“That better not be another girl.” She chuckled.
“I think I proved you’re the only one for me last night.”
I walked to the door and opened it, thinking it was probably a teammate. A bunch of us lived in the complex and were constantly bothering one another to borrow something or other.
My stomach dropped when I saw Foster standing outside my door. Before I could say anything, he shouldered his way in. I could tell he was already agitated about something. “We gotta talk. Dad?—”
Penelope was just coming out of the kitchen with a mug in her hand, her hair down and messy, and wearing my fucking T-shirt. She saw Foster before I could even react. Her face fell. The mug shook in her grasp.
Foster stared at her for a beat as though he thought he was seeing things.
Then he turned to look at me.
Ever since that day, I’ve tried to find a word for the expression on his face in that moment, and I still don’t have one. It wasn’t just anger. There wasn’t just surprise either, as if he had suspected and hoped he was wrong. There was also betrayal and profound disappointment. Until smugness transformed his expression, and it was like I could see him rebuilding that wall between us, brick by brick.
“Foster…”
He circled around and pointed his finger at Penelope. “Fuck you.” Then he turned back my way and pointed the same finger at me. “And fuck you.”
He walked out the door, and Penelope stepped forward, but I raised my hand. “Stay here.”
I followed him into the hallway, and the door closed behind me.
“It’s not—” I started, but what could I say? It was exactly what he thought. I’d done it. I had slept with his ex.
“Don’t.” His voice was flat, and I knew then that he was going to cut me out. That any progress we’d made over the past few years had been soaked in kerosene, and I’d been the one to set it aflame.
“We were friends before?—”
A hollow, sarcastic laugh erupted out of him. “Friends don’t wake up in each other’s apartments wearing each other’s clothes.” He practically punched the elevator button with his fist. “Were you fucking her behind my back the entire time?” His jaw was set, and his blue eyes were cold as an iceberg.
“God, no. Just last night, and, Foster…” I couldn’t find the words. There were no words that would justify this.
“What kind of brother are you?”
The elevator doors opened, and I was desperate to get him to understand. How much I had always wanted her. How the timing had just never been right for the two of us.
He stood with his back against the elevator wall, all casual as if he was immune to the feelings brewing inside him.
I put both hands on the elevator doors, but he crossed his arms and stared at me until the elevator buzzed.
“Come on, just listen to me.”
“Fuck off, Decker. We might be blood, but I never want to talk to you again. We’ll never be brothers again.”
His words struck me as much as if he’d formed a fist and hit me in the face. I stumbled back, and the doors slid closed.
I stood in the hallway in my bare feet and knew I’d just broken the thing we’d spent three years rebuilding. Broken it beyond repair. I called him six times that day. Twice the next morning. After the third day, I stopped because I knew he wasn’t going to answer. I was desperate to make myself feel better, but I was in the wrong. I’d broken the rules with no regard for my brother’s feelings.
We were done. I’d committed the ultimate act of betrayal, and Foster would never forgive me. I’d been the one person he could rely on in our family, and I’d turned my back on him too.
That’s when Rule Number Three was invented—don’t stay somewhere you don’t belong. And I didn’t belong in Foster’s life. I’d chosen pleasure, selfishly put myself before him, and he was right, I was no brother for that.
Kingsley and Hartwell played each other in the conference tournament junior year. Worst fucking time of my life. The draft was a month out. Looking back, I have no idea how we even managed. I was thankful for the different dugouts, different fields, a nod across the diamond when the teams warmed up and nothing else. The unspoken agreement of two brothers who had figured out how to coexist at a careful distance.
In the sixth inning, Foster was on the mound when I stepped up to the plate. The old competitiveness between us was like the tenth player on the field. I fouled one back, and the catcher said something sly under his breath. I said something back, and the home plate umpire warned us both.
The next pitch came in, and I allowed the ball to stay low. I was at the advantage with a one to two count.
