook it off and looked away.
But then Jax shoved Anderson in the back.
Oh no.
No, Jax, back off. Back off!
“Aw hell,” Dad swore. “Your mama’s not gonna be happy about that.”
The cameras caught everything. Miller grabbed Jax to keep him from hitting Anderson, and Jax turned on him. Sanchez moved between all of them and ended up receiving the sucker punch from Anderson.
Miller went to help Sanchez, when Jax shoved past them and landed three huge blows to Anderson’s face.
The coach pulled him away.
I covered my mouth with my hands. Jax, what are you doing?
Three yellow flags were thrown.
And within seconds, Jax and Anderson were thrown out of the game.
Dad flipped off the TV.
We sat in silence.
Finally, he got up and stretched. “You want a cookie?”
“A cookie,” I said flatly. “Jax just got kicked out of the game, and you ask if I want a cookie.”
Dad offered a shrug. “They’re still warm.”
“Dad!” I threw my hands in the air. “Look, I know stress is bad because of the cancer, but you can’t just ignore the fact that Jax, Mr. American Football, just got in a fistfight!”
“Sure can.” He grinned. “It’s about time that boy dealt with all of this.”
“But—”
“Anger will always win out, Kinsey. Can’t hide your feelings forever.” Dad’s voice lowered. “And that boy has been keeping in so much anger, for so long, that it’s no shock at all he’s lashing out. He’s angry at you, angry at me.”
“Why would he be angry at you?”
“Oh, honey.” Dad stepped toward me then lowered his body to my level. “Because he can’t be angry at the cancer, he needs something tangible to be angry at, something in front of him, so he’s angry at me, he’s angry at you, but mostly he’s angry at himself. That boy always did have a hero complex. He was lucky, grew up being able to save everyone from everything or at least he thought he did. And now . . . now his world is crumbling. All he’s got left is football, the very last thing to be angry at—and look, he’s lashing out at that too. Now, do you want a cookie?”
“But, what are you going to do about this?”
Dad looked from me to the dark TV. “Absolutely nothing.”
“But—”
“Kins, the cookies are cold by now. I hope you’re happy.” He walked off, leaving me alone in the living room, wondering if my brother was done saving everyone—was he done saving himself?